Chapter 2
Jasmine
“The Renegades account,” Mabel starts, flipping open a folder on her desk. Her office is on the twenty-fifth floor, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Sixth Avenue. She’s earned every square foot of it. “Walk me through where you are.”
Mabel Scott has been managing partner at Caldwell, Price & Associates for eleven years.
She built the practice from a three-person team to the largest department in the firm. She's in her early fifties, with silver-streaked hair that she wears in a sharp bob.
She brought me under her wing four years ago.
I was two years into the firm, grinding away on mid-level contracts nobody else wanted, billing more hours than any associate at my level.
Mabel called me into this office, sat me in this exact chair, and said she'd been watching my work.
She said I had potential and that potential was useless without direction.
Then she assigned me my first major client.
I've been trying to earn her approval ever since. She's the first woman I've met in this industry who built what she built without apology, and I want to be sitting in her chair in twenty years.
“I've reviewed all twelve active sponsorship agreements,” I say.
“The biggest priority is the Tier 1 sportswear brand renewal.
Their contract expires at the end of the season, and the sponsor is pushing to expand the deal.
I have a call with the Renegades' Director of Corporate Partnerships to discuss specifics.”
Mabel nods. “What else?”
“I flagged a compliance concern with the sports betting partner. Their in-app integration may not meet the current New York State Gaming Commission guidelines. I'm drafting a memo.”
“Good. That's the kind of thing that blows up quietly and costs everyone money.” She closes the folder. “The Renegades are a high-visibility client, Jasmine. The partners are paying attention.”
“I understand.”
“I expect you at the game tonight and the sponsor appreciation event on Saturday.”
At the mention of the game, my stomach turns to water. When I took on this assignment, I knew that at some point I would have to see Logan. But I pushed that frightening thought to the back of my mind, figuring that it was a future me problem.
Except the future is here now, and I’m no more prepared now than I was then.
I followed Logan’s career for a few years, and every time I saw him on screen, the pain came all over again. But that was then. I was younger and still raw from the way his mother dismissed me, and still angry that he didn't fight.
I'm not that person anymore. I'm a senior associate at one of the best firms in Manhattan. I have my own career and my own life. Logan Shaw is just a player on my client's roster.
We are adults. Whatever happened between us was a decade ago, and we were children. “I'll be at both.”
“Good.” She stands, which means the meeting is over. Mabel doesn't do small talk, and she doesn't do transitions. You're either in her office or you're not. “Keep me updated weekly. And don't let anything slip through the cracks on this one.”
I take my folder and leave. The hallway back to my office is quiet. Most of the associates are at lunch. Clara's door is closed, which means she's either on a call or hiding from the partner meeting she has at two. I make a mental note to check on her later.
My office is small, but it has a large window with a gorgeous view of the city. I close the door behind me and sit down.
A photo of my mother sits on the corner of my desk. She’s smiling while wiping her eyes with one hand. That was a special day. It was the opening day at the boutique.
I remember helping her draft the business plan at this exact desk, running numbers until the margins worked. The boutique was never about money. It was about my mother finally owning something with her name on it.
I look at the photo when I need to remember why I'm here.
My phone rings, pulling me out of my thoughts. “Jasmine Bennett.”
“Jasmine, it's Wilder. Thanks for picking up. I know you're probably buried,” he says.
“Always. What do you have for me?”
Wilder Ross is the Renegades' Director of Corporate Partnerships. I've spoken to him three times now, and each call has confirmed two things. He's competent, and he's relieved to have someone on the legal side who actually reads the contracts.
I get the sense that my predecessor did not.
“We need to talk about the sportswear brand renewal,” he says.
“I'm listening.”
“The sponsor wants to expand the deal. Right now, we've got a standard team-level agreement. They want to fold individual player endorsements into the team contract. Bundled deal. One negotiation, one fee structure, their brand gets exclusive access to our top players for campaigns.”
“Which players?”
“Cole Maddox, Liam Novak, and Logan Shaw.”
I write the names on my legal pad. To my relief, my pen does not pause on the third name. “What's your take?”
“I think it's a bad idea. Our guys have personal endorsement deals.
Novak alone has four. If we bundle everything into the team contract, we're restricting their ability to negotiate independently.
The players' association will have opinions about that. And frankly, our players should have opinions about that.”
“I agree. Bundling creates conflicts with existing personal deals and limits the players' earning potential. It also ties the team's hands if a player gets traded or injured.”
“Exactly. But the sponsor is pushing hard. They see it as a cleaner structure. They don't want to negotiate with three different agents for three different players.”
“That's their problem, not yours.”
Wilder laughs. “I like you already. Can you review the existing agreement and draft language that protects our flexibility? Something that gives the sponsor access to players for campaigns without locking us into exclusivity or stepping on personal deals.”
“I'll have a framework for you by the end of the week.”
“Perfect. Oh, one more thing. The sponsor appreciation event Saturday. Did you get the details I sent?”
“I did.”
“Good. It's the big one. Tier 1 and Tier 2 partners, team executives, and select players. Good chance for you to put faces to the contracts.”
“I'll be there.”
We hang up. I pull up the sportswear brand contract on my laptop and start reading. The expansion proposal will require a completely new framework.
This is what I'm good at. Contracts and building structures that protect people from getting screwed by the fine print. It's clean and logical, and when I get it right, no one gets hurt.
My phone buzzes. It’s text from Harper.
I'll be at the game tonight. WAG section. Come sit with us?
I type back: I'm there for work, but I'll find you.
Harper sends back three heart emojis and a hockey stick. I put my phone down and go back to the contract.
The Long Island arena is loud. It's smaller than MSG, but the fans are packed in tight, and they're aggressive in a way that New York fans aren't. New York fans are entitled. Long Island fans are hungry.
I'm in the lower bowl, close enough to see the ice but far enough from the family section that I won't run into anyone I don't want to.
Harper is two sections over with Avery, Natalie, and a few other WAGs.
She waved when she saw me come in. I waved back and pointed to my seat with an apologetic shrug.
I'm here for the account. I need to watch the game the way a professional watches it. Attendance numbers, sponsor visibility, and broadcast angles.
The Renegades take the ice for warm-ups, and I find him immediately as if it were muscle memory.
Logan Shaw. Number twenty-four. He skates in slow circles at center ice, stick across his knees, head down. He's bigger than I remember. Broader through the shoulders and thicker through the arms.
He moves differently now. He was always intense, but this is something else. This is a man who has spent a decade turning his body into a weapon.
He doesn't look up into the stands the way some players do. He stays focused on the ice, on his skates, or on whatever is running through his head. I used to know what ran through his head. I don't anymore or even care.
The game starts, and I watch him play. I should be watching the sponsor signage, the dasher boards, and taking notes on visibility metrics for the sportswear negotiation.
Logan drops his shoulder into a Long Island forward and drives him into the boards so hard the glass shakes. The crowd boos. He doesn't react, just picks up the puck and moves it up ice as if nothing happened.
The commentator says his name, and my whole chest tightens.
The second period gets rough. Logan is caught out of position on a goal, and his shoulders tighten as he skates back to the bench without looking at anyone. He's angry at himself.
The Long Island forward scores the third goal. The arena explodes. Then I realize that it’s Nolan, Logan’s brother.
The last time I saw him, he was a fifteen-year-old with braces. He used to sit at the kitchen table doing homework while Logan and I studied on the couch, pretending he wasn't eavesdropping.
Dom was worse. He was thirteen, skinny, and always hovering in doorways with a glass of juice and a terrible poker face. I'd catch him staring, and he'd bolt.
I liked his brothers, and I liked being in that house, surrounded by noise and the smell of whatever Cat was cooking. For years, the Shaw house felt like mine.
Growing up, it was just Mom and me. Our house was quiet and organized. I never knew what I was missing until I sat at the Shaw kitchen table with three boys arguing over who got the last piece of garlic bread and a mother who cooked enough food to feed the entire block.
The chaos of that house filled a space in me. Brothers who teased each other and shoved each other and then sat shoulder to shoulder on the couch as if nothing had happened. I wanted that. I wanted to belong to a family that took up that much room in the world.
A whistle pulls me from my thoughts. So much has changed. The boys have all grown up.
Nolan must be about twenty-five now, and he's wearing an NHL jersey. Cat and George must be so proud of their sons.
The final buzzer sounds. Renegades lose 3-2. The teams line up for handshakes, and I find myself looking past the ice, up into the stands, toward the family section.
George Shaw is on his feet, clapping. His hair is gray now, and his face is thinner. Next to him, a young man in a leather jacket. Dom. I'd recognize those Shaw features anywhere. And beside Dom, a woman I don't know. Pretty, petite, holding Dom's arm.
And then there's Cat.
She’s standing next to George. She's clapping politely, her coat folded over her arm, her hair blown out. She looks exactly the same. That is the woman who sat across from me at her kitchen table and told me that hockey families aren't easy and that it takes a certain kind of woman.
My stomach turns at the memory.
I’m not that girl anymore. I’m a senior associate at Caldwell, Price & Associates. I have a mother who owns her own business because I helped her build it. I have a law degree and a partnership track.
But somehow, all of that doesn’t stop the sting in my eyes.