Chapter 5
FIVE
FLIC
It’s been a week since the news broke about the new owner and I’ve barely had time to breathe between running the bar, replying to comments on the Red Zone, organizing protests, painting placards, and talking to Cal and Rico on their Stormhawks podcast.
The Stormhawks management have done little to calm fans.
One press release from Donny Hubert asking us to trust them.
Something which feels like a slap in the face after they’ve kept the buyer secret and done whatever backroom deals to allow someone like Grayson Ashborne to get his claws into our team.
The second press release was no better. Some bullshit about the ownership belonging to a company called Grayson Global instead of Ashborne Holdings. Do they think we’re stupid?
I’m at the center of the protests, front of the line to pin Grayson’s balls up the second he tries to break the team apart.
But there’s another part of me that wants to see things calm down, and for focus to move to Saturday’s first playoff game.
Why the hell aren’t management doing more?
It would help if we understood why the Huberts decided to sell in the first place. I still can’t get my head around it.
All week, anger and embarrassment have blazed beneath my skin, knowing I let that man behind my bar, serving fans, acting like he was one of us.
I didn’t even ask his name. And as if all that wasn’t enough, I’m at The Hay Barn on my one day off this week, instead of driving out to Oakwood Ranch to see Izzy like I planned, because my landlord decided this morning was the perfect time to make my life worse.
If he thinks he can raise my rent again—
My jaw tightens and I swallow the thought. Because he can and probably will. And I’ll be left to take it, again, because what choice do I have?
He won’t sell the building. I’ve tried to buy it countless times. Begging the bank for a mortgage loan and making an offer, only for him to laugh in my face.
Bastard!
He even turned down Mama when she tried to buy it a few years ago, offering more money than I ever could. Not many people say no to Mama, but my landlord did, and he’s been raising my rent and holding it over me ever since.
But I won’t leave. I might not own this building, but this bar is mine and it was my parents’ before that.
My mom’s, really. Dad’s only contribution was drinking the profits.
He drank his way into an early grave in my teens.
Mom had been running the bar alone for as long as I could remember anyway, so his death didn’t change much for us.
But then Mom met a car salesman called Randy and moved to Florida when I was twenty-two.
After a lifetime of the bar coming first, she walked away. Just like that.
And maybe I was too young, too inexperienced, too hooked on the familiarity of the place, but I couldn’t let the bar go to anyone else.
So, I took over the lease and turned The Hay Barn from an old ranchers bar to a Stormhawks fans bar, keeping the name because it felt wrong to call it anything else.
I still get the nearby ranchers stopping by after a supply run or a meeting in the city, plus a whole lot of regulars. Then on game day, the fans descend to watch the Stormhawks on the big screen that dominates one wall of the bar. That’s when the place comes alive.
I check the time. It’s gone 9 a.m. Of course, my landlord is late. I bet the jerk loves to take victory laps past the struggling shops on this strip. He knows we’re barely making ends meet as it is.
Might as well do some jobs while I wait.
There’s a scuff on the wall that needs paint.
So, I grab the tin from the store cupboard and prize off the lid, paintbrush in hand, while my thoughts fix on how I’ll make more cutbacks for another rent hike, when the juggling of bills already feels like a logic puzzle worthy of a rocket scientist. It’s impossible.
That’s when the door to the bar opens and I catch sight of a tall man in a black suit from the corner of my eye. No way is it the dumpy figure of my sixty-something landlord.
“We’re closed,” I call out.
“Good morning to you, too.”
The voice is smooth and polished, and a little familiar.
I whirl around and yep, the devil himself, Grayson Ashborne, is standing in the doorway of my bar, broad shoulders filling the frame. He flashes the same easy smile he gave me the other night when he claimed he wanted to help and brushes snow from the shoulders of his suit jacket.
A line of expletives races through my head as he strides forward, letting the door swing shut behind him. The most hated man in Denver, walking into my bar like he owns the place.
“Hell, no,” I say, finding my voice and planting my feet. “You need to leave.”
A corner of his mouth lifts into an almost-smile. “You always this cheery in the mornings, Flic, or am I just lucky?”
“Don’t say my name like you know me,” I say, and every ounce of venom I’ve been stockpiling threads through those words. “You tricked me.”
He has the gall to look genuinely puzzled, brows knitting together. “When?”
“Don’t play innocent. You acted like you stepping behind my bar was about helping me.”
“I seem to remember you needed that help.”
“Bullshit.”
“Why do you think I gave up my evening to pull beer and wash glasses if not to help a bar owner who was understaffed and overrun?”
Anger hums beneath my skin. I don’t even hesitate. “To get close to the fans. To act like you’re one of us. And to try to win us over so we won’t notice when you start to destroy our team and our city.”
“What if I told you I didn’t buy the Stormhawks to destroy it?”
“I wouldn’t believe you.” I step forward, not backing down. “You’re wasting your time talking to me. So, you can get out of my bar. I’ve got a meeting with my landlord.”
There’s a long, loaded pause. Grayson studies me, eyes flicking from the paintbrush in my hand to the fury written all over my face. For one annoying moment, I feel myself caught by the heat and challenge in those dark eyes, but I smother it with anger so fast I can almost pretend I saw nothing.
Then an infuriating smile curves his mouth. He speaks slowly, like he’s savoring the moment. “Actually, you’ve got a meeting with me. I’m your new landlord.”
My mouth drops open. I step back. What the hell is he talking about?
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I manage to say.
“I never joke about business.”
He’s lying. He has to be. “My landlord would never sell.”
Another smug smile. The hate I feel for this man blooms like a bruise.
“Everything’s for sale if the price is right.”
He pulls a folded stack of papers from the inside pocket of his suit. I snatch them from his outstretched hand, anger sharpening with every line I read. The papers are deeds to this entire strip.
The laundromat. The pawnbroker’s. The attorney practice. And my bar.
Fury floods in, scorching hot. My bar. My fortress. My legacy. This place is everything to me. Everything. And now, Grayson Ashborne owns the Stormhawks. He owns this strip. And he owns the building to my bar.
“Congratulations,” I say bitterly. “Now you can hike my rent up and destroy another business alongside the Stormhawks.”
“I’m not going to raise the rent right now.” He ignores my tone, keeping his cool, all business, but I don’t miss the threat to his words. Not right now, but soon. “For the time being, while my company assesses the retail potential, I’ve lowered your rent.”
I hesitate. This has to be another trick. I think of the articles I’ve read this week. Ashborne Holdings has a reputation for being ruthless and sneaky. No way he lowers my rent without wanting something in return. I can’t see the play, but there has to be a reason.
I narrow my eyes. “What’s in this for you?”
“My initial assessment suggests your old landlord had your rent priced higher than market value. High rent means you go out of business, and I’ll be left with empty buildings. That’s not good business sense. While my company—”
“Got it,” I snap, not wanting to hear any more of his bullshit business spin. I lift my chin. “But why have you bought my bar?”
He watches me, eyes steady. “I need your help.”
Any sense of vindication I feel at being right is lost to the realization that somehow The Hay Barn has been caught in the cross hairs of Ashborne Holdings and whatever games they’re playing.
“No way.” My reply is instant. No way am I helping this man. I bet he would trade his own grandmother for a tax break and call it good business.
“You haven’t heard what I’m asking for yet.”
“Fine, tell me why you need my help and why you bought this building, and then I’ll tell you where you can shove it.”
“The protests and online hate for me is damaging the Stormhawks.”
“You should’ve thought of that before buying the team,” I mutter. “We’re not an auto parts company or whatever you normally buy. We’re a team. That matters to a lot of people in this city.”
Grayson continues like I haven’t spoken.
“It’s making sponsors nervous. If I can’t turn things around, get the fans on side and show the sponsors the Stormhawks are still a team worth putting their money in before the negotiations start after the playoffs, they walk, and that means no financial investment in the team. ”
“You’re the billionaire. Just put your own money in. Ashborne Holdings can be our sponsor, right?”
A muscle tightens in Grayson’s jaw. Something I’ve said has rattled him. Good!
Except when he replies, his voice is still level. “I need to win over the fans during the playoffs so the sponsors don’t cut and run in the offseason.”
“So you keep saying. What’s that got to do with me?”
“There’s a lot of hurt and anger directed at me and the Huberts right now.
They’ve asked the fans to trust them, but the reality is people aren’t happy they sold a majority share.
Having a fan by my side, someone authentic and known around Denver, someone unconnected to the sale or management, would go a long way to being accepted. ”
“No,” I reply.
“Someone like the owner of the best fans bar in Denver. Someone with a fan page with over a hundred thousand followers.”
“That’s why you came to the bar the other night? Not to see the fans, but to see me,” I hiss. “You must’ve known the news was going to leak.”
He doesn’t deny it as I smack my hand to my forehead. I told him about my landlord hiking up my rent. Idiot!
“I wanted to meet some of the fans, too.” Grayson doesn’t even have the decency to look ashamed. “People trust you, Flic. And if they see you trusting me, it will go a long way.”
“So let me get this straight,” I reply, jabbing the paintbrush at him. “Without even checking with me first, you’ve bought my building, to what—force me to help you? No, thanks.”
Grayson smiles like this is one big joke to him. This guy is one smug smile away from me throwing my brush at him. Hell, I’m ready to dump the whole tin on him and his tailored suit.
“You haven’t heard my offer yet,” he replies.
“I already hate it.”
“Help me win over the fans and calm the sponsors during the playoffs. Stand by my side in the skybox and come to the meet and greets with me and whatever else I need until the Super Bowl and the end of the season. That’s less than four weeks.
In return, I’ll sign over the deed to this building. It’ll be yours.”
I stare at him. Frozen. Not even my mouth drops in surprise.
Own the building.
Own The Hay Barn.
It hits like a body check straight to the ribs. No more lease. No more praying that the rent doesn’t hike further. No more lost sleep over inspections or threatening notices or the possibility that the whole block could be sold out from under me while I’m wiping down the bar.
On the inside, this bar has always been mine.
Mine in sweat. Mine in history. Mine in every late night and holiday I’ve spent pouring drinks.
But there’s always been that shadow at the back of my mind: the knowledge that the building itself belongs to someone else.
I’ve lived with that knowledge and the fear it carries for so long it feels like part of my DNA.
And for one dizzy heartbeat, I imagine what it would feel like to finally live without that fear.
But then the anger comes rushing back. Because this man has already tricked me.
He stood behind my bar playing the clueless stranger and asked me questions he had no right to ask.
Questions I stupidly answered. There is no universe in which I can trust Grayson Ashborne.
“That’s not a deal,” I snap. “That’s blackmail.”
Grayson shakes his head. “Blackmail is where one person forces another to do something. A deal’s where we both get something we want.
You get the deeds to this place. I get a fighting chance at winning over the Stormhawks fans and Denver.
Whether they stay in the playoffs all the way or get knocked out, the Super Bowl marks the end of the season and that’s when contract negotiations start.
I have until then to convince the sponsors to re-sign. ”
My rage feels white-hot. “Win us over so you can bleed our team dry right under our noses. No, thanks. I wouldn’t help you if my life depended on it.” My heart hammers and I feel sick at letting the dream of owning my bar slip away, but I can’t back down now.
Grayson’s gaze moves to the playoff schedule poster on the wall, and for a moment I think I catch something like worry beneath in his expression.
The wild card round is this Saturday. The Buffalo Warbears have been steamrolling teams all season.
And as I told Cal and Rico last week, calling us underdogs feels generous.
We’re basically volunteering as tribute.
But when his eyes move back to me, there’s no sign of the worry I thought I saw. Instead, the amusement is back. “Keep hating me if it makes you happy. Everyone does. Just do it standing next to me in the skybox.”
He slides a business card across the bar like a chess move.
Grayson Ashborne
Minimalist. Expensive. Infuriating. Beneath it are the words Grayson Global, along with a cell number and email address.
Then Grayson’s phone rings. He pulls it from his pocket and glances at the screen.
“Call me when you change your mind,” he says to me, tapping the business card once with his fingertip like a promise and a dare.
Then he lifts his phone to his ear and turns for the door like he gets to say when this conversation is over.
Oh, hell no. He does not get the dramatic exit. Not in my bar.
“I want my fifty bucks back!” I yell as the door slams shut.