Page 28 of Sealing the Deal

My thumbs hover over the comment box, itching to add fuel to the fire. To tell my followers they’re right to be wary. That men like Grayson Ashborne don’t buy football teams out of sentiment.

He didn’t listen to me tonight, and I’m still furious. But I also made a deal to help him improve his image with the fans. And more than that, the Stormhawks just fought their way into the next round of the playoffs. The team did their part.

I won’t lie for him. But I won’t add my own angry comment either. Besides, the photo doesn’t show how Grayson was standing by my side before this moment. It doesn’t show him listening to my play-by-play, or how invested he was, right up until the moment his phone rang. I take a deep breath and start typing.

I was in the skybox tonight, and yeah, Grayson Ashborne took a phone call at the worst moment when he should have been supporting the team. But other than this one moment, he was doing exactly that. Let’s not let one photo take the focus away from our team. We should be celebrating right now!

I tap post and wait for the replies. I know there will still be anger. That’s not going to change overnight or over one comment from me, but maybe it’s enough to put the focus back on the Stormhawks. Seconds later, I post an article about the Baltimore Grimriders—our next game—and guide my fans page back to where our focus should be—on winning the Super Bowl.

I’m still scrolling when the seat beside me dips and I lift my gaze to find Grayson dropping into it. He looks like he’s just finished his own fourth quarter of the game.

“I’m sorry,” he says, blowing out a long exhale.

I bite back the retort sitting on my tongue and turn my screen toward him instead, showing him the post on the Red Zone about his call. The comments are still rolling in. I don’t say I told you so, but it hangs in the air between us.

His expression is pained for a moment before softening. “Thank you for your comment.” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, eyes fixed somewhere between the screen and the floor. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”

I arch a brow.

“I didn’t mean to put you in a difficult position,” he continues. “I thought…” He huffs out a breath. “I don’t know what I thought. But if you want out of the deal, I get it. I messed up today. And I can’t promise it won’t happen again. My business in New York needs me sometimes.”

“You can’t be in two places at once,” I say evenly. “And playoffs aren’t the time for being second best.”

His gaze lifts to mine at that. There’s something almost raw there. Frustration. Exhaustion. Maybe a crack in the armor.

“If you want out,” he says again, more controlled this time, “say the word. I’ll keep your rent at market value. You can go back to your life.”

We’ve barely started our deal and already it’s going wrong. But walking away would also mean giving up the chance to protect the team from the inside. To show Grayson how much the Stormhawks mean to Denver. It also means giving up on the chance to own my building. I glance at the black sky outside the jet’s windows and think about Jake and Chase. About how hard they fought out there tonight. However pissed I am at Grayson right now, I’m not ready to walk away from the fight. But before I can tell Grayson any of that, my phone vibrates with a message.

MIA: Don’t panic, but Paul had to leave. Edward’s helping me keep the bar open until close.

Thoughts of Grayson are shoved aside.

I immediately call Paul. It goes straight to voicemail. I fire off a thank you to Mia because she deserves a medal and probably hazard pay, but inside my heart is racing with anger and panic and dread.

Grayson’s voice cuts through it all. “What happened?”

“The guy I hired to run the bar took off,” I say, trying—and failing—to keep my voice steady. “My friend Mia was there. She’s handling it tonight, but if she hadn’t been there⁠—”

“What do you need?”

I sigh. “To get off this plane and get back to my bar.”

I stare out the window, jaw clenched, willing the miles to pass faster. Hating that I’m trapped up here.

Grayson leaves me to my stormy thoughts, staying quiet until we’re ten minutes from landing. “Flic, I am sorry about taking that call. It wasn’t an emergency, but it was my little sister, Helena. She’s had a hard time, and I don’t like ignoring her calls. But I’ll do better, I promise.”

Something in his tone makes me wonder what happened to his sister, but I don’t have room in my head for anything except getting home.

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” I say. “If I don’t have anyone to run my bar, I can’t help you.”

“I could compensate the lost revenue for closing on game days.”

“Not everything is about money, Grayson,” I snap. “I have regulars who come to my bar to watch the game. If I’m closed, they’ll find somewhere else. And they might not come back. You can’t compensate me for that. Yes, the game day revenue keeps me afloat, but I rely on regulars throughout the year. The Hay Barn opens on game day. Period.”

Minutes ago, I was wondering if I should accept his offer to walk away from our deal. Now, it feels like the choice has been taken away from me. The dream of owning the bar suddenly feels like it’s slipping through my fingers.

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