Chapter 3Victor
Chapter Three
Victor
Marcus pulls the car to the front of my office building, the setting sun casting a glare on the polished surface that does little to shield me from the chaos waiting outside. The moment I step out, it hits me like an icy gust—the persistent hum of questions tossed in the air by the swarm of reporters encircling the entrance.
Apparently, the press followed me all the way to Boston.
"Mr. Stone! Can we get a minute?" one of them calls out, shoving a recorder in my face.
"Victor, what's your comment on the new development in Worcester?" another asks, eager for a slice of controversy .
I go cold this time, angry that I'm having to deal with this back in Boston now, too. "No comment," I snap, my voice as cutting as the winter wind that used to whip across the frozen pond where I learned to skate and, ironically, trust—a lesson quickly unlearned.
Pushing my way through, I don't bother with pleasantries or false promises. Reporters only want something from you, and once they've got it, you're yesterday's news. I'm not interested in playing their games twice in one day.
The lobby is my respite, the buzz from outside dying down as the door swings shut behind me. I make my way up the elevator to the top floor, and as I step out, Angela's right there, waiting. She's been at my side in this business long enough to read my moods like headlines.
"Evening, Victor," she greets me, her voice carrying that steady reassurance that's weathered countless storms.
"Angela," I nod, not breaking stride. "The PR proposals—are they on my desk?"
"Already there," she confirms, her eyes following me with a knowing glint. She doesn't need to ask how the gauntlet went; the tight set of my jaw tells her everything.
"Thanks." I keep it short, but there's gratitude there. In a world where trust is as slippery as ice, Angela's reliability is rare solid ground .
I stride across the polished floor of my office, the click of my shoes a sharp counterpoint to the swirling thoughts in my head. I ignore the papers and other proposals waiting for my attention, deciding to focus now on what my PR team has come up with for the Worcester development.
I don't even bother to sit. Instead, I grab the pile and flick through them, reading each proposal with a growing sense of irritation.
"Community gardens," I mutter under my breath, tossing aside a glossy brochure that suggests turning half the development into green space. Ridiculous. People need homes, not herbs.
"Pop-up art installations," I read from another, the images of colorful murals and sculptures making my temples throb. Art's great and all, but it won't appease the investors looking for serious returns.
"Free Wi-Fi zones." That one almost gets a snort out of me. As if internet access is going to smooth over the ruffled feathers of Worcester's residents.
"Angela!" My voice cuts through the quiet of the office. "Get the PR team in the conference room. Now."
"Right away, Victor," she calls back, her heels clicking as she walks away.
Minutes later, I’m leaning against the table in the conference room, my arms crossed, waiting. They shuffle in, a trio trying to mask their unease behind practiced smiles.
There’s Tom, the eager young guy with his hair slicked back like he’s living in a corporate ad; Jenna, the middle-aged strategist, always clutching her tablet like a shield; and then there’s Mark, the creative type with an unruly beard and a penchant for buzzwords.
"None of this," I wave a hand over the discarded proposals on the table, "is cutting it. I've got investors breathing down my neck, and they’re not interested in community gardens or free Wi-Fi."
Their eyes dart between each other, a silent conversation I'm not privy to. It’s that lack of straightforwardness that grates on my nerves the most.
"Victor, we're trying to?—"
"Try harder," I snap, cutting Tom off mid-excuse. "This project can't fail. I won’t let it."
They nod, a trio of bobbleheads, as the weight of my expectations settles in the room, heavy and cold.
"Okay, Victor." Jenna's the one who breaks the silence this time. Her fingers stop their nervous dance around her tablet, and she looks me straight in the eye—something I appreciate more than she probably knows. "We have another idea. But it's... unconventional."
"Unconventional" isn't a word I like, but I'm ironically desperate for anything that doesn't smell of desperation. "Spit it out."
"We think your company sponsoring a local peewee hockey team could be a solid move," she says cautiously, as if each word is a step on thin ice .
I can't help it; I laugh. It's short, sharp, and humorless. "Peewee hockey? You're joking."
"No joke," Tom chimes in, his usual enthusiasm dimmed by my obvious skepticism. "We've done something similar before. It got great coverage."
"Yeah? What was the team, the Mighty Ducks?" I scoff. "Hockey," I repeat, still not buying it. "Why the hell hockey?"
"Because it's expensive," Mark adds, his voice steady. "A lot of families struggle with the costs. And during our research, we found out the team near the development site has never won a single game."
"Never?" That catches my attention. "Not one?"
"Not one," Jenna confirms. "Imagine if sponsorship from Stone Enterprises helps them win. The story writes itself."
"Public perception does need a boost," I mutter, tapping a finger on the table and picturing headlines that don't involve protests or angry locals. Maybe there's something to this after all.
"Fine," I concede, the word feeling like it's being dragged out of me. "But I'm only in for the cash injection. No meet-and-greets, no puck drops, and definitely no coaching," I lay down my conditions like a line of barbed wire.
There's a collective exhale around the table, but Jenna's eyes are still trained on me, searching. She knows there's more to this than I'm letting on. "We understand, Victor. Hopefully, your company's sponsorship will speak volumes by itself. We'll monitor the situation and adjust if needed."
"Good, because that's as involved as I get." I stand firm, though something tugs at the memory of cold ice underfoot and a time when promises felt solid before they cracked beneath me. "This is a hard line for me."
"Understood," Tom nods, his pen tapping against the notepad as if to underline the point.
"Still, we think this is the right move," Jenna says, her conviction strong enough to pierce through my thick walls of skepticism.
I draw a deep breath, the chill of a long-buried winter momentarily seizing my chest. "Alright. Go ahead with it."
"Great. So, you'll need to head back to Worcester," Mark states, flipping open his digital calendar. "The season starts tomorrow, and we'll arrange for you to be there for a photo op. We'll make the announcement and outfit the kids with new gear."
"Photo op?" I grumble, already tasting the sharp tang of annoyance. "I said no appearances."
"Just this once," Jenna assures quickly, her smile apologetic yet hopeful. "It's important for the launch of the sponsorship. The community needs to see you're invested, at least at the start."
"Fine," I say again, sourness coating my tongue. "But after this, I'm hands- off."
"Absolutely, Victor." Jenna offers me a grateful nod, and I can't help but notice the way her belief in this plan doesn't waver—an unwelcome contrast to my own doubts.
"Tomorrow, then." I don't wait for their response. I turn and stride out of the conference room, the ghost of a forgotten cheer echoing faintly in my mind.