Page 6 of Captain's Claim

The memory brings a smile to my face.

Big balls? I can do that.

"Thank you for all being on time," I announce to the room, catching the sole vacant seat at the end of the table. "It seems we're just waiting on one more?"

Michael Hawthorne's gold watch catches the light as he leans forward, resting both elbows on the table. “Oh, don’t hold your breath for that one, Ms. Hart. Maddox never shows up after a game day.”

I grit my teeth, my grip tightening on the tablet in my lap.

The star player absent?Of course.

It figures. The player they claim is the heart and soul of this franchise, the one whose face is plastered in every shop window in Iron Ridge, his name on the back of every kids jersey, can’t be bothered to show up for a meeting that directly affects the team’s future.

I press my lips together, swallowing my frustration. "Well, I suppose we’ll proceed without him then."

Big Mike chuckles under his breath, muttering something to Greg about“classic Maddox,”while Greg smirks and sips his coffee.

I inhale deeply, squaring my shoulders as I bring up my presentation on the whiteboard to my side. Maddox may not think this meeting is worth his time, but I’ll be damned if I let his absence derail me.

Because unlike him, I don’t have the luxury of skipping the hard parts.

I tap the screen, bringing up the first slide. "So, as you all know, the Icehawks have been Iron Ridge's heart for forty years. But to survive the next forty, we need to evolve."

I pause and take breath, gauging the table for any sign of encouragement.

Big Mike grabs another pastry and slurps his coffee loudly. Greg ogles over the pastry tray like it's his last meal and Tim Riley, the PR 'specialist' is checking on the state of his fingernails, presumably having destroyed them during last nights gripping hockey match.

Right the length of the table, not one set of eyes is on me.

"To boost engagement off the ice, my proposal is simple, yet effective: we showcase the human side of hockey. Behind-the-scenes content featuring our players, their personalities, their stories. Starting with our captain."

Greg's chews through his third pastry, golden flakes falling from his lips as he barks down the table, "And how much will this 'evolution' cost us?"

"For a full digital transformation... Professional videography, content creation, social media management-"

"We're barely breaking even as is," Greg cuts in over me. "And you want to blow the yearly budget on... what did you call it?Content creation?"

I stare at the pastry avalanche tumbling from his mouth. The struggle not to let my face morph into the universal expression for'ew gross'is real.

Thankfully, Dave Carlson leans back in his chair, arms crossed. "Look, Ms. Hart. I played here fifteen years. This town doesn't need fancy videos or whatever the hell aTikTokis. They need hard hits and game winning plays."

"With respect, Mr. Carlson, that mentality is exactly why we're losing younger fans. Our research shows-"

"Research?" Dave scoffs. "I'll tell you what Iron Ridge needs. They need their team to play hockey, not prance around for cameras."

Big Mike's chair creaks as he leans forward, his expensive suit stretching across broad shoulders.

Perfect. The man who hired me to do exactly what I'm proposing is about to come to my rescue. The man in power of this whole operation will put all these nay-sayers in their place and get them to listen to me.

"Let me be crystal clear, Ms. Hart," he says, leaning forward on his chair directly opposite me. "We're not some startup burning through venture capital. The Icehawks are bleeding money. And we bought you here to help fix that problem."

Or… maybe not.

My throat tightens.

The numbers flash through my mind again. Declining merch sales, sponsorship contracts hanging by a thread, fancy fucking platters at board meetings.

"Without a serious turnaround," Mike continues, tapping his watch against the polished table, "we're looking at staff cuts. Maybe worse."

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