The Storm
The folder had been sitting in front of me for four minutes and I hadn’t opened it.
I knew the shape of what was inside.
A title, a salary, and a problem they couldn’t fix on their own.
Men like the ones across this table didn’t fly a woman to Houston to consult.
They flew her in because the building was already on fire and someone had convinced them I knew where the exits were.
The boardroom was all glass and cold air, the AC fighting a Texas afternoon that was leaning hard against the windows.
Six men.
One folder.
And me.
Talent could carry a player.
It couldn’t save a franchise.
I knew the type before I ever made a career out of managing them.
I’d been a puck bunny once.
I’d had my own bad decisions, my own late nights, my own moments that looked considerably less funny in daylight.
I’d simply survived mine.
Now I got paid to help other people survive theirs. Football, basketball, you name it.
Then environmental lobbying, mostly to annoy my father, who had spent his life in oil and gas and disagreed with me on almost everything.
We loved each other anyway.
That part still hurt.
Now here I sat across from the leadership of the Houston Storms.
And yes, Houston had a hockey team. Don’t ask questions.
I finally opened the folder.
Director of Player Relations - Houston Storms.
Jesus fucking Christ.
“No.”
The executives blinked.
“You haven’t read the offer.”
“I don’t need to.”
I closed the folder again.
The man beside me laughed.
Brandon Marx.
Captain.
League All-Star.
Professional pain in the ass.
His reputation had reached me years ago through wives, girlfriends, sponsors, charity boards, and one unforgettable Junior League luncheon where a woman spent twenty minutes explaining why Brandon Marx was personally responsible for her daughter’s inability to date normal men.
Apparently normal men suffered badly when compared to six-foot-three professional hockey players.
I’d laughed into my Chardonnay.
Now here he sat looking entirely too entertained.
“That’s the fastest rejection we’ve gotten,” he said.
I let the folder fall shut.
“You don’t need me.”
The executives exchanged glances.
One finally sighed.
“Miss Maddison—”
“No, listen. I’ll save everyone time.”
I pointed to the roster summary.
“The kid goes.”
“The rookie?” the GM asked.
“Immediately.”
Brandon laughed.
“Cold.”
“Accurate.”
I flipped another page.
“Alex stays. He’s not the problem.”
“He isn’t?” the GM asked.
“No. Alex is a follower. Put a stronger personality in the room and he’ll follow that instead.”
The GM nodded.
He knew I was right.
“And your veteran?”
The entire room looked guilty.
That told me everything.
I laughed.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
“What?” Brandon asked.
“Fresh divorce. Thirty-four. Rich. Famous.”
“Thirty-five,” Brandon corrected.
“Even worse.”
A few executives started coughing into their hands.
I pointed at the page.
“He doesn’t need therapy. He needs to get laid.”
Brandon barked out a laugh.
“If you’re offering, I’ll take it.”
The GM pinched the bridge of his nose.
“I’m serious. Find out what kind of woman he likes and quietly make that happen. If you don’t, he’ll spend the next two years trying to date influencers.”
One executive actually wrote that down.
I stared.
“You people are unbelievable.”
“What about Coach?” Brandon asked.
“I don’t like him.”
The GM sighed.
“Professionally?”
“No. Professionally I think he couldn’t run an offense if God handed him the playbook.”
Brandon started laughing again.
“She’s not wrong.”
I pushed the folder back across the table.
“There. That’s about thirty thousand dollars worth of consulting.”
The executive blinked.
“What?”
“Invoice is in the mail.”
I stood.
The meeting was over.
Or it was for me.
“Miss Maddison.”
I picked up my purse.
“No.”
“We haven’t discussed compensation.”
“No.”
“The contract—”
“No.”
I started toward the door.
The executive’s voice followed me.
“Your father said you’d at least hear us out.”
I stopped.
Slowly.
Very slowly.
Then I turned around.
Every man in the room suddenly became interested in the table.
Every man except Brandon.
“Did you go to my father?” I asked.
Silence.
The executive folded his hands.
“Does it matter?”
“Very much.”
“It’s a business discussion.”
“No. It’s a yes-or-no question.”
The room stayed quiet.
I looked from face to face.
Nobody answered.
That told me everything.
I smiled.
The smile wasn’t friendly.
“Did you go to my father to set this up?”
Still nothing.
“Or did he come to you?”
The executive exhaled.
“Does it matter?”
“For whether I take the job? No.”
I opened the door.
“For how I deal with my father?”
The smile widened.
“Very much yes.”
I started walking again.
“Miss Maddison. Sit.”
I didn’t.
A photograph slid across the polished table.
And for the first time since I’d entered the building—
I stopped.
I was twenty-two and full of Fireball, laughing at a ceiling I didn’t recognize, absolutely convinced the night would stay where I’d left it.
It hadn’t.
The room disappeared for exactly one second.
“You went to my father. You fuckers.”
Training took over.
I turned.
Walked back.
Sat down.
Brandon reached over and picked up the photograph.
I considered murder.
His eyebrows lifted.
“Well.”
I snatched it from his hand.
“Give me that.”
“A little bossy.”
I tore the photograph in half.
Then again.
Then again.
Tiny pieces fluttered across the polished table.
The executive waited patiently.
“We have the original.”
Of course they fucking did.
“Video?”
“Yes.”
“Copies?”
“One.”
“Digital?”
“No.”
“Who’s seen it?”
The executive smiled.
And suddenly every man in the room understood exactly why I was good at cleaning up disasters.
Because I wasn’t panicking.
I was already working the problem.
Behind me Brandon cleared his throat.
I closed my eyes.
“Don’t.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“Yet.”
“I was merely observing.”
“Brandon.”
“I recognize Andy, former teammate up North.”
Somewhere across the room the general manager made a strangled sound.
“Oh my God.”
Brandon looked at the executives.
Then back at me.
“Who’s the other guy?”
I pointed at him.
“If you enjoy having teeth, stop talking.”
His mouth twitched.
“Nice form, by the way.”
The GM started coughing.
One executive looked horrified.
I was adding names to a list.
A very specific list.
One involving industrial woodchippers.
“Three days,” Holt said.
“Not possible.”
“A week.”
“Lawyers.”
“Agreed.”
Brandon wasn’t laughing anymore.
He was watching.
Really watching.
Like he’d finally figured out I wasn’t here because I wanted the job.
I was here because somebody had dragged me into a fight.
“What exactly do you want?”
Holt slid the contract toward me.
“We want you to fix the Houston Storms.”
Fuck.
“And if I don’t?”
Holt didn’t blink.
“Then we release it.”
Silence settled over the room.
Cold.
Ugly.
The kind that lingered.
“My lawyer will be in touch with you assholes.”
I stood.
Nobody moved.
“Not all of us,” Brandon said.
I looked at him.
“You’re absolutely one of them.”
His grin widened.
“Fair.”
I made a life out of saying no.
I hated being forced to say yes.
