Page 25 of Sealing the Deal

I step over to the glass overlooking the field, giving them space as Serena adds excitedly, “And it’s twins.”

Across the field, the teams shift into formation. Even from the insulated luxury of the skybox, the stadium seems to inhale as one, the roar dipping. A few rows below us, I notice a father sling an arm around his young son, pressing a kiss to the top of the kid’s beanie like it’s second nature.

I can’t remember my father ever hugging me. Charles Ashborne didn’t do affection. He did preparation. Discipline. Perfection. Our childhood was more like a training ground than a home. My father, the general. My mother, a reluctant spectator. Helena and I, the soldiers in his empire before we were allowed to be kids. I bore the brunt of his expectations until I defied him and left New York to go it alone.

Helena was the one who stayed and became senior VP in Ashborne Holdings. The golden child. Until our father didn’t like how the rest of the board started listening to her more than they did him. That’s when he pushed her into a marriage that benefited his portfolio. He treated my sister like another asset to be leveraged. And when it all went wrong, he didn’t care. It was me who saw what that decision did to my sister. It was me who picked up the pieces.

I don’t blame anyone for hating our last name. I’ve hated it longer and harder than any of them. I even thought about changing it once. But I’m not a man who hides. Keeping Ashborne reminds me every day that I am not my father.

Lost in the memory, I don’t notice the big screen sweeping over the crowd until it lands on the skybox. On me. A chorus of boos erupts. Loud, unified. Seventy thousand voices aimed straight at my chest. I lift a hand in a casual wave, because what the hell else am I supposed to do? Duck? Run? Hide? Not happening. My expression remains unreadable. I’m used to being disliked, but being booed by an entire stadium hurts more than I care to admit.

Then Flic is at my side. “Nod and smile like you’re agreeing with me.”

I do as she says, surprised to find it stings less. The cameras move on, taking the attention of the crowd with it.

“Thanks,” I say.

“All part of the deal, right?” She looks up into my eyes, the same challenge to her expression, but—and this might be wishful thinking—it’s feeling less staplegun-my-balls-above-the-jukebox and more step-out-of-line-and-you’ll-regret-it.

The game kicks off in a blur of motion and noise. Even from up here, I can follow the basics: The Stormhawks push forward, the Warbears push back, bodies collide, the ball arcs through the air like a missile. The rest I piece together from Flic’s commentary.

“That’s good… kind of,” she mutters. “Our running back got a decent burst, but the Warbears’ linebackers are crashing down too fast. If we don’t tighten up the routes, we’re just going to keep getting stuffed short.”

Minutes later she’s pointing excitedly at the field.

“Jake’s doing his part, though—did you see that?” Her voice rises with excitement. “Textbook tight end play.”

More than once, I find my gaze caught on Flic instead of the game as she talks. She’s focused, passionate, and captivating.

“Chase is on fire,” she adds, eyes locked on the field. “That was a forty-yard throw right into Jake’s stride. Best I’ve ever seen him play. Being in love suits him,” she adds, loud enough for Serena to hear.

Serena beams, cheeks pink, and Flic grins before snapping her gaze back to the game. The minutes blur into each other in a mix of offense and defensive plays. The Stormhawks score. The Warbears answer. The score climbs on both sides until even my chest feels tight. In the final minutes, the scoreboard is deadlocked at 27-27, and Flic stops explaining entirely. She’s on her feet, hands clenched, eyes wide. I get the gist even without her help. This whole thing is gonna be won or lost on a single decision, but Stormhawks offense are on the field and it’s their game to win.

I watch the team run through plays, pushing them closer to the end zone. Then my phone buzzes. I pull it from my pocket and glance at the screen. Helena.

“Don’t answer it,” Flic hisses under her breath without dragging her eyes away from the field.

My stomach twists. I hesitate, glancing at the game, at Flic, at the clock. There are still a few minutes left. The guilt digs its claws in. I let Helena down once. I won’t do it again. I’ve got time.

I turn my back to answer. “Helena? Is everything OK?”

Her reply is lost to an explosion of cheering in the suite.

“You’re busy, call me back later,” Helena says in my ear as I whirl around to see Jake in the end zone. Chase tearing off his helmet. Flic jumping up and down. The Stormhawks are winning with seconds on the clock, and I missed it.

And worse, the big screen above the field shows a perfect shot of the skybox at the exact moment Jake scored. Everyone else, cheering. Me with my back turned, phone pressed to my ear, looking like I don’t give a damn about this game or this team. Playing exactly into the narrative as the most hated man in Denver.

Fuck.

The Stormhawks finish the game with a seven-point lead, and the suite erupts all over again. The Sullivans hug and cheer right alongside Flic, already talking about the next game. Flic barely looks in my direction. If she’d started to soften toward me, even slightly, that thawing is now gone. Replaced with cold distance. I don’t blame her. I ignored her advice. I’m as pissed at myself as she is.

But she doesn’t say a word until we’re alone on the jet, heading back to Denver.

The cabin lights are on low, but it does nothing to hide the fury vibrating off Flic as she levels her gaze on me. “Was that call you took an emergency?”

“No,” I admit, feeling like shit all over again.

“I told you not to answer and you didn’t listen.”