Page 10 of Geeky Pucking Orc

“There,” I said quietly. “That’s your entry point.”

He didn’t look at me. “Explain.”

“It’s not just what they do on the ice, it’s what they do off of it. Ozar playing with the kids at Patterson Park. Eng…doing whatever it is that a prince does. Bwat being gentle and affectionate with a dog smaller than his forearm.”

The demon waved a hand. “For some ridiculous reason humans seem to like Ozar and Eng. But I don’t know about Bwat. He’s terrible on the ice.”

“He’s not your strongest player,” I agreed. “Not your fastest. Not your most physically dominant.”

“No,” Escallates said. “He is not.”

“But he’s watchable,” I said. “He’s earnest in an approachable, geeky kind of way. He doesn’t read as a dangerous supernatural being like the others. He reads as… sincere. Curious. Unexpected.”

I stepped closer to the screen, though I kept my focus on Escallates.

“People don’t just want to be impressed. They want to feel something. They want someone they can root for without having to justify it. Someone who doesn’t feel like a threat or a joke, but a story.”

“And you think Bwat is a story.”

“I think all of your team members are a story. I think they’re the beginning of one,” I told him. “And I think Ozar, Eng, Bwat, Ugwyll and a few others are a good place to start. If I build this correctly, people won’t just watch the game. They’ll care about each individual orc on the team.”

Escallates pursed his lips. “Care,” he repeated, tasting the word like he wasn’t sure if he liked it or not. “And what does ‘care’ get me?”

“Loyalty,” I said. “Engagement that doesn’t drop off after forty-eight hours. Merchandise tied to identity instead of impulse. Sponsors who want to be associated with something people love instead of something they occasionally watch. Care is what turns an audience into a market.”

Silence settled. Then Escallates Johnson stood.

He moved to the window with unhurried grace, hands clasped behind his back as he looked down at the ice. The team blurred below in motion and noise, all Keystone Cops energy.

“Tell me something, Abigail Anton,” he said, his tone almost conversational now. “Why do people come to a circus?”

I didn’t hesitate. “For the wonder. For the feeling that they’re seeing something they can’t see anywhere else.”

“And why do they stay?” he asked.

“Because they’re invested,” I said. “Because they want to see what happens next.”

He turned slightly, enough that I could see the edge of his smile.

“Most people,” he said, “think the trick is the attraction. The oddity. The spectacle. But that only gets customers through the door.” His eyes met mine again, bright and sharp and calculating. “You’re not trying to change what I’ve begun,” he said.

“No,” I said. “I’m trying to make it bigger, make it worth more.”

That was the answer he wanted. I could see it in the way his posture shifted, the way his head tilted slightly to the side as he regarded me. “You do realize that I am a frugal demon when it comes to investments and expenditures,” he said. “I am not opposed to risk, but I have to believe the potential rewards are significant and reasonably obtainable.”

“Of course.” That tingle zipped through me. I’d won.

“I need milestones. I need proof that my money is being well invested. It’s not enough to see results in ninety days, I want results within two weeks.”

I bit back a gasp and swallowed hard, sure I was being told I would need to spin straw into gold.

“Double the attendance for our next home game in two weeks and I’ll agree to a ninety-day contract. If I see four times the revenue in ticket sales, merchandising, sponsorships, and licensing in those ninety days, then I’ll sign a three-year agreement.”

I stepped forward, closing the distance so that only the desk stood between us. “Consider it done.”

His smile was sharp and feral. “And if you fail?”

“I won’t,” I assured him.