Chapter 10
TEN
GRAYSON
The Buffalo Warbears stadium is a roaring, snow-dusted beast that feels alive, loud, and like it’s shaking the skybox to its bolts.
The windows tremble under the roar of seventy thousand fans; snowflakes swirl in the floodlights like celebration confetti.
Below us, cheerleaders in the Warbears orange and black colors take to the frosty-green field.
It feels alive in a way far removed from the structured order of architectural designs and spreadsheets so long the numbers swim before my eyes.
And yet, it isn’t the atmosphere I’m drawn to.
It’s the structure of the stadium itself.
It isn’t just big, it’s beautifully engineered.
Terraced layers of seating, strong lines, a huge oval dome of innovation.
“What are you staring at?” Flic asks, as she moves to stand beside me. I don’t miss the suspicion in her voice.
I nod toward one of the main support trusses.
“See those big arches? They basically hold everything up without making the place feel heavy. Kind of like the stadium’s skeleton.
And the way they’re shaped bounces the noise back down onto the field instead of letting it escape.
It’s a smart design. It’s eye-catching, but functional. ”
Flic stares at the arches I’m pointing to and, for a heartbeat, she almost looks impressed.
I think of the moment on the jet when my sweater caught on the chair and I couldn’t move away.
When I was close enough to register details I had no business noticing—the warmth of her body, the faint sweetness and spice of her perfume.
It hadn’t felt like the chair was holding me, but the piercing blue of her eyes, locked on mine as she’d moved closer.
I made an ass of myself a second later, untangling the fabric and falling back into my seat.
We spent the rest of the flight in an awkward, carefully maintained quiet.
“Just make sure when the game starts, that’s where your attention is.” She jabs a thumb toward the field.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got this,” I reply, almost believing it.
The teams take to the field; the crowd roars its welcome, sounding like a tidal wave against the glass.
It thrums through my chest. A reminder that I’m out of my depth.
No project plan. No spreadsheet. No footing.
Like the night behind the bar, it’s not a sensation I’m used to.
Flic was right on the jet. I do like to control things.
I’ve built my entire life around it. But standing here—surrounded by noise and chaos and the weight of how much this team means to so many people—control feels very far away.
Flic’s attention snags on movement behind us. A group of people spill into the suite, and suddenly she’s beaming in a way I’ve never seen from her before. I watch her laugh as she hugs the women who enter, her entire posture softening. Then, reluctantly, she pulls away and guides them toward me.
“Grayson, I’d like you to meet Mama Sullivan.”
I turn to greet a petite woman with a gray bob and an expression that suggests she might hug me or throw me through the skybox window. Hard to say which.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I say, offering my hand.
Mama’s handshake is firm, her smile polite but guarded. I don’t blame her. If I were her, I wouldn’t trust an Ashborne either.
She studies me with assessing eyes, Flic scowling protectively beside her.
The combination has me wanting to confess the full reason behind my purchase of the Stormhawks, not just my desire to find meaning in something I own.
And the promise I made Donny. All the plans I have.
Everything. But the words stick. Because maybe a part of me thinks I’ve done nothing wrong.
I shouldn’t have to defend myself. And another part knows they wouldn’t believe me anyway.
Before I can finish wrestling with my own damn conscience, the two women with Mama step forward.
“And this is Harper, Jake’s wife.” Flic gestures to the petite woman I saw with Jake that first night at the bar.
She fixes me with a glare that almost rivals Flic’s.
“She’s a journalist with Sports Magazine.
” Flic’s tone is casual, but the look she shoots me is not. She’s warning me to watch my mouth.
I give Harper a respectful nod and then flash a grateful smile to Flic.
“And I’m Serena,” says the blonde beside her, offering her hand and a dazzling smile. “Chase’s, uh… girlfriend. God, that’s weird to say.”
The group laughs, and Harper nudges Serena gently.
“Oh, right,” Serena blurts out, cheeks flushing. “Flic, Chase and I—we’re only telling family right now, and I would’ve said something the other day, but it didn’t feel like the right time—but I wanted you to know I’m pregnant.”
Flic’s face splits into an enormous grin as she pulls Serena into another hug that Harper joins in with.
I step over to the glass overlooking the field, giving them space as Serena adds excitedly, “And it’s twins.”
Across the field, the teams shift into formation. Even from the insulated luxury of the skybox, the stadium seems to inhale as one, the roar dipping. A few rows below us, I notice a father sling an arm around his young son, pressing a kiss to the top of the kid’s beanie like it’s second nature.
I can’t remember my father ever hugging me.
Charles Ashborne didn’t do affection. He did preparation.
Discipline. Perfection. Our childhood was more like a training ground than a home.
My father, the general. My mother, a reluctant spectator.
Helena and I, the soldiers in his empire before we were allowed to be kids.
I bore the brunt of his expectations until I defied him and left New York to go it alone.
Helena was the one who stayed and became senior VP in Ashborne Holdings.
The golden child. Until our father didn’t like how the rest of the board started listening to her more than they did him.
That’s when he pushed her into a marriage that benefited his portfolio.
He treated my sister like another asset to be leveraged.
And when it all went wrong, he didn’t care.
It was me who saw what that decision did to my sister. It was me who picked up the pieces.
I don’t blame anyone for hating our last name. I’ve hated it longer and harder than any of them. I even thought about changing it once. But I’m not a man who hides. Keeping Ashborne reminds me every day that I am not my father.
Lost in the memory, I don’t notice the big screen sweeping over the crowd until it lands on the skybox.
On me. A chorus of boos erupts. Loud, unified.
Seventy thousand voices aimed straight at my chest. I lift a hand in a casual wave, because what the hell else am I supposed to do?
Duck? Run? Hide? Not happening. My expression remains unreadable.
I’m used to being disliked, but being booed by an entire stadium hurts more than I care to admit.
Then Flic is at my side. “Nod and smile like you’re agreeing with me.”
I do as she says, surprised to find it stings less. The cameras move on, taking the attention of the crowd with it.
“Thanks,” I say.
“All part of the deal, right?” She looks up into my eyes, the same challenge to her expression, but—and this might be wishful thinking—it’s feeling less staplegun-my-balls-above-the-jukebox and more step-out-of-line-and-you’ll-regret-it.
The game kicks off in a blur of motion and noise. Even from up here, I can follow the basics: The Stormhawks push forward, the Warbears push back, bodies collide, the ball arcs through the air like a missile. The rest I piece together from Flic’s commentary.
“That’s good… kind of,” she mutters. “Our running back got a decent burst, but the Warbears’ linebackers are crashing down too fast. If we don’t tighten up the routes, we’re just going to keep getting stuffed short.”
Minutes later she’s pointing excitedly at the field.
“Jake’s doing his part, though—did you see that?” Her voice rises with excitement. “Textbook tight end play.”
More than once, I find my gaze caught on Flic instead of the game as she talks. She’s focused, passionate, and captivating.
“Chase is on fire,” she adds, eyes locked on the field. “That was a forty-yard throw right into Jake’s stride. Best I’ve ever seen him play. Being in love suits him,” she adds, loud enough for Serena to hear.
Serena beams, cheeks pink, and Flic grins before snapping her gaze back to the game.
The minutes blur into each other in a mix of offense and defensive plays.
The Stormhawks score. The Warbears answer.
The score climbs on both sides until even my chest feels tight.
In the final minutes, the scoreboard is deadlocked at 27-27, and Flic stops explaining entirely.
She’s on her feet, hands clenched, eyes wide.
I get the gist even without her help. This whole thing is gonna be won or lost on a single decision, but Stormhawks offense are on the field and it’s their game to win.
I watch the team run through plays, pushing them closer to the end zone. Then my phone buzzes. I pull it from my pocket and glance at the screen. Helena.
“Don’t answer it,” Flic hisses under her breath without dragging her eyes away from the field.
My stomach twists. I hesitate, glancing at the game, at Flic, at the clock. There are still a few minutes left. The guilt digs its claws in. I let Helena down once. I won’t do it again. I’ve got time.
I turn my back to answer. “Helena? Is everything OK?”
Her reply is lost to an explosion of cheering in the suite.
“You’re busy, call me back later,” Helena says in my ear as I whirl around to see Jake in the end zone. Chase tearing off his helmet. Flic jumping up and down. The Stormhawks are winning with seconds on the clock, and I missed it.