Chapter Twenty-One Maren
Maren Brooks did her best work when someone underestimated her.
That was the upside.
The downside was that being underestimated made her want to flip a table, and Denise’s office had a very sturdy desk that looked expensive to replace.
So Maren stood in the snack shack storage room at nine forty-seven at night, eating emotional support fries out of a paper boat while Ava taped butcher paper to the wall and Griffin Hayes searched for working markers like a man preparing for battle.
Not romantic battle.
Office supply battle.
Which, somehow, on him, still worked.
“This one is dry,” Griffin said, testing a blue marker against a scrap of cardboard.
Ava looked over her shoulder. “How do you know? It made a line.”
“That was not a line. That was the memory of ink.”
Maren pointed a fry at him. “You say things like that and then wonder why the internet thinks you are secretly funny.”
“I do not wonder.”
“You absolutely wonder.”
“I monitor.”
“You monitor your own secret funniness?”
His eyes flicked to her. “Someone has to.”
Ava froze with the tape between her teeth.
Maren froze with the fry halfway to her mouth.
Griffin looked between them. “What?”
Ava slowly removed the tape. “That was almost banter with self-awareness.”
Maren nodded. “Advanced.”
“I regret helping.”
“No, you are thriving.”
“I am locating markers.”
“Spiritually thriving.”
He gave her a look.
It should not have steadied her.
It did.
Everything outside the storage room felt too loud.
Paige’s text. Carter’s meeting. The idea that Maren’s own cousin had sent a deck to the same people Maren had spent the weekend trying to impress.
Her mother’s voice in her head, soft and worried, saying little internet thing as if the internet had not become where half the world decided what mattered.
Inside this room, things were manageable.
Fries.
Butcher paper.
Markers.
Ava muttering that tape dispensers were designed by people who hated women.
Griffin testing every marker like the fate of the free world depended on legible bullet points.
And Maren, who had a meeting in less than twelve hours and absolutely no interest in walking into it with nothing but vibes and a damp life jacket story.
Denise stepped into the doorway carrying a laptop, a charger, and the expression of a woman who had decided sleep was a rumor.
“I have metrics,” she said.
Maren straightened so fast her fry fell.
Griffin caught the paper boat before it tipped.
Of course he did.
“Careful,” he said.
“Do not say careful right now. I am powered by rage and potatoes.”
“Noted.”
Denise set the laptop on a folding table. “Attendance at tonight’s activities was up from projected by forty-two percent. The account gained six thousand followers in roughly thirty hours. The boundary correction post has the highest save rate of the weekend.”
Maren blinked. “The correction post?”
“Yes.” Denise opened a spreadsheet. “People saved it. Shared it too. The comments are very positive.”
Ava leaned over. “Be cool or be muted is already a thing.”
“That was a joke.”
“Your jokes have merch potential,” Ava said. “This is your curse.”
Maren looked at the numbers.
Not cute.
Not fluffy.
Not little.
Numbers.
Growth.
Retention.
Proof.
Her throat tightened.
Griffin moved the fries closer to her hand without comment.
She took one.
Ava saw.
Ava’s face turned disgustingly soft.
Maren pointed at her. “No scrapbook.”
“I was not emotionally crafting.”
“You were choosing paper textures.”
“Fine. Maybe linen.”
Denise clicked to another tab. “Top posts are the first Bad Idea Bet poll, the canoe fall, the boundary correction, and the live recap. Interestingly, the private clip demand dropped after the correction and live. Engagement stayed high.”
Griffin leaned against the counter beside Maren. “So the boundary did not kill momentum.”
“No,” Denise said. “It defined the brand.”
Maren stared at the screen.
Defined the brand.
Something inside her shifted into place.
Not enough to stop the fear.
Enough to give it a job.
She grabbed the best marker from Griffin’s approved pile and wrote across the top of the butcher paper.
NOT JUST CHAOS.
Ava tilted her head. “Strong.”
Maren added a second line.
CONTROLLED SPARK.
Griffin made a sound.
She looked at him. “Do not tell me controlled spark is not a thing.”
“I was going to say it is accurate.”
“Oh.”
His mouth softened. “Sorry to ruin your argument.”
“Rude of you to be supportive without warning.”
“I will announce it next time.”
“Please do.”
She turned back to the paper before her face got ideas.
Controlled spark.
That was the campaign.
Not Maren and Griffin flirting. Not a fake couple. Not a boyfriend as business plan. Not a pretty girl making hockey boys look charming beside a lake.
The thing that worked was the tension between fun and trust.
The team could be messy because someone cared enough to make it safe. The audience could laugh because the people inside the joke got a say. The weekend felt alive because it did not sand off the ridiculous parts, but it did not feed anyone to the internet either.
Maren wrote fast.
PILLAR ONE: EARNED CHAOS.
PILLAR TWO: SAFETY IS PART OF THE FUN.
PILLAR THREE: REAL TEAM, REAL COMMUNITY.
PILLAR FOUR: THE LINE MAKES THE STORY BETTER.
Tyler appeared in the doorway holding a tray of lemonade cups and three bags of candy.
“I heard markers and emotional growth.”
Ava turned. “Who let you in?”
“The door.”
“Try again.”
“Nate.”
From somewhere behind him, Nate called, “I regret nothing but expect consequences.”
Tyler looked at the butcher paper and gasped. “Pillars. This is serious.”
“It is,” Maren said.
He straightened immediately.
That surprised her.
No joke. No dramatic commentary. Just Tyler seeing the room and deciding to fit it.
Mostly.
He placed the lemonade on the table. “Then you need the kid angle.”
Maren blinked. “The what?”
“The kids near the rope line loved when Griffin told Miles not to throw the paddle and then explained why. One little boy copied him and made his brother stop swinging a pool noodle at a grandma.”
Griffin closed his eyes. “That actually happened?”
“Yes,” Tyler said. “You were basically public safety Batman.”
Maren wrote.
YOUTH/FAMILY TRUST.
Tyler smiled. “I helped?”
“You helped,” Maren said.
He looked briefly delighted, then covered it with a salute. “Good. I will now ruin it by asking if there are more fries.”
“Counter,” Denise said.
Tyler vanished.
Cooper appeared in his place three seconds later, took in the room, and said, “Alumni comments.”
Maren lifted the marker. “Talk.”
“Two donors near the tent said they came for the team and stayed because it did not feel like a scripted ad.” Cooper shrugged. “They liked that Griffin looked miserable and then less miserable.”
Griffin opened his eyes. “Thank you.”
“You are welcome.”
“That was not gratitude.”
“I received selectively.”
Maren wrote.
UNSCRIPTED TRUST BEATS POLISHED ADS.
Beckett slid into view beside Cooper, wearing sunglasses indoors because apparently the storage room had become a convention for men without boundaries.
“Visual note,” Beckett said. “The dock lights are the emotional spine.”
Denise sighed. “I hate that I understand him.”
Maren wrote.
VISUAL IDENTITY: DOCK LIGHTS, LAKE, TEAM IN MOTION.
Beckett pressed a hand to his chest. “I have been seen.”
“Do not get used to it,” Cooper said, and dragged him away by the back of his shirt.
The room filled and emptied in waves.
Nate brought the weekend schedule and pointed out which events could be replicated during preseason fan days.
Ava built a list of possible story segments with titles that were almost too good, including Bad Ideas, Better Boundaries and Ask the Human Stop Sign.
Griffin vetoed the second one. Maren kept it in a maybe column because she respected him but was not dead.
Denise pulled raw numbers.
Griffin gave team context.
That was the part that changed everything.
Not the jokes.
Not the metrics.
Him.
When Maren asked, “What does Ridgeview actually need people to understand before the season?” Griffin did not answer like a man trying to protect himself from being used.
He answered like someone who had been waiting for people to ask the better question.
“That the team is not just wins and losses,” he said.
“It is travel days and study hall and freshmen learning how not to panic when they make a mistake. It is alumni who still care. Kids who come to one clinic and decide hockey belongs to them too. Families deciding whether they trust us with their time, money, and attention.”
Maren stopped writing.
He looked embarrassed by how much he had said.
She wanted to kiss him for it.
Instead, she wrote every word she could catch.
“So,” she said, “the campaign is not Griffin learns joy.”
“Please no.”
“It is Ridgeview earns trust by showing the real work behind the fun.”
His expression changed.
“Yes.”
There it was.
The spine.
Not the dock lights.
Not the hashtag.
The reason.
Maren wrote at the top of a fresh page.
RIDGEVIEW SUMMER STORY ENGINE:FUN PEOPLE TRUST.
Ava made a quiet sound.
Denise nodded slowly.
Griffin looked at the words for a long moment.
Then at Maren.
“That is it,” he said.
Maren felt the sentence hit all the bruised places Paige had found.
Not because Griffin approved.
Because he understood.
Because for once, someone was not telling her she made things look good.
He was seeing how she made them mean something.
Her phone buzzed.
The room did not stop, but Maren did.
She looked down.
A text from her mother.
MOM: Paige said you have some kind of meeting tomorrow. That is exciting. Just be realistic, sweetheart. I know these things can feel bigger online than they are.
Maren read it twice.
Then a third time, which was stupid because the words did not improve with repetition.
Just be realistic.
Feel bigger online.
Sweetheart.
It was not cruel.
That made it worse.
Cruel words could be rejected.
Worried words made a home inside you and rearranged the furniture.
Ava noticed first. “Mare?”
Maren locked the phone. “Fine.”