36. Victoria
VICTORIA
Twenty-four hours after those photos dropped, I rode the downtown elevator up to the thirty-sixth floor with Seth at my side, a folder full of paperwork on my arm, and absolutely zero patience left in my body for what was waiting for me at the top.
The PHL’s standard governance review window was thirty days.
I had a championship game in seventeen hours.
I’d told Commissioner Dalton in no uncertain terms which one of those timelines was going to win, and after about ninety minutes on the phone with him last night, he had finally agreed that an expedited proceeding was, quote, “in everyone’s interest.”
Mine, mostly. The rest of them could kick rocks.
The PHL governance committee met in a conference room on the fourteenth floor of a building in downtown Las Vegas that had no signage on the outside and carpet the color of old money on the inside.
I’d been in worse rooms.
Seth Carver met me in the lobby at eight forty-five with a leather portfolio and the look he wore when he’d done everything humanly possible to prepare for something and was now simply waiting to see if the universe cooperated. I’d known Seth for eleven years. That expression meant we were ready.
“How are you feeling?” he asked as we stepped into the elevator.
“Fine.”
“Victoria.”
“I’m fine, Seth.” I adjusted my glasses and watched the floor numbers climb. “How many pages did we submit?”
“Forty-seven.”
“And Chu’s recusal documentation?”
“Filed separately. Timestamped and notarized.”
“Coach Mercer’s disclosure?”
“Included as exhibit C.”
I nodded. The elevator opened onto a carpeted hallway that smelled like recycled air and institutional patience. A woman at a reception desk pointed us toward the third door on the left without making eye contact, which told me she’d been briefed on who we were and had opinions about it.
That was fine. People had been having opinions about me for fourteen years.
I opened the door myself.
Three committee members sat on the far side of a long table.
Two men and a woman, all somewhere between fifty and sixty, all wearing the same practiced blankness of people who had been trained not to reveal anything before a proceeding began.
There were name placards in front of them that I didn’t need.
I’d researched all three the night before.
Commissioner Dalton’s deputy on the left.
A retired franchise owner from the Midwest in the center. A PHL legal counsel on the right.
I knew what each of them cared about.
I sat down across from them. Seth sat beside me and opened his portfolio without a word.
The deputy cleared his throat. “Miss Caldwell. Thank you for appearing before the committee today.”
“Of course.”
“As you’re aware, this review was triggered under Article Fourteen of the PHL Governance Charter following the public disclosure of a personal relationship between yourself and Las Vegas Vipers player Rhett Calloway.
” He glanced down at his notes. “The purpose of this review is to determine whether that relationship has at any point constituted a conflict of interest compromising the competitive integrity of the franchise or the league.”
“I understand,” I said.
“We’ve reviewed the documentation submitted by your office.” He paused. “It was thorough.”
“It was complete,” I said. “There’s a distinction.”
The retired franchise owner in the center looked up from his copy of our submission.
He had the weathered, unhurried look of a man who had sat in a lot of rooms like this one and stopped being impressed by any of them a long time ago.
“Miss Caldwell. How long have you been aware of Mr. Calloway’s personal interest in you? ”
I looked at him steadily. “Approximately three years.”
“And in that time, how many roster decisions involving Mr. Calloway did you make personally?”
“None.” I folded my hands on the table. “Mr. Calloway’s initial signing was handled by my general manager David Chu with independent legal counsel on both sides.
His contract renewal eighteen months ago went through the same process.
I recused myself from both. The documentation is in exhibit A, pages four through eleven. ”
The legal counsel on the right was already there, flipping through her copy.
“His captaincy designation,” the deputy said.
“Coach Mercer’s recommendation, seconded by a team vote. I was not in the room.” I paused. “Exhibit B, page three.”
“Ice time allocation.”
“Coach Mercer’s jurisdiction entirely. I don’t manage game day decisions. I manage the franchise.” I let that sit for a second. “Exhibit A, pages nineteen through twenty-two cover the full scope of my operational role versus coaching staff authority. You’ll find they don’t overlap.”
The legal counsel set her copy down and looked at me for the first time with something other than the trained blankness she’d walked in with. I didn’t let myself react to it.
The deputy shuffled his papers. “Miss Caldwell, the committee would like to understand the timeline of when the personal relationship became—” he paused, choosing his word, “—active.”
“The relationship became active during the PHL season,” I said.
“After the team’s undefeated record was already established.
After every contract and roster decision relevant to Mr. Calloway had already been made and documented.
The sequence of events is outlined in exhibit C.
” I looked at him. “I’d also note that during the period in question the Las Vegas Vipers ran the best regular season record in the PHL and clinched a championship berth they hadn’t seen in seventeen years.
If the committee believes that outcome reflects compromised competitive integrity I’m genuinely curious about the argument. ”
Silence.
The retired franchise owner made a sound that might have been a laugh if he’d let it get that far.
The deputy looked at his colleagues. A look passed between the three of them that I’d seen in boardrooms and negotiating tables and hospital waiting rooms and every other room where people thought they were being subtle.
It meant they’d already made their decision and were now performing the last few minutes of a process that was essentially over.
I waited.
“Miss Caldwell,” the deputy said finally.
“The committee appreciates your cooperation and the thoroughness of your submission. We’ll have a formal determination within seventy-two hours but I think I can say without prejudicing that process that—” he paused again, “—the record you’ve presented is exceptionally clean. ”
“Yes,” I said. “It is.”
I stood up.
Seth stood up beside me.
I picked up my bag and buttoned my blazer and looked at the three of them one last time.
“I’ve been running this franchise for fourteen years.
I built it from nothing after my husband was killed.
I have never once made a decision that put anything ahead of the integrity of this team.
” I kept my voice even. Not angry. Just plain. “I didn’t start now.”
Nobody said anything.
I walked out.
Seth caught up with me at the elevator. We rode down to the lobby in silence. The doors opened onto the marble floor and the unsigned building and the Las Vegas morning waiting outside the glass.
“Well,” Seth said.
“Call me when the determination comes through,” I said.
“Victoria.” He stopped walking. “You were incredible in there.”
I pushed open the glass door. “I was prepared, Seth. There’s a distinction.”
Outside the morning was warm and bright and the city was doing what it always did, moving forward without waiting for anyone’s permission.
I put on my sunglasses and went to get coffee from the good place two blocks from the arena.
Rhett was going to want to hear every single word of it.