Page 36 of The Pucking Date
I can’t prove he’s trying to undermine me or the players. But I don’t have to. I know the play. I’ve seen the move before—soft influence masked as strategy. Rewriting the copy enough to shift the power. Enough to remind me who holds the leash.
I don’t look up. I say flatly, “No.”
She blinks. “Okay. Want me to pretend you’re in a meeting if he calls?”
God, I like her.
“Pretend I died,” I say. “But make it tasteful.”
Joy snorts, disappears. I press my fingertips to my temples and exhale through my nose.
Once the door closes behind her, I open the deck. One of Chad’s notes on Finn’s section reads: “Consider softening ‘earned trust’—might be too strong given recent media tone. Try ‘rebuilding trust’ instead. Keeps the narrative humble.”
My jaw clenches.
Rebuilding trust? Finn never lost it. He didn’t gamble a fortune or drag the league into a scandal. That was his father. All Finn did was survive it—clean, quiet, and under scrutiny he never asked for. But sure, let’s imply he’s got something to apologize for. Let’s fold him into the redemption arc for optics. Makes for a better headline, right?
I want to hurl the tablet across the room.
It’s not a strategy note; it’s character assassination disguised as marketing copy. And Chad’s betting no one will notice the difference, least of all Finn.
My stomach flips, sharp and sour. Not only from the note, but the memory. The weight of it. The constant recalibration I’ve had to master to be able to stay in the room.
I haven’t had coffee in four days. Can’t even stand the smell of it without my stomach lurching like it’s trying to tell me something I’m not ready to hear.
Which means one of two things: I’m coming down with something, or I’m spiraling so hard my body’s trying to stage an intervention.
And neither option fits into a summit schedule stacked with interviews, photo ops, and an entire campaign designed to sell a sanitized, sponsor-safe version of Finn, stripped of everything real.
Rothschild’s locked in on the redemption angle. Thinks it’s poetic, Finn rising from the ashes, rebuilt and repackaged for sponsor consumption. Never mind that the ashesweren’t his to begin with. Never mind that this version of the story only pays off for us if he stays in New York.
Which means the pressure’s on me to make it land. Sell the myth. Keep the sponsors happy. Make the summit a win.
No big deal. Just the entire direction of the campaign—and Finn’s future with the team—balanced on whether I can keep it all from buckling.
My appetite’s been off for days now; everything tastes wrong, smells too strong. I keep telling myself it’s leftover jet lag from China, even though I’ve been back for two weeks. Even though deep down, I know jet lag doesn’t make coffee smell like poison. Or maybe it’s the stress. The pacing. The fact that I’m holding everything together with dry shampoo and sheer force of will.
A faint headache pulses behind my right temple. My stomach tightens low and sharp, a rubber band pulled one stretch too far. There’s a flicker of dizziness when I stand, the room tilting just enough to make me grip the desk. But it’s nothing I can’t push through. Nothing I can’t ignore. I’m a master at ignoring things that might inconvenience my carefully constructed life.
It’s fine. I’m fine. I’m always fine.
Closing the file, I drag in a breath and head for the briefing room. The motion steadies me. Focus replaces feeling. Control slides back into place. It’s muscle memory.
Until I round the corner and nearly walk straight into temptation wearing a backward baseball cap. He’s leaning against the wall outside the third-floor conference room, as if he’s auditioning for a slow-motion locker room ad.
My stomach does that stupid flutter thing.
“Red,” he says, eyes cutting up from his phone. “Didn’t think I’d catch you before the meat market briefing.”
I arch a brow. “You’re early.”
He shrugs, mouth curving. “Figured I’d make a good impression. Isn’t that the point?”
“You showing up on time is already throwing off the narrative,” I deadpan.
He grins. “You’re the one who picked me. I thought I was on the ‘too unpredictable for sponsors’ list?”
“You are,” I say, brushing past him. “But you photograph well.”
