Chapter 7 Harper #2
He laughs—short and genuine, and it changes his face completely, softens that part that is normally so composed.
“We’ll rectify that. At any rate, the league holds an All-Star Weekend event every year. They have a skills competition, a game with all the top players—Eastern Conference versus Western. There’s international media, sponsors, the works, and cities bid to host it.”
“Like the Olympics,” I say.
“Smaller scale but similar principle, yes. The city that wins the bid gets three days of global spotlight, economic impact in the tens of millions, exposure that no marketing budget can replicate.”
He pauses, fidgets with the cuff of his sleeve.
“We have applied five consecutive times and been declined five consecutive times.”
I blink in surprise. “Why? That doesn’t make sense. I mean… New York should be a shoo-in for an event like that, right?”
Julian lifts a shoulder. “I get the same response every year. Infrastructure concerns, rotational considerations, market saturation.” His jaw tightens slightly. “None of it is sufficient, in my view. We’ve invested millions into this arena over the past three years and the facility is exceptional.”
I think about that. “Do you think it’s political? Like, other owners blocking you?”
“Very likely, in part,” he says with a wry smile. “But I can’t control that. What I can control is the proposal and I need this year’s to be different. It needs to be more compelling, not just operationally, but”—he searches for the word—“emotionally.”
“Emotionally,” I repeat, mulling over the word. It’s not one normally considered within the confines of business formalities.
“The league might respond to narrative,” he says. “I’ve found in my experience, numbers matter, but narrative is what moves people. I need actions and directives that help them understand and relate to New York in ways a spreadsheet doesn’t.”
I turn my water glass slowly on the table, thinking. Yes, it’s odd that he’s asking my opinion on this, but Julian Langley has done a bang-up job in making me feel good about myself in that I have things to offer in this world. “What if it’s not about the league at all?” I ask.
He looks at me. “How so?”
“I mean… you’re trying to convince a room full of executives, right? What if you made it so the city was already asking for it before you walked into that room?” I lean forward. “Get the people loud first, then show up with evidence that New York wants this, not just that you do.”
Julian’s eyes widen fractionally, clearly surprised and intrigued. “How would I accomplish that?”
“Young people,” I say simply. “Social media. Put those two things together and that’s your hype machine.”
“Hype machine,” he repeats, as if testing the weight of the words.
“Here’s what I’m thinking—at every game, you give a certain number of tickets away to kids from lower-income neighborhoods. Not a handful but a real number, enough to fill a section. They come to a game, they experience it, and then they talk about it. Videos, posts, whatever platform they’re on.
You don’t script it. You let them say exactly what they think.”
Julian leans forward. “Why low-income kids?”
“Because you make hockey about the everyday person, not about the wealthy who can afford the exorbitant ticket prices. Bring in kids who have never experienced this game and to whom this will be a very special experience. Those will hype the game the loudest.”
“And you’re saying it should be kids, not just lower-income families.”
“Kids’ voices carry differently than press releases,” I say with a casual lift to my shoulder.
I think about Dylan who lives and dies by what he hears and sees on TikTok.
“Especially now. A fifteen-year-old from the Bronx posting a genuine reaction to their first hockey game hits differently than any ad the league could run. And if ten of them do it, and a hundred people share each one”—I spread my hands—“you’ve created organic reach. It looks like a groundswell,
because it is one.”
“And you tie it explicitly to the All-Star bid,” he says slowly.
The answer comes quickly and feels natural. “Right. You’re not just a franchise that wants to host a game. You’re a franchise that’s already bringing the city to the ice, and that’s a different story.”
Julian pushes his plate back, places his elbows on the table, and I can see a shift behind his eyes, as if his mind is running ahead of the conversation. “You came up with that in approximately four minutes,” he says. “I’m impressed. Where did that even come from?”
Before I can answer, my phone buzzes from where I had laid it on the table, face up. I typically wouldn’t answer it when I’m on the job, but I see it’s from Dylan’s school and there’s no way I can’t answer it.
I pick up the phone and offer up a horrified and apologetic glance at Julian. “I am so sorry… I know I’m on the job, but this could be an emergency and I have to take it.”
Julian motions with his hand. “By all means… answer that.”
I swipe the screen, already bracing. “Hello?”
“Ms. Hawthorne.” The voice is measured, administrative. “This is Principal Okafam and I’m sorry to pull you away from your day, but we have a situation with Dylan.”
My stomach drops on instinct even though I tell it not to. “Is he okay?”
I’m not sure if Julian catches the worry in my words as he watches me across the table, but his brows draw closer.
“Dylan’s fine,” Okafam replies crisply. “He was removed from his AP History class this morning for being disruptive.”
I close my eyes briefly and rub the bridge of my nose. “Disruptive how?”
“His teacher was leading a discussion on Reconstruction following the Civil War—the progress made after Emancipation—and Dylan took issue with the framing.”
“Took issue how?” I ask, even though I already know the answer is going to make me want to simultaneously ground him and high-five him. Dylan’s a social crusader and isn’t afraid to share his opinion on injustice.
“He argued, at considerable length, that the end of slavery did not represent meaningful freedom for Black Americans and that the Thirteenth Amendment itself contained language that allowed for involuntary servitude as criminal punishment.”
“I guess I’m not sure why that’s a problem. Isn’t discussion about these things important?” I ask.
“Of course it is, Ms. Hawthorne,” he says solicitously.
“And we absolutely support critical thinking and open discussion, but Dylan wasn’t having a discussion. He was delivering a lecture and when his teacher attempted to redirect the class, he continued. It became—disruptive to the learning environment.”
“Disruptive how?” I push the principal.
“Um… well, I’m not sure. The teacher said he was disrespectful.”
“I’d like specifics,” I insist.