Page 10 of Sealing the Deal

By the time I was twenty-seven, Grayson Global had turned over its first billion. By twenty-nine, I’d started to feel like I’d finally broken free from the Ashborne legacy and carved one of my own. Then my father stooped lower than I ever thought possible. I found myself back in New York, still running Grayson Global, but also taking my board seat at Ashborne Holdings so I could keep a close eye on my father’s activities.

I’ve spent the last five years in New York, buying run-down neighborhoods and redeveloping them for the people who actually live there. Quietly creating affordable housing, parks, and community spaces. It doesn’t feel enough to undo all the hurt and destruction my father has caused. But none of it matters here, because Denver believes Grayson Global is a shell company of Ashborne Holdings, and I’m my father’s puppet.

I sigh. “Release the statement, but on its own, it won’t be enough,” I reply. Like bringing scaffolding to a building that’s already been demolished. There’s nothing left to stabilize. The whole damn structure is rubble.

Donny leans forward, elbows on the table. “A statement might not cut it, but we need to do something. If public outrage keeps climbing, we’re going into next season with no sponsors, no money, and no fans. And that’s only if we can keep winning for a few more weeks and hang on in the playoff rounds. If we get knocked out in the wildcard round on Saturday, that outrage is going next level on our asses.”

“Great,” I mutter. “What are the chances the team stays in the playoffs? And please remember, I don’t know a damn thing about football.”

Donny clutches his chest. “I’m hurt, man. How long have we known each other? Surely, you’ve absorbed something in that time?”

I shoot him a look and he snorts.

“Fine,” he says. “Here’s the deal. In each conference, the top seven teams make the playoffs. It’s single elimination—lose once and you’re out. There are three rounds: the wild card round, the divisional round, and the championship. The two teams left standing go to the Super Bowl.” He pauses, then adds, “The Stormhawks barely scraped in as the seventh seed. We’re dead last. And we start by playing one of the best teams. The top seed gets a bye, which means they skip the first round and automatically move on to the second. So we’re up against the second seed, the Buffalo Warbears.”

“The worst plays the best?” I frown. “Meaning our first game is practically unwinnable. So worst case, I have until next Saturday—eight days—to win the hearts of every fan in Denver. Best case, by some miracle, the Stormhawks keep winning, and I have until the Super Bowl in four weeks.” Either way, it’s not enough time. “Why don’t you just say we’re fucked?”

Donny shoots me a look. “We’re definitely fucked. But the Stormhawks have heart. When they show up, they really show up.”

James lifts a hopeful finger. “Maybe we could try some store openings? Or… uh… serving food at a homeless shelter? Photo ops with puppies?”

I stare at him, deadpan. “If glossy photo ops could fix the Ashborne name, my father would’ve done it already. Get the draft statement written and come up with a plan that doesn’t involve me kissing babies, flipping pancakes, or adopting a puppy. Email it to me by the end of the day.”

James practically salutes me, then trips over his own feet in his rush to escape the room.

When it’s just the two of us, I turn to Donny. “What do you know about Felicity Moore?”

Donny shrugs. “Never heard of her.”

“She runs The Hay Barn and⁠—”

“And the Red Zone fan page,” he cuts in. “You mean Flic. I know of her more than I know her. We’ve met a handful of times at some of the fan events, and she’s practically family to the Sullivans. Why are you asking?”

The seed of an idea that started at the weekend, and had me going to The Hay Barn after Sunday’s win, takes root again. “She’s popular with the fans?” I ask, not bothering to answer Donny’s question.

Donny laughs on an exhale. “That’s an understatement. The fans love her. She’s a die-hard fan with a huge following. She knows everything there is to know about the game plays and the players. Hell, even I check her socials for insights when I want to understand why we got our asses handed to us on the field. With Jake and Chase Sullivan, and Mama Sullivan, feeding her information, and the gossip she hears at her bar, she’s often the first to know news before it breaks. And she’s a regular on fans podcasts, too.”

I feel Donny studying me before he starts shaking his head.

“Whatever you’re thinking, don’t,” he says. “Flic is fierce and she’s loyal to the Stormhawks. You need to stay well away from her.”

“She could help us.”

Donny laughs. Not a huff or a chuckle, but a loud bellowing laugh. “Have you seen what she’s been saying about you on her page?” Donny taps on his phone and reads aloud. “‘Stormhawks fans don’t scare easily. And we don’t forget, either. We remember what Ashborne Holdings did to Front Range. We know their tactics and we’re ready this time. Whatever happens next, remember—Grayson Ashborne is not a man we can trust.’”

It’s nothing I haven’t heard before, but it still feels like a kick to the balls.

“We need to get the fans on side,” I say. “We lose them, we lose the sponsors, and then we’re in damage control. Then we’re making decisions that sound a lot like streamlining and things go from bad to worse.”

“We’re already in damage control,” Donny says quietly. “We have been for years.”

“Exactly. We need help, and not the kind that’s going to come from a shiny PR plan.”

“Yeah, but going near Flic right now, with her reach and influence over the fans, is kicking a hornet’s nest.”

“Noted,” I say.

We fall silent for a moment before Donny speaks again. “I’m sorry it happened like this.”