CHAPTER 3
Julian
Percy opens the front door before I reach it, timing the movement perfectly, as always.
“Your car is waiting.”
“Never a doubt in my mind,” I reply with a grin, stepping into the brisk Manhattan air. “I can always count on you, my friend.”
Percy doesn’t acknowledge the endearment. He’s far too proper and British for that.
The townhouse settles behind me in dignified silence.
“I trust today will prove manageable,” Percy says.
“I hope so,” I reply, pausing at the top of the steps for half a second, already cataloguing the problems waiting for me at the rink. “Given the current complaint aimed at the Vipers, manageable may be ambitious.”
He raises his head slightly, reading between the lines as he always does. “Then I wish you a productive day, sir.”
Percy closes the door behind me and I trot down the steps to the sidewalk.
The black Town Car idles at the curb, a driver standing at the open rear door waiting for me.
I’m half distracted by the impending call I have to make, but I’m slightly surprised that my driver is a female.
At least that’s the impression I have in the two-second glance I give her as I approach—slight build, petite, blond hair in a long ponytail at the base of her neck.
“Good morning, sir,” she says, and I offer a smile and nod in return before sliding into the back seat.
When the woman settles into the driver’s seat, she consults her phone and says, “I understand I’m taking you to the practice facility?”
“Yes, that’s correct,” I say distractedly, pulling out my phone from my inside jacket pocket.
We slide into traffic, the city already buzzing. Newsstands stacked with magazines. Delivery trucks clogging side streets. A digital billboard flashing the Vipers’ logo alongside an article headline I would prefer not to read.
I place the call and put it on speaker. “Julian,” my head of operations, Jimmy Ballantine answers.
“Tell me the damage.”
“We’re trending again,” he says grimly. “Not in a good way. Social media’s flooded with complaints about the ticketing fiasco. The presale link crashed. Apparently, fans waited for hours and some were double charged. Customer service lines are overwhelmed.”
I close my eyes briefly. “How many double charges?”
“Too many. And it’s spreading. People are tagging sponsors. Saying we don’t care about fans.”
Just fucking great. “We care very much,” I say flatly.
“Perception says otherwise.”
I stare out the window as we inch through Midtown. “Issue refunds immediately.”
Jimmy sighs heavily, and I can imagine him rubbing his temple to stave off a headache. “We are, but the backlog is huge and the statement we posted isn’t calming anyone down.”
“This is what I pay you for, Jimmy,” I say, my frustration growing. “What do you suggest?”
Silence crackles through the speaker as I patiently await his solution.
That’s part of managing and leading… having the right people in place to handle such things, and I’m expecting Jimmy to have the right answer.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “We can’t answer everyone individually. That would be inefficient.”
From the front seat, I hear the driver make a sound—sharp and involuntary, a scoff that slips out before manners can catch it.
I glance up and her eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror, wide and shocked. I tilt my head. “I’m sorry… did you want to add to the conversation?”
Her eyes grow rounder, and from the back seat, I can see her profile as her cheeks turn bright red. “I am so sorry,” she says, looking over her shoulder at me with apology written all over her face. “I’m just… I didn’t mean to do that.”
Christ… now that I’m getting a good look at her, even under what is a ridiculously large driver’s cap on her head, she’s beautiful. Bright blue eyes framed by dark lashes, a dusting of freckles over a delicate nose and sculpted cheekbones. Her lips are full, tinted with a hint of pink gloss.
And why am I so charmed by her clear, albeit muted, disgust over my conversation with Jimmy? “No, I insist. You clearly have an opinion on the matter. I’d like to hear it.”
“Sir… I’m—”
“I really do insist you tell me your thoughts,” I say, very aware that Jimmy is still listening on speakerphone. “It sounds like you have a solution?”
Her eyes flick back and forth between the road and the mirror, but it’s when I see her spine straighten that I know she’s going to give it up.
“If people are ignored,” she says slowly, “the volume gets louder. It’s a basic precept that in customer service, if you can’t fix the problem immediately, you must at least acknowledge first.” Her eyes come back to mine in the reflection for just a quick second.
“Quickly. Personally. If you assign a small team to respond in real time—not copy-paste statements, but actual replies—with a clear step-by-step solution, it changes the tone. People want to know someone’s listening.
Refund timelines. A direct email. A name attached to the message. ”
On the phone, Jimmy issues a slight cough, maybe to remind me he’s still there.
“Anything else?” I ask the driver.
She nods. “Issue a small credit toward future games—anything tangible—which now reframes it from inconvenience to goodwill. It costs less than losing trust. Once you lose trust, it’s nearly impossible to regain it. I’d imagine sports fans are as ruthless as any customer base.”
Acknowledge first. Respond personally. Attach a name. Offer a concrete response. It isn’t corporate spin and it’s the right answer.
“I agree with that, Julian,” Jimmy says hurriedly.
I stare at the woman who is now staring resolutely at the traffic before her.
“I’ll call you back, Jimmy,” I say.
“Julian—” he says but I’m already disconnecting the call.
“I apologize, sir,” the driver says, her voice controlled but uncertain. “That wasn’t my place.”
I don’t respond because I’m thinking about how many executives sat in a room this morning trying to solve a reputational problem with spreadsheets—and the most practical solution came from the woman behind the wheel.
It wasn’t flashy but seemingly grounded in experience. And it might just save us millions.
The silence stretches, thickened by the low hum of the engine and the distant chorus of Manhattan traffic pressing in from every direction.
In the front seat, I see the subtle shift in her posture—the way her shoulders square a little tighter, how her hands adjust on the steering wheel as though she can physically steer herself back into neutrality.
“That was some pretty savvy advice,” I say finally.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she says again, more subdued now. “Again, that wasn’t my place.”
Before I can answer, I hear the soft mechanical glide of the partition beginning to rise, the tinted glass sliding upward between us in a smooth, practiced motion designed to restore distance—employer and employee, back seat and front.
She’s retreating, trying to shut me out, but I still have so much more to discuss with her.
I press the control on my side without hesitation to stop the glass from rising. “How do you know so much about customer service?” I ask, removing my hand from the button and leaning slightly forward.
To my surprise, the partition starts rising again, indicating her finger is back on the control. “Again, not my place, sir,” she replies, disappearing from sight as the smoked glass lifts.
I jab at the button again, stopping the divider’s ascent and leaving a three-inch gap between us. “Indulge me, please,” I reply, leveraging my most commanding tone. The one I use in boardrooms.
Her grip tightens on the steering wheel, and I can see the corner of that delicate jaw, locked stubbornly. “My apologies. I should never have interrupted.”
“You offered a solution,” I reply, forcing gentleness into my words. “There’s nothing to apologize for.”
She doesn’t respond, and I can see in the rearview mirror that she’s chosen composure over curiosity, expression professional and carefully blank. I use the opening to hit the button again, forcing the glass down all the way. I keep my finger on it so it stays open between us.
Most people in my world fight for access. They angle for proximity, for influence, for the illusion of being indispensable. She, on the other hand, tried to erase herself right after she realized she’d spoken out of turn.
That alone tells me more than the advice did. “How do you know so much about customer service?” I insist.
There’s the slightest hesitation before she answers, as though she’s deciding how much of herself is appropriate to disclose in a Town Car on a weekday morning. “I work in it,” she says finally. “Or I did.”
“You did?”
“Yes, sir.”
Her voice is steady, though not defensive. Just factual. “For how long?”
“A few years.” Her words are clipped and I can tell she doesn’t want to engage.
“Where?” I ask.
“A beauty brand. Customer support division.” Six short words that give me the information I requested, but the message behind it is Leave me the hell alone.
“And you enjoyed it?” I ask, somehow knowing my continued nosiness is going to piss her off, and for some reason, that amuses me.
A small sigh fills the space between us, and I can tell she’s a little irritated. “I wouldn’t go that far. But I learned a lot.”
“About angry customers.”
“About people,” she corrects matter-of-factly. “Most of them aren’t actually angry when they call to complain. They just want to be heard.”
I study her reflection in the mirror. “And you think hockey fans aren’t any different?”
“No, sir,” she says. “They’re just louder.”
Despite myself, I semi-smile. “What’s your name?”
“Harper, sir.”
“Well, Harper… you mentioned attaching a name to the message. Why?”
“Because faceless statements have the veil of corporate jargon,” she replies without hesitation. “If someone signs it—even if it’s just a first name—it changes the whole feeling… lowers the temperature. It’s human. That’s what people want.”
There’s no arrogance in her delivery. No attempt to impress. It’s experience distilled into practicality.
“And the credit suggestion?” I press.
“That’s just simple math,” she says. “It’s cheaper to give a small goodwill gesture than to lose a customer permanently. Retention costs less than acquisition.”
“And you’re driving a Town Car,” I say, not as criticism, but as observation.
“Yes, sir.”
There’s more in that answer than she states in words, but she doesn’t elaborate. I lean back slightly, considering her.
Traffic thins as we cut west, the grid loosening its grip just enough for the car to glide the final blocks without interruption.
At the practice facility, we pull into the private entrance reserved for ownership and senior staff. The engine quiets, and before I can think to ask her another question, the driver’s door opens.
She moves with speed, rounding the car with decisive strides and opening my door.
“Thank you,” I say, straightening to my full height as the cold air meets my face.
She steps back, granting space without shrinking.
Up close, she is both exactly what the uniform intends and entirely more than it allows. The driver’s cap sits low on her brow, but I got a look at those stunning features from her profile. The jacket is cut to obscure shape, to neutralize presence. Dark fabric, clean lines, anonymity by design.
And yet.
There’s color in her cheeks—whether from the November chill or the residue of our earlier exchange, I can’t tell—and when she looks up at me, her eyes are startlingly bright and as blue as the sky. There is a spark in them that does not align with the outfit.
“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced, officially,” I say.
She squares her shoulders slightly. “No, sir.”
“I know your name’s Harper. I’m Julian Langley.”
“Yes, sir. I know who you are.”
“And do you have a last name?” I press.
“Hawthorne, sir,” she says, and I don’t like the formality, even though I know that’s how she’s been trained.
“Well, Harper Hawthorne,” I say, allowing the syllables to roll off my tongue, “interesting perspective this morning from you.”
A brief flash of surprise loosens her expression before professionalism reclaims it. “I’m happy I could help.” A beat passes. Behind us, staff enter and exit the arena. “Have a good day, Mr. Langley.”
“I intend to.”
I turn toward the entrance as the doors part, stepping into corridors lined with banners, framed jerseys and Vipers’ history.
Yet as I walk toward the executive level and the litany of problems awaiting resolution, I find my thoughts resisting the tidy compartmentalization I usually demand of them.
They linger instead on the image of a woman in a forgettable uniform whose insight cut cleanly through a problem my senior staff had circled for hours.