Page 14 of Sealing the Deal

“So you keep saying. What’s that got to do with me?”

“There’s a lot of hurt and anger directed at me and the Huberts right now. They’ve asked the fans to trust them, but the reality is people aren’t happy they sold a majority share. Having a fan by my side, someone authentic and known around Denver, someone unconnected to the sale or management, would go a long way to being accepted.”

“No,” I reply.

“Someone like the owner of the best fans bar in Denver. Someone with a fan page with over a hundred thousand followers.”

“That’s why you came to the bar the other night? Not to see the fans, but to see me,” I hiss. “You must’ve known the news was going to leak.”

He doesn’t deny it as I smack my hand to my forehead. I told him about my landlord hiking up my rent. Idiot!

“I wanted to meet some of the fans, too.” Grayson doesn’t even have the decency to look ashamed. “People trust you, Flic. And if they see you trusting me, it will go a long way.”

“So let me get this straight,” I reply, jabbing the paintbrush at him. “Without even checking with me first, you’ve bought my building, to what—force me to help you? No, thanks.”

Grayson smiles like this is one big joke to him. This guy is one smug smile away from me throwing my brush at him. Hell, I’m ready to dump the whole tin on him and his tailored suit.

“You haven’t heard my offer yet,” he replies.

“I already hate it.”

“Help me win over the fans and calm the sponsors during the playoffs. Stand by my side in the skybox and come to the meet and greets with me and whatever else I need until the Super Bowl and the end of the season. That’s less than four weeks. In return, I’ll sign over the deed to this building. It’ll be yours.”

I stare at him. Frozen. Not even my mouth drops in surprise.

Own the building.

Own The Hay Barn.

It hits like a body check straight to the ribs. No more lease. No more praying that the rent doesn’t hike further. No more lost sleep over inspections or threatening notices or the possibility that the whole block could be sold out from under me while I’m wiping down the bar.

On the inside, this bar has always been mine. Mine in sweat. Mine in history. Mine in every late night and holiday I’ve spent pouring drinks. But there’s always been that shadow at the back of my mind: the knowledge that the building itself belongs to someone else. I’ve lived with that knowledge and the fear it carries for so long it feels like part of my DNA.

And for one dizzy heartbeat, I imagine what it would feel like to finally live without that fear. But then the anger comes rushing back. Because this man has already tricked me. He stood behind my bar playing the clueless stranger and asked me questions he had no right to ask. Questions I stupidly answered. There is no universe in which I can trust Grayson Ashborne.

“That’s not a deal,” I snap. “That’s blackmail.”

Grayson shakes his head. “Blackmail is where one person forces another to do something. A deal’s where we both get something we want. You get the deeds to this place. I get a fighting chance at winning over the Stormhawks fans and Denver. Whether they stay in the playoffs all the way or get knocked out, the Super Bowl marks the end of the season and that’s when contract negotiations start. I have until then to convince the sponsors to re-sign.”

My rage feels white-hot. “Win us over so you can bleed our team dry right under our noses. No, thanks. I wouldn’t help you if my life depended on it.” My heart hammers and I feel sick at letting the dream of owning my bar slip away, but I can’t back down now.

Grayson’s gaze moves to the playoff schedule poster on the wall, and for a moment I think I catch something like worry beneath in his expression. The wild card round is this Saturday. The Buffalo Warbears have been steamrolling teams all season. And as I told Cal and Rico last week, calling us underdogs feels generous. We’re basically volunteering as tribute.

But when his eyes move back to me, there’s no sign of the worry I thought I saw. Instead, the amusement is back. “Keep hating me if it makes you happy. Everyone does. Just do it standing next to me in the skybox.”

He slides a business card across the bar like a chess move.

Grayson Ashborne

Minimalist. Expensive. Infuriating. Beneath it are the words Grayson Global, along with a cell number and email address.

Then Grayson’s phone rings. He pulls it from his pocket and glances at the screen. “Call me when you change your mind,” he says to me, tapping the business card once with his fingertip like a promise and a dare. Then he lifts his phone to his ear and turns for the door like he gets to say when this conversation is over.

Oh, hell no. He does not get the dramatic exit. Not in my bar.

“I want my fifty bucks back!” I yell as the door slams shut.

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