Chapter 15 Julian
The conference room is filled with voices and projections and charts with numbers, big and small.
Architectural renderings are spread across the table in neat rows—expanded media platforms, revised hospitality layouts, contingency plans layered over contingency plans—and my executive team is walking through them with the kind of focus I expect.
Screens glow with data points of projected revenue increases, international media reach, and sponsor activation timelines.
On paper, it is everything the league claims to want, every objection answered before it can be raised.
And yet, for five consecutive years, it hasn’t been enough.
“We’ve addressed every operational concern they raised,” Jimmy says, tapping a page in the proposal packet. “Press capacity, transportation flow, security infrastructure—there’s no weak point left.”
“No obvious weak point,” I correct, my voice even as I lean back slightly in my chair, fingers steepled beneath my chin. “If there were, we wouldn’t still be having this conversation.”
A brief pause overtakes the table. They understand what I’m saying, or more precisely, what I’m not willing to accept. This isn’t a matter of meeting expectations. We’ve done that already.
“We need to think more critically,” I continue, my gaze moving from one face to the next to drive the point. “If the league has said no five times, it isn’t because we’ve failed to meet their stated criteria. It’s because we’ve failed to move them beyond it.”
“Emotion,” Tracey offers carefully, leaning forward far enough to signal engagement without overstepping. “The narrative angle we’ve been developing—”
“Yes,” I say, not dismissing her but refining the thought. “But not as something we present in a room. Not as a concept we expect them to buy into on the spot. It has to exist before we ever walk into that room. It has to be undeniable by the time we get there.”
I push one of the renderings aside, shifting the focus away from what we’ve already perfected and toward what still requires invention. “The community initiative—where are we with continuing to implement the secondary phases?”
A member of the marketing team straightens, clearly prepared.
“After the success we had with the Manhattan schools, we’ve begun outreach to schools in the outer boroughs—the Bronx, Staten Island, and Brooklyn. Ticket allocations are being finalized for the next three home games, and we’re coordinating with social media to capture—”
“Not capture,” I interrupt, my words biting just enough to redirect without derailing. “Enable.”
He briefly falters before nodding. “Sorry, yes. Enable.”
“Don’t script it,” I say. “Don’t manufacture it. If this is going to work, it has to feel real. It has to be real.”
The words come easily, but I’m aware—uncomfortably aware—of where they originate.
Not from this room. Not from months of strategic planning.
From a lunch table in Tribeca, across from a woman who had I had no business asking to solve my problems and did so anyway, who then gave clarity my own team hadn’t reached.
Harper. She’s behind it all, and that’s the truth.
The memory of last night, our kiss, doesn’t drift in gradually. It arrives whole, cutting cleanly through the meeting in front of me. I see her exactly as she was—searching in the dark for those stupid lug nuts, her voice threaded with panic as though the entire situation rested on her shoulders.
And then she spun, right into me. The warmth of her body against mine and my fucking hands moved without thought.
Everything else fell away.
And then… I kissed her.
Couldn’t help myself.
I shift slightly in my chair, not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough to remind myself where I am. The discussion continues around me with voices layering over one another, ideas building and evolving, but the words don’t take root the way they should. They register, but they don’t hold.
Because I can still feel it.
The warmth of her. The hesitation that wasn’t hesitation at all. The way she didn’t pull away—not at first.
And then, just as clearly, the way she did.
We can’t do that again. You’re my boss.
I draw a slow breath, steadying my focus, forcing my attention back to the table, to the people who are waiting for direction, for the version of me that does not get distracted.
“This initiative,” I say, picking up the thread seamlessly, “is the most compelling argument we have. Not the infrastructure or the numbers—the story. New York as a city that doesn’t just host hockey but expands the reach, opens it up to new fans, makes it accessible.”
There are nods now, momentum building again as the conversation regains its rhythm.
“And the team’s performance?” someone asks. “Shouldn’t that factor into how we position the bid?”
“Of course,” I reply. “Winning matters. The league wants to showcase excellence, and right now we’re giving them that.”
Five to one against Chicago. A decisive win, one that reinforces everything we’ve been building.
“All of it works in our favor,” I continue, “but it isn’t sufficient on its own. It never is.”
If it were, this would have been secured years ago.
The discussion deepens after that, moving into execution, timelines and deliverables. The level of detail I typically thrive in. I contribute where necessary, redirect where needed, push where they hesitate.
But beneath that control, a part of me remains unsettled.
Because no matter how firmly I tether myself to the work, no matter how hard I refocus, my thoughts return to the same place.
To her. To the way she looked at me after the kiss, her eyes wide.
To the way she said no. And the more I think about it, the more I recognize it for what it is.
Not rejection. Restraint.
Which, in its own way, carries far more awareness and maturity.
I lean forward slightly, resting my forearms on the table as someone outlines the next phase of the campaign rollout, fully re-engaging because that’s what is required.
“Good,” I say, nodding once. “Move forward with that, and I want weekly updates—not summaries or high-level overviews. I want to see exactly how this is unfolding in real time.”
“Of course,” Jimmy replies.
The meeting winds down soon after, action items assigned and next steps clarified. The room gradually empties as people gather their materials and filter out.
I remain seated. Alone, finally. Below this floor, on the ice, players move through drills, patterns repeating with a consistency that stands in stark contrast to the direction of my own thoughts.
I have built my life on structure, on defined boundaries that exist for a reason and are maintained without exception.
But last night, I crossed one.
There is no benefit in pretending otherwise. It happened. I chose it.
The question that remains is not whether it occurred, but what, if anything, I intend to do about it.
I lean back in my chair.
For years, I have operated under a truth I accepted without question: that what I had with Kylie was singular, complete and irreplaceable.
That once one experiences a love of that magnitude, it does not present itself again in another form, wearing a different face, asking to be considered as though it could ever measure up.
I’ve structured my life around this paradigm.
It was cleaner that way, simpler, contained within boundaries I understood and could maintain.
And then, in a single moment on the side of a dark road, with a woman who should have remained firmly within the confines of my professional world, that all changed.
The feeling wasn’t comparable. It couldn’t be. Not yet.
But it was something. And that’s what unsettles me most.
“Julian?”
The voice draws me back to the present. I look up to find Jimmy lingering near the door, a few others behind him, waiting with the polite patience of people who are unsure whether the meeting has fully concluded.
“Should we debrief in your office?” he asks.
I consider it. My instinct is to agree, to reassert control by immersing myself in work. “Yes,” I say automatically.
Then I stop.
“Actually…” I adjust slightly in my chair as the decision forms. “Let’s do it this afternoon. Three o’clock.”
Jimmy nods without hesitation. “Three works.”
“Good,” I reply.
The lower level of the arena is quieter than the floors above, the sounds of activity fading into the distance as I make my way toward the VIP parking area.
I spot the Range Rover in its usual spot with Harper inside, exactly where I expect her to be.
She’s angled slightly toward the windshield and there’s something about that stillness, about the way she exists quietly and unaffected in her world that touches me.
I can see her reading… something I’ve found her doing on more than one occasion as she waits for me.
She seems to always be engrossed in some type of book or story or project which is a clear sign of a woman who wants to better herself, and in turn those around her.
I step up to the driver’s-side window and tap lightly against the glass.
She startles, her head turning quickly before she puts down her book and recovers, lowering the window with a small exhale.
“Julian,” she says, a hint of surprise in her voice. “Everything okay?”
“Yes,” I reply simply. “Get in the passenger seat.”
Her brows knit slightly, confusion flickering across her expression. “You want to—”
“I’ll drive,” I say, not unkindly, but with a certainty that leaves little room for discussion.
Harper frowns. “You’ll drive?”
“Yes, I’ll drive.”
“I don’t understand,” she says.
“I want to drive, Harper. It’s as simple as that, so get in the passenger seat.”
There’s a brief pause before she nods, pushing the door open and stepping out, moving around the front of the car. I slide behind the wheel as she settles beside me, and the shift in dynamic is immediate.
I adjust the seat to accommodate my height, start the engine and pull out of the parking area, merging into traffic. The streets are crowded, the movement constant, the noise pressing in from all sides, and it becomes clear that this is not the place for the conversation I intend to have.
So I pivot. I drive us north, allowing instinct to guide me as the congestion thins and the opening at Sixty-Seventh Street appears. I turn, guiding the car into Central Park, toward the quieter stretch near Tavern on the Green.
I pull the car to a stop in a secluded stretch, the trees forming a natural barrier between us and the world beyond.
Only then do I turn to her.
Harper’s already looking at me, her expression confused but not entirely guarded.
“I know what you said last night,” I begin. “That we can’t do that again.”
Her breath catches, subtle but unmistakable. “Julian—”
“But my instinct,” I continue, not dismissing her interruption but guiding past it, “is that you want to.”
We look at each other before I continue.
“And I can tell you,” I add, holding her gaze, “that I do as well.”
“And you’re my boss.”
“I’m aware.”
She exhales slowly. “This isn’t the most—I mean, this is… it’s complicated,” she says quietly.
“Yes,” I agree, because anything else would be disingenuous.
“What—like, how—” Harper takes in a breath, gathering her thoughts. “What would people say?”
“I think they’d say, ‘Look at that Julian Langley… how’d he get so lucky to have such a beautiful woman on his arm?’”
Harper blushes. “Stop it. I’m worried about what your employees would think. I’m hardly the type of girl who sleeps her way to the top.”
I can’t help but laugh. “First… I’m not asking you to sleep with me.” She blushes again, eyes wide with shock and maybe a tinge of disappointment, which prompts me to add, “At least not yet.”
“But—”
“Harper,” I say, cutting her off. “We can be discreet while we figure this out, or we can shout it to the world. I don’t care. I just want to see you outside of our professional roles.”
Her lips press together, her thoughts visibly moving behind her eyes, weighing the implications and consequences.
“Then how would we do this?” she asks.
It is, objectively, the right question. Instead of responding immediately, I lean toward her. If there’s doubt or hesitation, I intend to resolve it.
Her breath stutters, her hand tightening slightly in her lap, but she doesn’t pull away. The kiss is different this time. More passionate, more electrifying.
When I pull back, it’s gradual, allowing space between us without fully severing the connection, giving her the opportunity to respond in whatever way she chooses.
She doesn’t retreat.
“What does this mean, Julian?” she asks, her voice vulnerable.
“I’m not going to take advantage of my position,” I say, my words steady, leaving no room for misinterpretation. “Not with you.”
Her gaze sharpens, searching for any indication that this is anything less than what it appears to be.
“And I’m not interested in an undefined arrangement… I’m going to take you to dinner,” I say. “This weekend.”
She blinks, the simplicity of it clearly not what she expected, her mind recalibrating around the shift. “Dinner?”
“Yes.”
“And what happens after that?” she asks.
I hold her gaze, allowing the faintest trace of a smile to surface. “We’ll find out.”