Page 41 of Sealing the Deal

I fight the urge to whirl around.

“You destroy everything you touch.”

We reach the car, and Grayson pulls the door open and gestures for me to get in. I slide inside, heart hammering, expecting him to follow. Instead, the door shuts firmly, and I look up in time to see him turn back toward a man in his fifties in a thick blue coat, fists clenched. There’s no sign, no camera phone. Just anger.

Grayson doesn’t rise to it. He stands, hands visible, posture open, and listens. The man keeps talking, voice raised, words tumbling over one another. Something about a redevelopment project. About a neighborhood gutted. About promises broken.

I don’t hear Grayson’s reply, only the calm, steady tone. Whatever he says changes the temperature. The man’s fists uncurl. The confrontation drains instead of exploding. But the words linger.

Ashborne scum.

You destroy everything you touch.

It’s exactly what the fans fear. Exactly what I feared. Ashborne Holdings rolling into Denver, buying the Stormhawks, bleeding them dry and moving on.

And yet, I’ve seen Grayson at Oakwood Ranch with the Sullivans. I’ve seen him freezing on the side lines at Dylan’s practice. I’ve watched him sit through the local sponsor meeting and take every hit without flinching. I’ve spoken to Donny about the sale and the cost of it. I realize those fears don’t feel the same anymore. They don’t fit the man I’m getting to know.

I remember the first statement released after Grayson’s name was leaked. The Stormhawks were insistent that the purchase had been made by Grayson Global, owned by Grayson Ashborne. We’d all assumed it was a holding company. A smokescreen. Another branch of Ashborne Holdings. I pull out my phone and type Grayson Global into the search bar. I skip the glossy website and head straight to the news tab, bracing myself for the same tidal wave of outrage that followed his name the week he bought the team.

But that’s not what I get. There are no exposés. No headlines about communities flattened. No think pieces calling him a corporate vulture. Instead, there are small stories. A community park renovation in Brooklyn funded quietly by Grayson Global. A scholarship program expanded last year without fanfare. Further back, architectural features on luxury developments in Dubai and Singapore. The sleek glass towers and private villas that made him his fortune. Homes for the ultra-rich, yes. But built. Not stripped.

The only negative articles appear when Grayson Global is mentioned alongside Ashborne Holdings. Nothing I’m reading fits the villain Denver thinks he is. Or the villain I decided he must be when he bought my bar.

Outside, the man’s shoulders finally drop. Grayson says something else and after a long pause, they shake hands. Only then does Grayson circle the car and slide into the seat beside me. He’s tense. Brow knitted. He exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath the entire time.

“Sorry about that.”

“What did you say to him?” I ask.

“The truth.” He rubs at the back of his neck as the car pulls into traffic, stadium lights shrinking behind us. “I told him his grievance was with Ashborne Holdings. That it’s my father’s company. And that I’m not my father.”

He stares out of the window for a second, before continuing.

“Then I listened.” His jaw tightens. “He owned a small grocery store out by Bennett Creek. After Ashborne Holdings bought the automotive plant nearby, they sold it off piece by piece and flipped the land. The jobs went. The foot traffic went. His store didn’t last six months.”

I swallow.

“It’s a health spa and golf complex now,” he adds quietly. “Then I told him to contact my office in the morning and we’d help.”

“Help?”

He shrugs, but there’s no defensiveness in it. “Grayson Global has charitable arms that support displaced families and small businesses. It’s not a fix for everything. But it’s something.”

“Why do Ashborne Holdings always sell the businesses they buy?” I ask.

He shoots me a wary look.

“I don’t want another fight. I want to understand,” I say.

He gives a small nod. “Imagine a large shipping company. Ships. Warehouses. Freight containers. Maybe a fleet of trucks. Let’s say they’ve got five thousand employees, most of whom come from the nearby town. The shipping company hits financial trouble. Ashborne Holdings steps in. Either through one of its umbrella companies or in a hostile takeover that’s been forced by the banks. The first thing Ashborne Holdings do is shut the company down. Everyone is fired from the cleaners to the CEO. Then they sell everything. Because the sum of the parts—the ships, the trucks, the warehouses, the land—is worth more separately than as the business it was. That’s how they make their profit.

“They’re as bad as you think,” Grayson says quietly. “Worse. Because that town with those five thousand employees is now also in trouble. Suddenly there’s no money to buy groceries or hardware or to eat out. So, all those businesses fail too, which means more people out of work and unable to pay bills.”

The next words are no longer matter-of-fact, but ringing with a lifetime of hurt and anger.

“My father is a ruthless, cruel man. I hate him with every fiber of my being. And I will never forgive him for the things he’s done. I grew up watching him destroy businesses, livelihoods, and people. He doesn’t care about anything except profit, and that includes his wife and kids.”

In that moment, Grayson doesn’t look like a wealthy businessman with the world at his fingertips. He looks like a man with scars. The vulnerability in his words, the way he’s opening up to me, I can see it costs him, and so I give something back.