Chapter 12
TWELVE
GRAYSON
The thwack of plastic on paddle ricochets off the walls of the indoor court.
I draw in a breath that smells of rubber and industrial cleaning products, glad I let Donny drag my ass out of the hotel on a Sunday morning to play pickleball.
My thoughts are still stuck on yesterday’s Stormhawks win, and on my screw-up, but I’m happy to throw myself into the game.
No protests. No placards. No angry Flic or memes of my untimely demise.
The ball sails toward me, and I reposition my feet for an easy return, angling it just out of Donny’s reach. He lunges and sends it spinning toward my backhand. But I misjudge the bounce and nearly overstep the line.
“You need to call your chauffeur in to sub for you?” Donny goads from across the net. “Maybe have him hold your paddle while you supervise?”
I laugh, adjusting my grip. “I was going easy on you.”
He raises a brow. “Since when do you go easy on anything?”
Instead of answering, I drive the next shot straight at his midsection. The ball smacks against Donny’s paddle with a sharp crack as he leaps sideways to avoid taking it to the ribs.
He cries out, stumbling back a step then laughs. “OK, OK, I was wrong. Go easy on me, please. I forgot to pack my body armor.”
“It’s not armor you need, it’s reflexes,” I shoot back.
He snorts. “Careful. I’m still up two points.”
The rally resets. My serve. I roll my shoulders before stepping back toward the serving line, bouncing the ball lightly against my paddle as I plant my feet.
Donny moves to the center of the court, paddle gripped in his hands.
The fluorescent lights hum overhead. My eyes drag to my bag on the benches. Is that my phone?
I make the serve, tilting my head to listen for the familiar hum of an incoming call, my mind on Helena and if she’s spoken to her contact in the planning commissioner’s office. You’d think the city would welcome more green spaces.
Before I know what’s happening, Donny returns the ball, sending it flying low past my legs before I’ve had a chance to move.
“My serve,” Donny calls out.
I hide a groan. If I don’t win this game, I’ll never hear the end of it.
Donny’s serve skims low over the net. I lunge forward and we trade shots in a fast volley, the only sound the squeak of sneakers on polished floor and our own hard breathing.
Then I fake left and drive the ball down the center. Donny dives, barely clipping it back. It pops high, and I step in and smash it into the corner, putting me one point behind.
“Break, man,” Donny gasps, bending over with his hands on his knees. “I need water.”
We stride to the bench, grabbing our bottles. I tip mine back and gulp, cool water sliding down my throat. Donny is red-faced, chest rising and falling fast.
“How come I feel like I’m about to collapse and you’ve barely broken a sweat?” he pants.
I chuckle. “You should join me for an early morning gym session.”
“Hard pass.” Donny drops down beside me, wiping his face on a towel. “Did you see this morning’s meme?” he asks.
I make a face. “No.”
He chuckles. “It’s you on the phone while a comet-sized football flies through the air and squashes you into the ground.”
“Accurate.”
Donny doesn’t laugh this time.
“I fucked up,” I admit.
“You’re allowed to take a call,” Donny says evenly.
I think I preferred Flic’s anger to understanding I don’t deserve. “Not in the last few minutes of a game,” I reply. “The optics were bad. Instead of calming things down, I made them worse.” I shake my head. “I’m sorry.”
He nudges my shoulder with his own. “Yeah. Not great, man. But you’re not the villain people want you to be. They’re just looking for proof. Don’t hand it to them on a silver platter.”
I let out a slow breath, knowing Donny is right. The eyes of the fans are on me.
“Flic’s pissed, and I don’t blame her,” I admit.
The whole damn city hates me right now, but somehow her anger is the one I keep coming back to.
Her disappointment I picture every time I think about it.
And yet she didn’t throw me to the lions on the Red Zone when she had the chance. That’s something, at least.
“The deal was a mistake,” I say.
Donny considers that, twisting the cap back onto his bottle. “It wasn’t a bad idea,” he says finally. “It was just poorly executed.”
A humorless laugh escapes me. “Poor execution is all I’ve got right now.”
“You’re trying to run a team in Denver while fighting fires in New York,” he says quietly. “That’s not easy. But weren’t you the one to tell me that you expected nothing less?”
I don’t reply and we fall silent before Donny is snatching up his paddle. “Come on. I’m still one point up. It’s not often I get to kick your ass at anything.”
We step back onto the court. Donny serves hard to my backhand, forcing me wide.
“How did the calls with the sponsors go on Friday?” I ask, returning the shot with force.
He stretches for it, sending it back in a shallow arc. “They were all pretty noncommittal,” he says between breaths. “Lots of ‘we’re monitoring the situation.’” He barely gets his paddle under my next drive. “But I heard from a contact that Drexon are in talks with the Trailblazers.”
The ball skids low. I scoop it up at the last second. “What?”
The confusion must show on my face because Donny whacks the ball hard across the court before replying. “Drexon Bank—our biggest sponsor—and the Kansas City Trailblazers, our biggest rivals.”
“Shit.” I slam the ball down the line.
“Exactly.”
“What do we do?” I ask, moving in for a volley.
Donny dives for the return and misses, the ball bouncing in before rolling to the back of the court.
“I’ve organized a meeting next week with our local sponsors.
They’re not the big spenders but their revenue still adds up, and I think a face-to-face could smooth the way.
And then we win the Super Bowl,” he pants, “and we convince everyone you’re not your father. ”
I huff an almost laugh as we reset positions.
I’ve spent my entire life trying to convince the world I’m not my father, and it’s long felt like a losing battle.
The few people who bother to get close to me see the difference.
But an entire city? Fans? Sponsors? They don’t have that opportunity.
And even if they did, I don’t have the time to show them.
We throw ourselves into the next rally, neither of us holding back. Then Donny’s footwork slows enough for me to press the advantage, driving him corner to corner until he misjudges his next hit, sending the ball flying over the line at the back of the court.
My game. 8-11.
Donny stands there red-faced and grinning despite the loss.
“When are you next back in New York?” he asks, draining half a bottle of water in one go.
“I’m hoping to manage things from here until after the playoffs,” I say, catching my breath. “But that could change if my father calls one of his last-minute board meetings.”
My muscles tense, and it has nothing to do with the game I’ve just won and everything to do with Charles Ashborne.
I never thought I’d take a board position at Ashborne Holdings.
Never wanted anything to do with my father’s company when I walked away over a decade ago to set up Grayson Global.
But being on the board is the only way to keep a close eye on him.
The only way to push back on the more ruthless deals when I can.
I can’t change who he is or how he operates, but my seat at that table acts as a leash.
It’s already a longer leash than I’d like, and one Charles is forever trying to slip.
Last-minute meetings. Extra lines added to agendas.
Quiet conversations with the board members he keeps in his pocket.
Not all of them, but enough to make it hard for the rest of the board to have a voice.
Those who’d rather see someone else running Ashborne Holdings, including me and Helena.
“How’s Helena?” Donny asks, as though he’s followed the same path my thoughts just took.
I might not have told him about Ana or all the reasons I left Europe and came back to New York, but I told him what happened to Helena after her marriage.
I shake my head. “She’s got all her walls up and keeps a low profile.”
“Can you blame her?”
“No, but she deserves more.”
I tense as the guilt hits. I should’ve seen what was happening. I should’ve paid more attention to her calls and messages. She’d been so breezy about the wedding. I thought she was happy. By the time I realized the truth, I was too late to do anything but pick up the pieces. And that kills me.
“You can’t keep trying to fix everything just because you didn’t fix that,” Donny says quietly.
“I’m not trying to fix everything,” I say. “Just this.”
“You tripped at the first hurdle yesterday.”
“Your point?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Are you going to lie down or get back up?”
I don’t answer.
“You think Jake Sullivan walks off the field after one bad play?” he presses.
I scrub a hand over my face. “Flic’s too stubborn. She doesn’t trust anyone with her bar and she sure as hell doesn’t trust me.”
Stubborn doesn’t even begin to cover it. She’s fierce. One wrong step and she’ll bite. Something I learned firsthand yesterday.
“And that’s why you wanted her help,” Donny replies without hesitation. “Flic has influence because she doesn’t bend. She can’t be bought.”
I look at him sharply. “You think I should—”
“Get back up and find another way?” he interrupts. “Yes.” He claps me on the shoulder. “But right now, Mom’s making pancakes and wants you to drop in and say hi.”
The normalcy of it almost makes me laugh.
We hit the locker room and, under the spray of hot water from the shower, I realize Donny is right. I’m not someone who gives up easily. I’ve been looking for leverage and deals and angles. And maybe that’s the problem. Maybe I need to stop trying to corner Flic and start trying to understand her.
I don’t know if she’ll agree. I don’t know if she’ll even let me in her bar again. But I have an idea. I dress quickly, grab my phone from my bag, and start making calls.