Page 9 of Geeky Pucking Orc

“Abigail Anton,” he said, voice smooth and rich. “I’m told you intend to make me more money.”

“That’s the plan.” I set my bag down and sat without waiting to be invited. “I will absolutely make you more money. The question is how much money?”

That earned me a smile. “Oh, I like you already,” he said, leaning back in his chair as though settling in for the show. “Most people start with what they can do. You’ve started with what I want.”

“Because that’s what matters.” I straightened my jacket and pulled my laptop out of my bag.

“Is it?” His gold eyes flicked toward the window, toward the ice where his team skated, stumbled, collided, recovered. “I’ve made quite a bit of money already, Abigail. Without your help.”

“Of course you have,” I said easily. “You’ve built something people can’t ignore. But now you’re faced with the hardest part.”

“And that is?”

“Keeping what you’ve invested and growing it into more.” I rose and connecting my laptop to the display, “The first game brought you a packed house filled with hockey fans excited to have a hometown team to root for as well as people interested in the spectacle of orcs playing hockey. Those are two different groups, and what appeals to one doesn’t necessarily appeal to the other.”

His gaze shifted and I realized I was losing him. “Ticket sales halved for the Tusks next game. You lost money. You’re betting on the circus appeal and that’s driving away the hockey fans.”

The demon snarled and I felt the hair rise on the back of my neck. This was a gutsy and maybe suicidal tact, but at least I’d regained his attention.

“I can bring back the hockey fans, keep those who want to see a circus coming to games, and bring in a solid number of people who don’t fall into either category. Hockey. Novelty. Community pride. And outside of that, I can build a strong base of not necessarily hockey fans here to root for their favorite orc.”

He leaned back in his chair as my title slide appeared on the screen.

THE BALTIMORE TUSKS

FROM SPARK TO INFERNO

Escallates’ gaze lingered on the word inferno.

“Right now, your team generates curiosity that doesn’t last long enough to translate into long-term revenue growth,” I said, pacing slowly as the next slide appeared—clips, headlines, spikes of engagement. “Bright, explosive, impossible to miss… and gone almost immediately.”

I turned toward him, letting the rhythm of my pitch settle into something smoother, less segmented, and more deliberate.

“That’s not a criticism,” I added. “It’s a compliment. Most sports teams can’t manufacture a spark like you have with the Tusks. But sparks don’t build anything on their own. They flare, they fade, and then you have to start from scratch to ignite the next one.”

Escallates steepled his fingers, watching me like a man evaluating both a performance and a potential investment.

“But you intend to bottle lightning,” I told him. “You want to produce a nationwide, or even global phenomenon. You want your reach to expand beyond the NHL. You want the kind of recognition and money that rarely happens in a sports franchise. You want to win and win big.”

The demon’s smile sharpened. Now I was speaking his language.

I shifted the slide. The visuals changed—less chaos, more structure. Audience funnels. Retention curves. Sponsorship tiers. None of which this demon gave two shits about. These graphics weren’t to enlighten; they were to impress upon him that I could take on the boring minutia of this business so all he had to do was sit back and rake in the fame and fortune.

“What you have now is spectacle, a flash in the pan,” I said. “People come to watch the idiots falling on the ice and the fights. It’s entertaining, but it’s inconsistent, and inconsistency makes sponsors nervous.”

“Nervous sponsors pay less,” he said.

“Or leave,” I said, knowing full well that the loss of a sponsor this past few days burned like hellfire in his gut.

“What I’m offering you isn’t less spectacle,” I continued, letting my voice soften slightly, become more persuasive. “It’s better spectacle. It’s a broader appeal without sacrificing what a hockey team of orcs brings to the entertainment table. I’m going to orchestrate the spectacle, the events, the narrative that doesn’t just get attention—it keeps it. The kind of experience people come back for because they feel like they’re part of it.”

I let the next slide come up, and this time I didn’t rush it.

Bwat.

The clip played without sound. Bwat stood on the sidewalk, massive and careful as he spoke to an elderly woman who clasped a small dog in her arms. She held the dog out and Bwat took it, cuddling it close, stroking the animal as it licked his chin.

I watched Escallates instead of the screen. Watched the moment his interest sharpened.