Chapter 7
MILA
Ahalf-finished glass of Cabernet teeters dangerously close to Mila’s laptop, leaving ghostly rings on the legal pad beside it where she’s been scribbling brand words for the last hour. Reality TV glows muted in the background, but she hasn’t looked up in ages.
Wednesday sprawls across the arm of the couch, tail flicking with thinly veiled annoyance. Every so often, she emits a low, disgruntled “mrrow,” as if to say, “Really, human? Another hour staring at screens?”
Mila’s focus is locked on the slide deck in front of her.
“One pitch to rule them all,” she mutters, dragging a shot of Jesse into a mock ad. He’s mid-celebration after a goal with his helmet off, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. Pure rookie gold.
She tweaks the tagline: Next Gen Starts Now.
This could be huge. The Whalers might be a farm team, but if they played their cards right, it could mean national exposure—sports PR, media coordination, team branding. Her name on something that big? She’d finally stop being in Richard’s shadow and start being someone who sets the tone.
She takes a sip of wine. It’s rich, smoky, and goes down a little too smooth for a Tuesday.
Wednesday blinks at her, unimpressed, and swishes her tail once in silent judgment.
Reality nags at her. Working this account means working with Richard. Hotel lobbies. Red-eye flights. Client dinners where he flashes that thousand-dollar smile and pretends they didn’t almost murder each other.
She presses her knuckles to her temple.
A pitch deck will not fix that. But a good pitch deck might make him irrelevant.
Her eyes flick to her phone, where she’s been texting with Naomi.
Naomi
Crush him. I want Richard crying in Helvetica by the end of this.
Mila grins, then taps Natalie’s new Connecticut number. If she’s going to pitch to the Whalers’ owner, she needs insight, and Jake is practically a cheat code.
It rings twice before Natalie answers with a suspiciously chipper, “S’up, executive lady?”
“Are you drunk?” Mila asks, flopping sideways on the couch.
“Only emotionally. Jake cooked for me. Pasta carbonara.”
In the background, Mila hears the clink of utensils and Jake’s voice. “Tell her I made pancetta. I need people to respect the pancetta.”
Mila laughs into her glass. “Hey, Jake. Respect noted.”
“What’s up?” Natalie asks.
Mila takes a breath. “I’m working on something. And I need a little recon.”
“Oh?” Natalie’s voice sharpens slightly. “PR recon?”
“The Whalers. They want a pitch. Full service. Marketing, brand positioning, the works. I’m putting together the deck.”
A pause. Then a loud whistle from Jake, because apparently she’s on speaker now. “Damn. Look at you.”
Natalie speaks again, more excited this time. “Wait, this is because of Jesse, isn’t it? Your PR ninja-ing actually worked.”
Mila laughs. “Sort of. There’s still time for him to jump off a balcony or get a face tattoo.”
“Please don’t put that in the risk section,” Jake calls.
“Anyway, I thought Jake might give me the inside scoop on the owner, Jim Pearce. I need to know what makes him tick.”
“Money,” Jake says flatly.
“Anything more specific?” Mila presses, trying not to roll her eyes.
“He likes legacy,” Jake offers. “Old-school branding. Community stuff. That kind of thing.”
“That’s part of the reason he was on board with hiring you, isn’t it?” Natalie asks. “He loves the family reunion angle.”
“Yeah,” Jake says. “He eats that up. Think small-town values in a shiny box. Front-facing charity, multi-generational fans, kids in Whalers jerseys. Don’t lean too hard into influencer culture—he’ll call it fluff.”
Mila types as they speak, ideas already percolating. Whaler Wednesdays. Alumni Night. Junior fan-of-the-game. Community-first campaign.
“Jake,” she says, “I take back every mean thing I ever said about your hair.”
Jake grunts. “You said a lot of mean things. You called me the Pantene Pirate. And Tarzan.”
“Don’t forget Legolas.”
Natalie laughs. “Does this mean you’re going to come back to Hartford?”
“Looks like it,” Mila says, keeping her tone breezy. “The pitch is in person on Thursday. Richard’s tagging along.”
The silence on the line is immediate and weighty.
Natalie’s voice goes dark. “Please no. Tell me you don’t have to work with him.”
“Oh yes, I sure do,” Mila says brightly. “It’s a dazzling two-person nightmare.”
Natalie lets out a sharp breath, and Jake curses. Neither of them is laughing. Mila doesn’t have to explain—Natalie already knows how much that wound still stings. The betrayal. The gaslighting. The Ashley-fucking-Gibbons of it all.
“You want me and Jesse to booby-trap the conference room for you?” Jake says. “We could saw halfway through a chair leg. Real subtle.”
“Tempting,” Mila murmurs. “But no. I need this win. If I can land this account, it will be big for me. Even if he tries to take the credit.”
“You sure you’re okay?” Natalie’s voice softens with concern.
“I will be,” Mila says, meaning it. “Besides, if we win this account I get to spend more time in Hartford with you.”
Natalie launches into her plans for the next time she visits, and Mila lets the comfort of her best friend’s voice settle around her like a blanket. The pitch in Hartford might be complicated. Richard might be a parasite. But this? Her people? They make it worthwhile.
She glances at the deck again.
“Alright,” she says. “Thanks for the recon. Tell Jesse if he screws this up, I will haunt his dreams.”
“Copy that,” Natalie says. “And M?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re gonna crush it.”
Her mouth twitches. “Damn right I am.”
She ends the call, rolls her shoulders, and dives back into the deck—fingers flying, wine forgotten.
Tomorrow’s for politics. Tonight is for building her legacy.
The conference room in the Whalers’ arena looks like it time-traveled from 1997 and refused to leave.
Beige carpet, beige walls, beige chairs—an aggressive commitment to mediocrity.
Even the framed action shots lining the walls are faded and curling at the corners, like even the decor has given up trying to keep pace with the modern world.
Mila sits beside Richard at a long oval table, posture perfect, tablet glowing in front of her.
Across the table is the Whalers’ owner Jim Pearce, somewhere north of seventy, with a face like a scuffed hockey puck and sharp blue eyes that miss nothing.
Beside him, the team president Roger Simmons, sporting a salt-and-pepper buzz cut, crosses his arms in the universal language of impress me.
Around the table, half a dozen other executives in wrinkled polos—sales, operations, communications—watch Mila with barely concealed suspicion.
She offers a polite smile. Not a single one returns it.
Perfect.
In the taxi from the airport, Richard had oh-so-casually informed her that he would be leading the meeting, generously allowing her two slides at the very end on community outreach.
His reasoning: he was senior, more practiced, and better suited to make a strong impression on a sports client.
His subtext: no matter how hard she worked, her vagina was a liability.
Sitting here now, choking on the boys’ club atmosphere, she hates that he might be right.
Now he’s on his fifth slide. His voice is crisp, polished, and the wrong kind of eager.
“We’re proposing a multi-tiered digital push—hyper-local influencer content, TikTok crossovers, micro-trend engagement. You’ve got untapped potential in younger demos who’ve never been inside the arena. We turn the Whalers into a brand that lives online.”
He smiles as if he’s gifted them fire.
Mila observes the room. Jim’s expression is polite but unreadable. Roger looks skeptical, arms still crossed, heel bouncing in a rhythmic twitch. Two of the sales guys are on their phones, subtly angling them under the table.
The vibe is slipping, and Richard doesn’t see it—too in love with the sound of his own voice.
“Pair that with targeted hashtag campaigns like #WhalersWave, or something else we can A/B test. We create buzz, virality, and long-tail digital engagement that converts into ticket sales.”
Mila glances at Jim again. Still blank. But his fingers drum lightly against the tabletop. Restless.
She sits up straighter.
“Sorry, Richard,” she says, loud enough to cut through without slicing. “Can I jump in here?”
Richard pauses mid-sentence. His eyes flick sideways with an irritated tic he doesn’t bother hiding.
Jim leans back in his chair, interested now. “Go ahead.”
Mila stands, her heart drumming like a marching band in her chest, but her voice stays steady.
“I think the social media angle has merit,” she begins, “but I also think this team’s strength isn’t about being trendy.
It’s about roots. Legacy. You’ve got parents bringing their kids to games because their parents brought them.
I mean, the Whalers logo alone—half this city wears it even when they’re not going to games. ”
Jim gestures toward her with a small smile. “Go on.”
She takes a deep breath. “The Whalers don’t need reinvention—they need reconnection.”
This gets Roger’s attention. His fingers stop drumming.
“You’ve got legacy fans—people who grew up on the Whalers, whose parents took them to games. That’s not a niche. That’s a foundation. What if, instead of chasing trends, we anchored the campaign in what you already are to this city?”
A murmur of agreement. One of the sales guys actually nods.
She flips to a different set of mock-ups. Hers.
“Here’s what we’re thinking. A ‘Generations on Ice’ campaign.
Highlight families—grandparents, parents, kids—all wearing Whalers gear, coming to games together.
We create short spots for local TV and digital.
We host family nights, youth scrimmages on the ice before games, ticket bundles for multi-gen groups.
It’s not about going viral—it’s about filling the seats with people who care.
And the messaging doesn’t say, ‘We’re new. ’ It says, ‘We never left.’”
There’s a pause.
Then one of the sales guys gives a quiet, “Damn.”
Jim takes the tablet she slides across the table and swipes through the images, his bushy eyebrows lifting with each slide.
“This is clean,” he says, half to himself. “Feels...right.”
Roger nods once. “We can sell this. Families, schools, clubs—this hits home. Not clicks.”
Richard offers a tight smile. “Of course, we’ll refine this direction—”
“I’d like to see more from her side of things,” Jim interrupts mildly, not unkind, but firm.
Mila sees Richard’s jaw twitch in her periphery.
Roger leans back. “Let’s get a full campaign proposal built around this concept. Can we see something next week?”
“Absolutely,” Mila says, heart thundering behind her ribs.
The meeting winds down. As people gather tablets and shake hands, Jim steps closer to Mila, his large, weathered hand reaching out to grasp hers in a warm, steady grip.
“Thanks for coming down,” Jim says, voice warm and fatherly. “And for helping that Mitchell kid out. He’s got something, that one. But needs someone to keep him from setting himself on fire.”
Mila blinks, her throat tightening. “Believe it or not, I’ve known Jesse since he was in diapers.”
Jim huffs a laugh. “Well, he’s lucky he’s got you.”
As people file out and Richard mutters vaguely about regrouping, Jim lingers next to her.
“Mind staying a second?” he asks.
She hesitates, glancing toward Richard, who is already halfway down the hallway, stewing in silence. She nods. “Sure.”
Jim walks back to the window, hands tucked into the pockets of his sports coat, and stares out at the view.
The parking lot below is half-empty, with the pavement cracked in places.
Beyond it, Hartford’s modest skyline edges toward the horizon, brick and glass framed by the steady bend of the Connecticut River.
Above it all, the Travelers Tower rises, a weathered sentinel that has seen decades of this city’s wins and losses.
“I meant what I said,” he murmurs. “That pitch of yours…That’s the most heart I’ve heard in here in a long time.”
Mila stands still, unsure whether she should thank him or brace for something heavier. It turns out to be the latter.
“I’m getting old,” he says suddenly. “A decade ago I swore I’d die in the owner’s box. But now I’m tired, Ms. Anderson.”
She frowns. “Are you…thinking about selling?”
He nods slowly. “I don’t want to, but the organization has lost a step. We’re not connecting with the fans like we used to. It might be time to hand the reins over to someone with fresh ideas.”
A chill ripples through Mila.
“The economy’s soft. Ticket sales are down, and concessions—hell, we’ve had weeks where beer sales didn’t cover the vendor payroll. No one has the cash to take their kids to hockey games anymore.”
Jim sighs, continuing. “If I’m going to make a move, I need the team looking strong. Not just on the ice, but in the seats. On paper. In perception. I need this campaign to work, Ms. Anderson. And I think you might be the one who can pull it off.”
Her mouth goes dry. “Why are you telling me this?”
He gives her a tight smile. “Because I trust you. And because Jesse does. But I’m asking you to keep it between us for now.”
Mila nods, but her stomach twists.
As she rides the elevator down alone, the truth presses down on her like an invisible hand.
Natalie and Jake had uprooted their lives for Hartford. They’d bet on stability, on community. If the Whalers vanished, where would that leave them?
And Jesse—God, Jesse was so close. One good season away from getting the call-up. He’d poured everything into this team, into this moment. What would happen if the rug got pulled out from under him now?
Her mind spins to Theo—sweet, careful Theo. Mila couldn’t picture him trying to start over in a new city, with new teammates, new dynamics. He’d retreat into himself.
Pulse pounding, she makes her way to meet a pissy-looking Richard.
She feels honored, furious, responsible, and deeply uneasy all at once.