Page 18 of Sealing the Deal

You’re the billionaire. Just put your own money in.

Flic’s words from earlier still ring in my head.

If only it were that simple.

When I bought the majority share, I promised Donny I wouldn’t turn the Stormhawks into an open wallet. My investment had to be enough to steady the ship. No blank checks, no reckless spending. The Huberts still hold forty-five percent and run the day-to-day. This was supposed to be a partnership, not a takeover. But with fans protesting and sponsors circling, it feels like all I’ve done is pour gasoline on something that was already smoldering.

Even without the memes and online vitriol directed at me, I only have to think of the hate sparking in Flic’s eyes this morning to know how this city feels about me. The fans see me as an Ashborne. Another bastard with a power suit and a demolition crew. It feels like nothing I say is going to change that, especially with Flic after the way I behaved.

I cringe inwardly. Donny told me to steer clear, but I didn’t listen. I couldn’t shake the idea that Flic had the power to change everything. She has the reach. The respect. Fans listen when she speaks. Add the Sullivan connection and she’s as close to Stormhawks royalty as it gets. But I couldn’t just walk in and ask for help, so I looked for a way to sweeten the deal. The landlord squeezing her block wasn’t hard to find. On Friday, I had my lawyers make the call. By Sunday night, the entire strip was mine. He barely argued.

I told myself removing her landlord was helping. From what I could see, he’d been tightening the screws too tight for too long, on her and all the other businesses on that street. I could give her a break from that. Hell, I could give her the whole damn building. I wasn’t trying to buy her. I was removing a problem she’d been fighting for years. But somehow, I still managed to make it feel like blackmail. Fantastic! Gold star for me.

I definitely owe her an apology, but even if I get down on my knees and beg, I’m certain there’s no way she helps me now. In the two times I’ve met Flic, it’s obvious she’s fiercely loyal and allergic to bullshit. I respect the hell out of it. Even if it means I’ve just made things worse.

I force my attention back to my laptop, but despite every intention to work, my mind keeps drifting somewhere else. To a blonde with twin braids, eyes like lightning, and a talent for making me feel like I’ve personally offended her ancestors. Flic is the exact opposite of the women I dated before I learned, in no uncertain terms, that relationships only lead to hurt and destruction.

My “type,” according to Helena, was anyone in crisis. Anyone broken enough that my fixer instinct starts salivating. She’s not wrong. Ana, my last girlfriend, ticked all the boxes. A willowy redhead with Bambi eyes that screamed, “help me.” And I tried. I did everything I could, but you can’t hold someone else together by sheer will. You can’t fix someone who enjoys falling apart. And the way things ended⁠—

No. I’m not gonna lift the lid on that box of self-loathing and hate, I tell myself as the walls of my suite start to close in. The other reason I chose the penthouse. The need to feel space around me.

I grab my bourbon and swallow the rest of the liquid in the glass. It burns my throat, but gives me the distraction I need to shove the memory of Ana back where it belongs, behind steel-reinforced walls I built for a reason. Five years of no dates, no intimacy, no women at all. Donny thinks I’ve become boring, and maybe I have, but boring is safe.

I think about ordering another bourbon, decide it’s a bad idea, and force myself to focus instead. The Stormhawks and Donny need my help. That’s why I’m here.

Twenty minutes later, a hard knock snaps me out of my concentration. I check the time. I ordered a burger from room service to be delivered at 8 p.m. It’s thirty minutes early, but I’m exhausted and ready to eat.

“It’s open,” I call, not looking up as I click to another tab and scroll through the last decade of sponsorship revenue. I track the spikes and dips, the seasons where a single bad year cost the Stormhawks tens of millions in revenue, and the years where goodwill carried them further than performance should’ve allowed. The trend is clear. Revenue has been in steady decline for years. Even if we hold on to every current sponsor, I’m not sure it will be enough.

The door crashes open, and I look up to see it’s not room service. Flic strides into the suite’s living room with fire in her eyes. She’s wearing another pair of impossibly tight black jeans, but instead of the black vest I remember from the bar, she’s wearing a cute pale-green sweater underneath a badass leather biker jacket. And for one ridiculous, disorienting second, my heart lurches in my chest, and with it every thought in my head stutters. Because she’s the most alive person I’ve ever met.

I can’t stop the smile tugging at my mouth. “Well,” I say lightly. “This is a surprise. I thought you’d call first.”

Not the apology I’d planned, but something about Flic makes me want to poke her walls just to see what’s behind the stubbornness that had her running her bar single-handedly on the busiest night of the year, and only accepting my help when I wouldn’t take no for an answer.

The look she gives me is as sharp as broken glass. “What, so your secretary can pencil me in?”

“How did you get up here?” I ask, ignoring her question. “You need an access key to get onto this floor.”

She rolls her eyes. “You probably don’t know the meaning of the word, but I happen to have a few friends who help me when I ask for it.”

“Since you’re here”—I nod toward the armchair opposite me—“have a seat. Unless you prefer pacing. But you look like you might burn a hole in my carpet, and I really don’t want to have to pay for a replacement.”

“You can afford it,” she snaps, but she sits anyway, arms crossed like she’s resisting the urge to throw something heavy at my head, and fires a question at me instead. “Why does a New York property developer buy a Denver football team?”

“I wanted to feel like I belonged to something real. Something more than buildings and boardrooms.” I curse inwardly. It sounds like PR spin, and by the look Flic levels on me, she’s thinking the same.

“Bullshit.”

“It’s the truth.” Or part of it anyway, but until I can trust Flic, it’s all she’s going to get.

“And you just stuck a pin in a map and chose us, I suppose.”

“Donny Hubert was my college roommate. He never shut up about the Stormhawks. I guess it rubbed off on me.”

The suspicion softens just a fraction in Flic’s eyes. Then she blows out a breath. “Fine. I’ll help you.”

The relief is instant. It’s going to take a miracle to convince the fans I’m not the devil, and by the sounds of it, we need that miracle to stay in the playoffs beyond the weekend. But with Flic accepting my deal, there’s at least a whisper of hope for one of those miracles.