Chapter 4
Friday morning, I pitch the Austin Mavericks while Ryan's people describe our separation as a difficult mutual transition.
The contradiction should distract me. Instead, it clarifies everything.
Ryan can manage his story.
I am here to win work.
Four agencies are competing. Adam sits behind the selection panel as a silent observer and does not score the presentations. Celia is beside me. Our deck contains no references to my marriage, Ryan or the scandal that has occupied sports television for six days.
"A new franchise has no inherited loyalty," I tell the panel. "You earn the first generation of fans by letting them see how decisions are made. The brand promise is accountability. The organization then has to live it."
The marketing chief asks how I would handle a misconduct allegation during launch season.
For one second, Ryan's face fills my mind.
"Preserve facts, protect due process and communicate confirmed actions," I say. "Don't turn silence into loyalty. Don't turn an accusation into content."
Nobody says his name.
I don't need them to.
The finance evaluator challenges our projections. Another panelist questions the cost of community advisers. I answer until the questions stop feeling like obstacles and start feeling like proof that I still know exactly what I'm doing.
When we finish, Celia squeezes my wrist once beneath the table.
"You were terrifying," she whispers.
"Good terrifying?"
"Expensive terrifying."
The final scores are signed before Adam speaks to me.
My proposal wins the strategy phase by fourteen points.
I stare at the number on the sheet longer than necessary.
Six days ago, Ryan told me I couldn't pull his sponsors because his entire off-field operation depended on my systems. Today, four people with no reason to protect my feelings have ranked my work first.
The difference matters.
Celia takes a photograph of the signed score sheet before anyone can collect it.
In the hallway, she puts our office on speaker.
The noise on the other end is ridiculous.
Someone cheers. Someone else shouts that fourteen points is obscene.
Our junior coordinator asks whether the panel really chose us without Ryan being attached to the pitch.
"They chose the work," I say.
The line goes quiet for half a second before the cheering starts again.
I turn away from the conference-room glass because tears have arrived without permission.
This is only one phase of one contract, but it is the first outside judgment since I left Ryan that cannot be explained as pity, scandal or loyalty.
Four strangers looked at what my team built and ranked it first.
Celia lowers the phone. "Don't negotiate the joy out of it before lunch."
"I'm trying." I wipe beneath one eye with my fingertip. "I just forgot a win could feel this frightening."
Adam meets Celia and me in a glass conference room overlooking the Mavericks' temporary offices.
"You won the strategy phase," he says. "The implementation contract still depends on budget review and references."
"We expected that."
Celia smiles. "You could both celebrate for half a minute."
"We haven't finished negotiating," I say.
"I tried," she tells Adam. "She schedules happiness after deliverables."
When Celia leaves to call the team, Adam looks at me.
"Congratulations."
"Thank you."
"Are you happy?"
"Yes." The word feels strange and good. "I'm also waiting for the next headline."
News of the separation broke on Wednesday after Ryan appeared at practice without his ring. Todd issued a statement describing a difficult mutual transition. My attorney confirmed that I filed for divorce and declined everything else.
Mutual is doing heroic work in that sentence.
Adam's phone vibrates. He reads the screen, then turns it toward me.
Ryan's representatives have contacted three Mavericks sponsors, claiming Adam is using team business to interfere in my marriage.
My stomach drops, then hardens.
"He's moving quickly."
"Our lawyers will answer with the bid record."
"Let me review anything that names my agency."
"Of course."
We spend the afternoon finalizing scope instead of feeding Ryan's latest version of events. I remove unpaid revisions, tighten the use of our case studies and make sure the Mavericks can't treat my staff as an endless extension of their own marketing department.
During a break, Adam walks me through the temporary offices. A wall is covered in proposed player photography, every image a single athlete staring heroically at the camera.
"Every player is alone," I say.
"The photographer wanted heroic."
"A new team needs connection more than mythology. Put position groups together. Include trainers, equipment staff and families in the archive, even if only players appear in the launch campaign."
"Why archive what we may not use?"
I look at the rows of solitary men.
"Because culture becomes visible through what an organization chooses to remember. If your first-year record contains only stars, everyone else learns their place."
I hear my own history in the answer.
For ten years, I built work that appeared in photographs without me.
Adam calls Elena over and asks her to expand the archive plan and require credits.
"I wasn't fishing for a policy change," I tell him.
"It was a good recommendation."
"You can consider recommendations before accepting them."
"I considered it for nearly ten seconds."
"Reckless."
I laugh, and for a few seconds the day becomes easy.
Then Rachel calls.
The league has opened a preliminary review of the forged approvals. They want the source files and system logs. Rachel handles divorce and corporate ownership, not league compliance.
When I return to the conference room, Adam takes one look at my face.
"What happened?"
"The league opened a review. I need a sports lawyer."
"The Mavericks use Dana Ford. I can give you her public contact details after our counsel checks for a conflict."
"I'll pay the fees."
"I assumed you would."
Some of the anger leaves me.
"People keep offering to take care of me."
"You have suffered a public betrayal. They're trying to be kind."
"Kindness becomes another obligation when I have to defend my ability to act."
He nods instead of arguing. "Then tell me when my help carries weight you didn't request."
"I just did."
"Yes. I appreciate the efficiency."
My laugh is tired but real.
The quiet that follows is not professional.
I know he feels it because he goes very still.
"We should discuss boundaries," I say.
"I agree."
"My marriage is over. The legal process isn't. Your company may award mine a contract we need."
"The panel controls the award. Elena will control the work and fees if you win implementation. I can remove myself from routine decisions."
"I don't want you building an elaborate wall because you find me attractive."
His eyes hold mine. "You find me attractive too."
Heat climbs into my face. "Direct."
"You said we were discussing boundaries. Accurate information helps."
I should resent the confidence.
I don't.
"I do find you attractive," I say. "I'm also six days into a separation from a man I expected to grow old with."
Pain scrapes through the admission.
Adam's expression changes. The teasing disappears.
"I won't ask for anything," he says. "If you decide later that you want something personal with me, you can tell me."
"And if I don't?"
"Then I'll continue to have excellent taste and disappointing luck."
I laugh again, fuller this time.
The conflict check rules out the Mavericks' lawyer, who refers me to Laura Kimball, a former league investigator with an independent practice. I make the call myself. Laura confirms before we discuss facts that Adam is not her client and won't receive updates.
When I tell him afterward, he says, "Good."
I study him. "You mean that."
"I'd like to know what happens. Wanting access doesn't create a right to it."
The sentence lands harder than he knows.
Ryan always treated wanting something as the beginning of a negotiation.
At eight, we're still working. City lights fill the windows. I remove my jacket and catch Adam looking at me before he deliberately returns his attention to the contract.
"You can look at me," I say.
"That seems unwise."
"You've been extremely careful for four hours. It's beginning to feel unnatural."
His gaze comes back to mine.
"I want to kiss you," he says. "You are grieving, we're working and my company is deciding whether to award yours a large contract. Careful is appropriate."
My pulse jumps.
"Thank you for saying it plainly."
"Does it make this worse?"
"No." I close my laptop. "It makes me feel desired by someone who sees the whole mess. I'm deciding whether that feeling is useful or dangerous."
"It can simply be true."
Maybe it can.
At the elevator, I ask why he walked away from his family's investment business to build software.
"My father financed every sibling's life and used the money to vote in all our decisions," he says. "I wanted one achievement that couldn't become family debt."
"Did he forgive you?"
"He admired the sale price. We avoided discussing the rest."
"I'm sorry."
"I had choices and resources. Many people don't."
"That doesn't remove the injury."
The doors open.
"Good night, Adam."
"Good night, Claire."
He doesn't touch me.
I step into the elevator wanting him to.
That feels dangerous.
It also feels like mine.