Page 37 of Sealing the Deal

I side-eye Flic. She has the decency to be biting back her laughter. Barely.

Dylan is the first to pull himself together. Stepping forward and extending his hand. “Relax, Ashborne. The jury’s still out, but Flic vouches for you, so we’re giving you a chance.”

Before I can reply, a blonde-haired girl skids into the kitchen, socks sliding across the hardwood.

“Is lunch ready? What’s so funny? Mom, when is the devil in the shiny suit getting here?” she asks, right as her gaze lands on me and her mouth drops into a perfect, horrified O.

The room explodes again, and Flic groans into her hands in a way that tells me “the devil in the suit” came from her. I store it away for later and smile at the girl.

“Nice to meet you,” I say. “I’m Grayson.”

“This is Madison—Mad,” Flic says, sweeping the girl into a hug.

Mad studies me with the scrutiny of a tiny detective. “He doesn’t look like a devil,” she announces to the room.

I shrug off my thick coat and glance down at my jeans and dark sweater. “I leave my horns at home on Thursdays,” I quip.

That earns a fresh round of laughter, and the last of the tension drains from the room. Izzy motions for Mad to come over and waves us all to sit. A minute later, I’m wedged onto a wooden bench with Flic on one side and Mama on the other, Harper and Jake settled opposite, and a full plate of food in front of me.

Lunch is loud and filled with laughter, the food comforting and delicious. Roast meat, buttery potatoes, fresh-baked bread. The kind of home-cooking I almost never get. As Mama spoons a second helping of potatoes onto my plate, I find myself thinking how I wouldn’t trade this for whatever masterpiece the world’s top chef could put in front of me.

Between mouthfuls, the family talks about Saturday’s game in Baltimore. “The Grimriders are the number one seed,” Flic says. “They barely lost a game this season. Buffalo was hard. Baltimore will be something else.”

“They’ve got weaknesses, though,” Jake says. “We’ve been studying the tape, and their linebackers have a tendency to over-pursue. They go too wide and jump routes. They’re aggressive, but they don’t always adjust well.”

Mama nods from beside me. “They think they know what they’re getting from us, but Coach Allen has built in a whole different game plan. If our boys execute it right on game day, we’ve got a real chance.”

They talk with experience and passion, and the hope is infectious, but I don’t miss the nerves humming beneath every word. A win this Saturday means everything to this family, and I respect that.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Harper take a discreet photo of the family lunch. No cheesy grins or poses. Just a candid shot of us all relaxed, mid-conversation. Later, Jake will post it on his socials and Flic will share to the Red Zone, and while I won’t be tagged or mentioned or anything too obvious, Flic is certain the die-hard fans will notice my presence. I hope she’s right. We might have avoided more protests this week, but time is running out and the anger from fans is still high. That miracle we need isn’t feeling any closer.

The conversation moves on to Harper’s next book, which is publishing soon, and the book tour she’s going on. And then the topic moves to babies—Izzy’s impending due date and Serena and Chase’s twins, due this summer. Name suggestions are passed around as easily as the dishes for second and third helpings.

“Gotta be Thor,” Jake says immediately.

Harper swats his arm without even looking at him. “No one at this table is naming their baby Thor.”

It’s all teasing and sweetness and noise. And above all, it’s a love that circles the table like a hug that squeezes my chest. I swear the closest thing I’ve had to feeling cared for is the time at NYU when I was hit with bad flu. I was stuck in bed, too sick to move, let alone eat. I was shivering and sweating and the room spun every time I opened my eyes. The only person checking on me was Donny, who brought me plastic cups of matzo ball soup from the deli on West 4th Street. He threw away my Kleenex and made sure I had a bottle of water in reach. He even mopped my brow with a cold washcloth when I was feverish. As soon as I was well enough to think straight, he swore me to secrecy because showing emotion would “ruin his brand,” which is hilarious because you only have to look at my best friend to know he’s got a well of love to give.

It’s hard to miss something you didn’t know existed, but watching how the Sullivans tease in one breath and offer support in the next, yeah, there’s a pang in my chest.

As the dishes empty, it’s obvious the Sullivans are making an effort not to mention the Stormhawks’ ownership or the mess surrounding my name, and I’m grateful.

After lunch, I push up my sleeves and start washing dishes, Mad at my side acting as self-appointed interrogator.

“Do you really have your own plane?” she asks.

“Yep. And you’d be welcome to fly on it.”

“I’ll have to check my schedule,” she replies with a deadpan tone that makes me chuckle.

I like Madison. She says exactly what she means and takes me as I am. She isn’t interested in my name or where I come from, just who I am standing in front of her. It’s refreshing and I find myself relaxing around her.

“And do you really have your own driver who can take you anywhere you want whenever you like?” she asks, eyes wide.

“I do. His name is Hunter.”

Dylan calls from the table, “Pretty sure you’ve got a whole fleet of drivers right here, Mad.”