Page 22 of Game Misconduct
“We needed a goalie. I got us one.”
“Lasker’s a risk.”
I match his gaze, refusing to blink. “He’ll win games. He commands respect on the ice.”
“You didn’t run it by the board.”
“No. I didn’t.” My voice stays even. “And before you start, I know exactly what Section Four says. I also know what Section Three says about competitive benchmarks, and Lasker gives us the best shot at hitting them.”
“Which means you also know you triggered the Legacy Clause.”
“I ran the numbers,” I say. “I knew it would trigger oversight. I also knew we’d make the playoffs with him on the roster.”
He slides the folder toward me. The sound is soft, but it lands like a gavel. Inside, I already know what’s waiting—the wordsLegacy Oversight Provision, Section 6, staring back in neat black font.
“You broke both the dollar cap and the term limit,” Dean says. “And Lasker’s disciplinary history? That’s reputational risk. Two violations in one move.”
My stomach knots, not from surprise but from the reminder of what a second trigger in the next eighteen months would mean—reduced control, maybe even forced sale.
I knew all that when I signed him. I just didn’t expect them to start sharpening the knives this fast.
“The Oversight Committee will want a full review,” he says. “You’ll present your rationale next week. If the acquisition doesn’t meet our return metrics, your role as controlling owner becomes…conditional.”
My spine goes rigid. I don’t move. “Is that a threat?”
“It’s governance,” he says, smiling faintly. “Exactly the kind your father wanted in place.”
“It’s sabotage.”
Dean doesn’t flinch. “It’s policy.”
My stomach turns, a slow, heavy roll. I grip my knees under the table so hard my nails leave half-moons in my skin.
“You think I didn’t run the numbers?” I ask, voice even.
“I think you’re making emotional decisions.” His tone is mild. Patronizing. “And emotional decisions get people fired.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from exploding.
He wants a reaction. A crack. Something he can take back to the board to paint me as reckless.
Too young. Too green. Too female.
I give him nothing.
“I vetted him. Thoroughly.”
Dean tilts his head. “That’s what worries me, Sloane. You think research is the same as risk management.”
My cheeks flush, heat prickling under my skin. I imagine my father’s watchful eyes behind Dean’s. The pressure at my temples builds—like if I let myself blink too long, the veneer will crack.
“The city wanted a cornerstone,” I say. “I gave them one. I’m not afraid of risk to get what we need.”
His mouth curves, not a smile but something colder. “You should be. The board is, at least. They don’t like surprises. Especially not from you.”
There it is. The thing he’s been circling all along. Not from me.
Dean crosses behind me, slow and deliberate, circling like he smells blood. His cologne hits like bleach—too sharp, too clean.
