“The league is watching,” he continues. “If we don’t turn this ship around—attendance, media buzz, community engagement—they’re pulling the plug. The Beachside Bears will be a footnote in NHL history.”
My stomach plummets. “How bad is it?”
“We’re ten games in. We’ve won two.” He drags a hand down his face. “The Morrison brothers are the most talented players on this roster. Maybe the most talented we’ll ever get. We planned to put all our marketing dollars into the attraction of those three boys. But…”
He pauses, choosing his words.
“But maybe we made a mistake.”
“A mistake?”
“They’re playing like this is a paid vacation.” Colin’s voice is tight. “We’re giving them big bucks to perform, and they’re treating it like a summer share house with optional hockey. Your number one priority is making this teammarketable. Make people care. Make people buy tickets. Make peoplebelievein the Beachside Bears.”
The weight of it lands on my shoulders.
This isn’t a job. It’s a rescue mission.
“And if I can’t?”
Colin holds my gaze, and for the first time, I see the real exhaustion beneath the tan. “Then we’re all out of a job by Christmas. This building becomes a very expensive community center. And I go back to selling timeshares in Florida.”
A silence stretches between us.
My palms are sweating. My mind is screaming.Twenty-six years old. Secret from your family. One night stand with a stranger. And now you have to save a hockey franchise.
I look at the MacBook. The phone. The view of the ice.
No.
I straighten my spine, the movement sending a fresh twinge through my thighs. A reminder that I am good enough.
Ihaveto be. For Dad.
“Okay,” I say, my voice surprisingly steady. “Where do we start?”
Colin checks his watch again and stands. “Well, leadership meeting should start in ten minutes. Mind you, we're usually running late."
No shit. Of course you are.
"I gotta go put on pants, so maybe meet me down the hall in Conference Room A.”
He heads for the door and I take a deep breath, grab the new iPhone, and follow him out into the hallway.
He disappears for ten minutes while I wait in the corridor, and when he returns, he's wearing black pants and a team polo. He still looks like he just rolled out of bed… but at least he’s wearing shoes now.
"Ready?" he asks me with a grin.
I nod. "Ready."
He opens the door. Conference Room A is a massive space, filled with expensive dark wood and leather, with a long oval table polished to a mirror shine. The entire far wall is glass,overlooking the practice rink where a scattering of players are starting to appear.
Two other men are already seated alongside a pretty woman who looks about my age.
Huh. Another woman? That's a good start.
The man in his fifties with shoulders like a bulldozer and a silver-flecked beard stands as we enter. He’s wearing a blue Bears polo, and the look he gives me is loaded with judgment.
“Josie Whitfield,” Colin says, his voice bouncing in the quiet room. “Meet Head Coach Jack Pearson.”
