Chapter 6 Julian #2
Millions poured into the arena over the past three years, with expanded concourses and redesigned premium suites. I’ve installed state-of-the-art locker rooms, and our technology integration rivals any venue in the league.
Not because I was certain we would win the bid but because I refuse to build anything that’s mediocre.
“The league wants assurance that we can handle the international media load,” my chief of operations says, tapping a page in the proposal packet. “They’re concerned about capacity.”
“We’ve expanded the press level twice,” I reply evenly. “We can expand it again if necessary.”
There are murmurs of agreement around the table.
Hosting the All-Star Weekend would not merely validate the upgrades—it would broadcast them. It would place the Vipers, and by extension New York City, at the center of the hockey world for three days.
I have long intended that the world see what we have built here. Not an aging franchise coasting on history and not a team trading on nostalgia. The New York Vipers is a modern organization. Competitive. And one day, dominant.
“We need to emphasize the city angle,” another executive adds. “The league loves the New York narrative.”
“They’ll have it,” I say. “But they’ll also have the numbers. Revenue projections. Sponsor commitments. Security infrastructure. We remove every reason for them to say no.”
Because this year, I don’t intend to be denied.
The meeting stretches past noon, each variable examined, each contingency addressed. By the time we adjourn, the proposal presents itself as a declaration.
As the others file out, Tracey pauses at the doorway. “Your lunch is ready, sir.”
“Thank you,” I say, gathering the final set of documents. “If you don’t mind holding all calls for about half an hour.”
I return to my office, closing the door behind me. The space is exactly as it is every day—orderly, untouched by the frenzy of running a multibillion-dollar corporate umbrella. My desk is immaculate because I thrive on order.
The city skyline is framed cleanly through floor-to-ceiling glass and on the small side table near the window sits my lunch.
Tracey knows what I like and rotates the menu on her own whim. Today is a six-ounce filet mignon, cooked medium rare, seasonal vegetables—roasted asparagus and carrots, along with a small baked potato, with a touch of butter and sea salt.
Consistency eliminates distraction.
The steak knife rests parallel to the plate’s edge, and I reach for it without thought, my mind back on the All-Star Game.
But then, unexpectedly, a thought intrudes uninvited.
Blue eyes, freckles, a sharp mind.
Before I can interrogate the impulse, I set the knife down and rise from my chair. I grab my jacket from the back of my chair and slide it on before smoothing my cuffs into place. I walk out of my office, leaving the meal untouched behind me.
Tracey is at her desk and she starts to stand. “Can I get you anything?”
“No, thank you,” I say, holding up a hand. “I think I’m going to go out instead. Help yourself to my lunch if you want.”
Tracey’s jaw sags slightly. I never go out at lunch, always working through while eating in my office.
The corridor is busier now, the low thrum of midday activity carrying through the executive level. Staff members nod as I pass. I acknowledge them automatically, already adjusting the afternoon in my mind. A delayed call here. A rescheduled briefing there. Nothing critical.
When I exit through the private doors and step back into the sunlight, the Range Rover remains exactly where it should be.
Harper is seated upright behind the wheel, her phone in hand. When she sees me, she lowers it, attention snapping back into place.
I open the front door and settle into the passenger seat.
Her eyes meet mine. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes,” I reply, then pause. “Are you hungry?”
The question clearly disorients her. “Me?” she asks, a faint crease forming between her brows. “I’m fine. But I’m happy to grab something for you.”
I lean back against the seat, allowing a fraction of amusement. “Unfortunately, the staff refrigerator malfunctioned overnight. Everything spoiled.”
Her expression shifts, sympathy replacing confusion. “Oh. That’s frustrating.”
“It is,” I say. “I prefer not to gamble on questionable storage conditions.”
A corner of her mouth lifts, as though she suspects the situation is slightly less dire than I’ve implied.
“There’s a steakhouse that just opened in Tribeca,” I continue. “I’d like to try it.”
Her eyebrows rise with recognition. “I’ve heard of it… Preston’s Crossing.”
“Indeed.”
She eases the car smoothly into traffic. “At one point, I considered applying there.”
“As a chef?” I ask, unable to resist.
She laughs—a quick, unguarded sound that fills the space between us. “As a waitress.”
“Ah… the life blood of the restaurant industry. I imagine servers there make very good money.”
“It’s probably best I didn’t get that job. I’m a bit on the clumsy side and would have probably dropped food on someone.”
“I don’t know about your serving skills, but your driving skills are quite good.”
Harper laughs again, like it got away from her before she could decide if it was appropriate.
We head south, Midtown’s steel and glass giving way gradually to the textured brick and quieter streets of Lower Manhattan. There is no stiffness in her movements now. The earlier nervousness has softened into focus.
In the filtered sunlight, I allow myself the opportunity to observe her more closely.
The uniform adjustment was a logistical decision.
It is also, I admit privately, a successful one.
The tailored jacket hugs her frame whereas the previous company’s shapeless attire concealed it.
Clean lines follow the curve of her waist, emphasizing structure without excess.
And her body structure is certainly worth highlighting.
The absence of that oversized driver’s cap—the one that obscured half her face—makes an undeniable difference.
Her hair is secured in a neat low ponytail.
The uniform doesn’t diminish her presence. I think it enhances it. I find myself unexpectedly pleased that I insisted on the change.
We reach the cobblestone streets of Tribeca. Preston’s Crossing is modern but subtle in its facade, glass and dark metal framed by old brick. A small crowd filters in and out, midday diners who value discretion as much as quality.
Harper pulls to the curb with practiced precision and shifts the car into park.
She turns slightly in her seat. “Enjoy your lunch, Mr. Langley… I hope the steak lives up to the reviews.”
I study her while the city’s muted noise fills the silence. “Why don’t you come see for yourself?” I respond. Her eyes widen, surprise flickering across her face before composure attempts to reclaim it. I gesture toward the entrance. “Join me.”