Chapter 6 Julian
The car glides to a stop in front of the private entrance to the Vipers’ practice facility.
Harper has a light touch behind the wheel, and I take note of it the same way I take note of most things.
The way a room’s entire energy shifts when business talks get tense.
The speed at which a staff member responds to an unexpected question.
Whether someone makes eye contact when they’re uncertain or looks away.
Small signals that most people don’t bother to analyze because they’re too busy managing the obvious or thinking about themselves.
I’ve built a career on the details others overlook.
And Harper is a detail worth noting.
She’s angled slightly toward the windshield now, scanning the entrance with the same studious attention she’s given every intersection this morning.
The driver’s cap is gone today—the new uniform didn’t include one—and without it, there’s nothing obscuring the beauty of her profile.
She’s got the classic defining characteristics of what makes a woman gorgeous with sculpted cheekbones, full lips, and a scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose that enchant me.
They make her look younger than what I know her to be, because yes…
I snuck a peek at her employment application Tracey had her fill out and I know she’s thirty-two.
There is a quiet innocence to her expression that contrasts with the sharp practicality of her mind.
But I don’t linger on freckles and her cornflower blue eyes, because I can’t afford to get distracted by such things. Harper starts to get out of the car, but I halt her. “No need to open my door.” She freezes, stares at me with uncertainty. “I like to keep things a bit more casual.”
“Um… okay. I’ll be here if you need to go somewhere today.”
I get lost just a second staring at her, then shake it off. Before I reach for the handle, I turn her way. “You’re welcome to come inside. There are several unoccupied offices on the executive level. You wouldn’t need to sit out here.”
She blinks at me, surprised but composed. “That’s thoughtful,” she says, and I hear the careful calibration in her words. “But I’m fine here. I actually need to make a couple of calls, but I’ll be ready whenever you are.”
There’s no defensiveness in the refusal, no discomfort. She’s establishing boundaries without friction. “Very well. I shouldn’t be longer than a few hours.”
“I’ll be here,” she says brightly and then sobers for a second. “And… thank you again for the job offer. It was… well-timed for me.”
I consider that a second, because I hear a thin layer of disguised emotion running like an undercurrent. I want to ask about it, but I suspect she wouldn’t engage. I can see Harper wants to be all business, so I let it go for now.
I step out into the morning air, the door closing with a muted solidity behind me. As I walk around the front of the Range Rover, I catch a glimpse of her through the windshield. She’s already reaching for her phone, posture upright, expression focused.
She doesn’t look overwhelmed and I very much appreciate that in an employee.
The facility doors slide open as I approach, and the familiar atmosphere greets me—the faint metallic chill of the rink, the echo of skates cutting ice, the low thud of pucks striking boards. It’s a soundscape I’ve known for years, one that speaks to my heart in a way no boardroom ever has.
“Morning, Mr. Langley,” Tony calls from security.
“Morning,” I answer, nodding with a smile as I pass. “How’re Debby and the kids?”
Tony shakes his head with a smirk. “Those girls of mine are giving me gray hairs,” he says, motioning to his head. “But wouldn’t trade them for the world.”
“I bet,” I reply with a laugh. “Tell Debby I said to cut you a break every once in a while.”
“Nah.” He waves his hand. “I enjoy the heck out of it.”
“I know you do. Savor every minute.”
A second guard echoes the greeting, as does a janitor changing out the garbage.
I acknowledge each one by name because to me, ownership isn’t theoretical.
It’s being visible, authentic and present, which breeds trust.
It’s a philosophy my father didn’t adhere to and one of a handful of ways we’ve differed in running this company.
As I move down the main corridor toward the rink tunnel, a broad-shouldered figure steps into view.
Grizz McAvoy, my star winger and former pain in my ass.
He looks different than he did when he stood in my foyer on Thanksgiving—less coiled, less braced for impact. There is a lightness to him now, subtle but unmistakable.
“Well,” I say as he approaches. “Glad to see you, Grizz.”
A grin spreads across his face, unguarded and genuine. We clasp hands in greeting, the grip firm, familiar. There’s a steadiness in him that wasn’t there a week ago.
“How did it go after you left my place Thanksgiving?” I ask. “You look like you have a story to tell.”
He exhales slowly, as though replaying it in his mind. “I did what you said. I tracked her down.”
Daisy. The woman he nearly convinced himself to lose in the name of self-preservation.
“Tracked her to her parents’ house, and I very much appreciate the tip as to where she went.”
“Went full stalker mode, huh?” I guess with a chuckle.
“It was a charming move,” he insists. “I told her the truth. That I was scared, and I’d been scared from the start. That walking away felt safer than staying and risking it. And that I didn’t want safe. I wanted her.”
There’s no bravado in the admission. “And she forgave you and you two are going to live happily ever after,” I conclude.
“Damn straight.” He grins.
“Is she back here with you?” I ask, because last I heard, she had a job on the West Coast she was going to take.
“Yeah… for a few days, then she’s off to Los Angeles. She’s going to take that job, but they offered her a remote position so she can work from New York. She’s doing some training now and she’ll have to go out there every few months. The rest of the time she’s here.”
“With you,” I say, a tug of nostalgia hitting me. A vague remembrance of what it was like to have the other half of my heart close to me.
“In New York,” he repeats softly, relief in his voice. “At any rate, thank you again. You couldn’t have been any more right about everything.”
“I’m rarely wrong about risk assessment,” I reply dryly.
He studies me, the humor fading into sincerity. “I really appreciate it. All of it. The push. The dinner. Hiring her in the first place. None of this happens without that.”
“I hired her because she was capable,” I remind him. Daisy was brought on to manage the PR nightmare that Grizz had become, but never in a million years did I suspect she and the man before me would fall in love.
“Still,” he insists. “You saw something.”
“I prefer my players focused,” I say. “Emotional chaos has a measurable impact on performance.”
He laughs, but there’s understanding beneath it. “She’s good for me,” he says after a beat. “Better than I realized.”
“I gathered as much. We’ll miss her here, but I’m happy to know she’s back in the industry she aspires to pursue a career in.”
We walk together toward the rink doors, the sounds of an optional practice growing louder as we near the ice. Some players are already in motion—drills underway, coaches barking instructions, blades carving crisp arcs into the surface.
“How’s the room?” I ask, shifting from personal matters to organizational ones.
“Solid,” Grizz replies. “No weird tension or contract drama. Guys are locked in. It’s… cohesive.”
Cohesion is fragile in professional sports. It’s built from trust, ego management, timing and shared ambition. When it’s present, you can feel it before you see it in the standings.
“I’d prefer we enter the holidays aligned,” I say. “Momentum compounds.”
“We’re there,” he assures me. “Energy’s good.”
I nod once, satisfied.
As we step onto the executive level overlook, I take in the scene below—the precision of passing drills, the synchronicity beginning to form in lines that, only weeks ago, felt experimental.
The ticketing crisis has stabilized. Social sentiment shifted within hours of implementing Harper’s suggestion. Sponsors have quieted and refunds are processing cleanly. Grizz is grounded. Daisy is staying with him to make sure he remains so. The team is finding rhythm.
From a purely operational standpoint, it is a favorable convergence of variables. Or in other words, everything’s fucking fantastic today.
And yet, as I turn toward my office, my thoughts drift briefly—unexpectedly—to the woman waiting outside in the car.
She declined the invitation to come inside, not out of intimidation, but out of pragmatism. She set boundaries without defensiveness. She offered insight without self-promotion. In my experience, most people angle for proximity to power, yet she seems intent on earning her position within it.
I don’t make impulsive decisions. Rearranging her employment was a calculation. Still, calculation doesn’t preclude curiosity, and she’s clearly got me curious.
I dismiss the intrusive thoughts the minute I step into the conference room and the morning meeting begins promptly, shifting into my top agenda item, something I’ve pursued and been denied for half a decade.
The All-Star Game.
Sure, the game is great and all, but it’s the entire weekend—the skills competition, the media spectacle, the international spotlight that follows like a second sun.
It is the league’s most coveted (and press-generating) showcase, an annual statement of prestige and relevance.
And for five consecutive years, our application to host it has been declined.
Each rejection, shrouded in diplomacy, cited things such as infrastructure concerns, rotational fairness and market considerations. Each one, in my view, bullshit, but this year will be different.
The executive conference room overlooks the practice rink, though no one at the table is paying attention to the ice below.
Architectural renderings are spread across the surface in front of us—revised seating layouts, hospitality expansions, upgraded broadcast platforms, enhanced player facilities. I funded them all.