Page 78 of Sealing the Deal

On the street, Grayson buttons his coat and turns in a slow circle, taking it all in, before I lead him toward the hotel entrance, past a revolving door and into a lobby, all marble floors and glittering chandeliers. A grand staircase curves toward a mezzanine level, but instead of heading up, I tug him toward a corridor lined with framed black-and-white photos of old Denver.

“What exactly is this?” he asks quietly, suspicion creeping into his voice.

“You’ll see.”

We push through double doors at the end of the hallway into a packed ballroom and a wall of noise. At least a hundred people are crammed into the room. Families in Stormhawks jerseys, older fans in vintage jackets, kids waving foam fingers twice the size of their arms. Red and white banners hang from the ceiling. Round tables are scattered across the room, and at the far end a small stage has been set up. Grayson stops dead beside me.

“Flic—” There’s a thread of worry in his voice as he takes in the crowd.

I spot Jake and wave. He beelines for us, moving like he owns the room without even trying to. Jake has always carried himself like a man who hit the jackpot in life—family, love, dream job—and now the Super Bowl win is the cherry on top. This win means something to everyone here, but to Jake, standing this close to the end of his playing career, I know it’s about more than the trophy. It’s about legacy.

“About time you guys got here,” Jake says, clapping Grayson on the shoulder.

“Where is everyone else?” I ask.

“Mama’s in the corner with Coach Allen,” Jake replies, nodding toward a cluster of older fans already deep in conversation. “And Chase is⁠—”

“I’m here!”

Chase bounds toward us wearing a backward baseball cap with full golden retriever energy, practically vibrating with excitement as he pulls me, and then a surprised Grayson, into a hug. “You made it. Good.”

Grayson congratulates Jake and Chase again on the win, before leaning toward me, speaking out of the corner of his mouth. “Am I welcome here? And what the hell is this?”

I can’t help smiling. “It’s a fans event to meet the team and see the Lombardi—the Super Bowl trophy. Tickets went to some of the top fans and a few went up for sale.”

Before Grayson can ask another question, Donny joins us, hands tucked in his pockets, grin wide. “Surprise.”

“You were in on this?” Grayson asks.

“Of course,” Donny replies. “Come on.”

He gestures for us to follow him toward the stage area. At the front of the room, under bright lights, the Lombardi Trophy takes pride of place on a long table draped in Stormhawks red. The silver football on the top gleams bright, reflecting the glory and celebration in this room. Grayson slows as we approach, the noise of the room dipping as people begin to notice him. A ripple passes through the crowd. Heads turn. Conversations falter. I see his shoulders tighten.

“Don’t be nervous,” I murmur.

“Flic,” he says under his breath, “I know we’ve made progress, but⁠—”

“Trust me.”

I reach for his hand. For a second, he hesitates. Then he stops talking, slips his fingers into mine, and follows Donny and me to the stage where Donny’s mom and grandfather are already standing.

The room quietens as Don Senior steps forward. Age has bowed him slightly, but there’s nothing diminished about the authority in his voice. “When my father founded this team,” he begins, one hand resting lightly on the edge of the table beside the trophy, “he did it because he believed football could bring this city together.”

A murmur of agreement carries through the crowd.

“We’ve had winning seasons and losing ones. Highs and lows. I’ll be the first to admit that there have been too many lows of late. But this year…” His voice thickens. “This year, you reminded us who we are.” He gestures toward Jake and Chase and the rest of the team before looking to the fans. “You made an old man very proud.” He turns then, placing a hand on Donny’s shoulder. “You’ve made me very proud.”

Donny swallows hard, emotion flashing openly across his face before he steps forward to take the microphone.

“For those of you who’ve been with us since the beginning,” Donny says, scanning the room, “you know this team has always been about more than football. It’s about family. It’s about showing up when it matters and giving back and believing in something bigger than yourself.” He pauses, letting the words land. “There were moments this season when the noise outside the stadium was louder than anything happening on the field.” A few glances dart toward Grayson. Donny doesn’t shy away from it. “But this city stuck with us. You showed up. You believed. And because of that—because of you—we’re standing here as Super Bowl champions.”

Applause swells.

“This trophy,” he continues, resting a hand lightly on the Lombardi, “belongs to every one of you. The fans who’ve filled stands for generations. The families who built this franchise. The players who gave everything they had. And to the people willing to fight for its future.”

His gaze finds Grayson then. It’s subtle, but intentional.

Donny clears his voice. “The Stormhawks will always be Denver’s team. That doesn’t change. Ownership doesn’t change that. Money doesn’t change that. What matters is heart. And I’ve seen a lot of heart this season.”