Chapter Twenty-One Maren #2
Griffin’s voice came from beside her. “Content-lead fine?”
She hated him a little.
For noticing.
For being right.
For making the room feel safe enough that lying felt cheap.
“My mom,” Maren said. “She thinks I should be realistic.”
Ava’s face hardened.
Tyler, who had reappeared with fries, froze mid-chew.
Nate suddenly found great interest in the schedule.
Denise closed the laptop halfway, not because she was done, but because the metrics did not need to watch.
Griffin did not ask to see the text.
He did not say she is wrong, which would have been nice and useless.
He said, “What would realistic mean if Paige were the one pitching?”
Maren looked at him.
The room went silent.
Ava whispered, “Oh, that is an excellent murder question.”
Maren laughed once, but it came out shaky.
If Paige were pitching, realistic would mean ambitious. Prepared. Professional. Worth taking seriously.
If Maren pitched, realistic meant do not get hurt.
Do not expect too much.
Do not embarrass yourself by wanting a room that no one had saved a chair for you in.
Maren picked up the marker again.
Her hand did not shake this time.
She wrote under the campaign title.
REALISTIC DOES NOT MEAN SMALL.
Ava clapped once.
Tyler pointed both hands at the wall. “That is the shirt.”
Denise nodded. “That is the close.”
Griffin said nothing.
Maren looked at him.
His eyes were on the words.
Then on her.
“I believe you,” he said.
Not in you.
You.
Like she was not a dream he was indulging.
Like she was a fact.
Maren had to look away.
Immediately.
“Great,” she said, voice too bright. “Love that for my emotional stability.”
Ava made another scrapbook noise.
Maren ignored it.
They worked until the storage room felt less like a room and more like the inside of Maren’s brain if her brain had eaten fries and hired a hockey team as unpaid consultants.
By eleven fifteen, Denise had helped Maren turn the butcher-paper mess into a clean outline.
By eleven twenty-seven, Maren had a deck structure.
Slide one: Fun People Trust.
Slide two: What Happened at Lake Briar.
Slide three: Why It Worked.
Slide four: Boundaries Increased Engagement.
Slide five: Preseason Rollout Concepts.
Slide six: Community Trust, Youth Access, Alumni Energy.
Slide seven: Content Without Taking.
Slide eight: Realistic Does Not Mean Small.
By eleven forty, everyone had been assigned to go away before Denise locked them inside and charged rent.
Ava hugged Maren hard.
“You have this,” she said.
“I have a lot of markers on my hand.”
“You also have this.”
Nate hugged her too because apparently hockey captains did that now.
Tyler offered her his last fry with the solemnity of a man surrendering a family heirloom.
Cooper nodded once, which from Cooper felt like a parade.
Beckett said, “Your visual arc is clean,” and Maren accepted that as whatever version of prayer Beckett practiced.
Then they were gone.
Denise packed up the laptop and looked at Maren. “You want the office for another half hour?”
“Yes.”
Denise nodded. “Lock it when you leave. And Maren?”
“Yeah?”
“This is not little.”
Maren swallowed.
“Thanks.”
Denise left.
Which meant Maren and Griffin were alone in the storage room with butcher paper, laptop glow, cold fries, and a silence that had changed shape.
He stood near the counter, hands in his sweatshirt pocket, giving her more space than the room actually had.
Of course he was.
Griffin Hayes could be infuriatingly good at knowing when not to fill a quiet place.
Maren saved the deck file and stared at the title slide.
FUN PEOPLE TRUST.
A Ridiculously Effective Lake Briar Story Engine.
The subtitle had been Tyler’s suggestion.
She should probably delete it.
She probably would not.
“You should sleep,” Griffin said.
“I should do twelve more things.”
“Name them.”
She opened her mouth.
Nothing credible came out.
He lifted one eyebrow.
“Fine,” she said. “I should panic cosmetically.”
“That can wait until morning.”
“Can it?”
“Yes.”
“You are very confident for a man who has never applied mascara under emotional threat.”
His mouth twitched. “True.”
She leaned back against the counter and rubbed at the marker stain on her thumb. It did not budge.
Griffin watched her hand.
Then looked away.
Interesting.
Dangerous.
Not tonight.
Maybe especially tonight.
Maren took a breath. “I meant what I said earlier.”
He looked back. “Which part?”
“I do not want to build this around you.”
“I know.”
“But I do want you there tomorrow.”
His face softened, just enough to be devastating.
“Then I will be there.”
“Not as proof.”
“No.”
“Not as my emotional support hockey player.”
His eyebrows rose. “Was that an option?”
“Ava is making forms.”
“I will decline the title.”
“Good.”
“What am I there as?”
Maren looked at him.
The honest answer scared her more than Paige, more than Carter, more than the meeting.
Because it was not strategic.
It did not belong on a slide.
It did not improve the metrics.
It was just true.
“Someone I trust,” she said.
Griffin went very still.
There were no comments to react.
No dock lights.
No team yelling from the lawn.
No live audience deciding whether the moment worked.
Just his eyes on hers and the soft hum of the storage room refrigerator and Maren’s heart making terrible decisions.
“Okay,” he said.
One word.
Enough.
Her phone buzzed again.
Maren almost ignored it.
Then she looked, because ambition was apparently a disease.
A message from Carter.
CARTER: Schedule update. Nine a.m. will be a joint review with Adrienne remote, Denise in room, and Paige presenting her agency concept after yours. Wanted you to know tonight, not at the door.
Maren stared.
Griffin stepped closer, not enough to read without permission.
She handed him the phone.
He read it.
His jaw tightened.
“Joint review,” he said.
“Sounds professional.”
“Sounds like a pitch fight with chairs.”
She laughed because if she did not, she might make a noise no one could brand.
Another message appeared.
Paige.
PAIGE: May the best strategy win.
Then another.
PAIGE: Truly. Not the best story.
Maren took the phone back.
For one hot second, the old instinct rose.
Smile.
Shrink.
Make it cute.
Pretend it had not hurt.
Instead, she deleted Paige’s thread from the screen without answering.
Then she opened the deck.
Slide one stared back at her.
Fun People Trust.
Her thumb moved to the title box.
Griffin watched quietly.
She changed the subtitle.
Not a Cute Weekend. A Trust Engine.
The words sat there.
Clear.
Sharp.
Hers.
Griffin’s voice came from beside her.
“There it is.”
Maren looked at the slide until the nerves in her chest stopped scrambling and started lining up.
Tomorrow morning, Paige could bring her agency deck.
Carter could bring his review team.
Adrienne could join remotely with all the polished authority in the world.
Maren would bring the numbers, the story, the boundary that had made the audience trust her, and a campaign that did not need Griffin Hayes to be the business plan.
She looked at Griffin.
He was still beside her.
Not in front.
Not behind.
Beside.
Exactly where she had asked him to be.
Maren saved the deck.
“Okay,” she said. “Now I can sleep.”
His mouth curved. “Liar.”
“Absolutely.”
He held out his hand for the office key Denise had left on the counter. “Come on.”
She placed the key in his palm.
Their fingers brushed.
A spark.
Still there.
Still private.
Still theirs.
Maren did not post it.
She did not joke it away either.
She just picked up her laptop, tucked the final deck against her chest, and followed Griffin Hayes out into the dark, carrying the first version of her future that did not feel small.