Page 55 of Julian

Chapter 15

Julian

The conference room is filled with voices and projections and charts with numbers, big and small. Architectural renderings are spread across the table in neat rows—expanded media platforms, revised hospitality layouts, contingency plans layered over contingency plans—and my executive team is walking through them with the kind of focus I expect. Screens glow with data points of projected revenue increases, international media reach, and sponsor activation timelines. On paper, it is everything the league claims to want, every objection answered before it can be raised.

And yet, for five consecutive years, it hasn’t been enough.

“We’ve addressed every operational concern they raised,” Jimmy says, tapping a page in the proposal packet. “Press capacity, transportation flow, security infrastructure—there’s no weak point left.”

“No obvious weak point,” I correct, my voice even as I lean back slightly in my chair, fingers steepled beneath my chin. “If there were, we wouldn’t still be having this conversation.”

A brief pause overtakes the table. They understand what I’m saying, or more precisely, what I’m not willing to accept. This isn’t a matter of meeting expectations. We’ve done that already.

“We need to think more critically,” I continue, my gaze moving from one face to the next to drive the point. “If the league has said no five times, it isn’t because we’ve failed to meet their stated criteria. It’s because we’ve failed to move them beyond it.”

“Emotion,” Tracey offers carefully, leaning forward far enough to signal engagement without overstepping. “The narrative angle we’ve been developing—”

“Yes,” I say, not dismissing her but refining the thought. “But not as something we present in a room. Not as a concept we expect them to buy into on the spot. It has to exist before we ever walk into that room. It has to be undeniable by the time we get there.”

I push one of the renderings aside, shifting the focus away from what we’ve already perfected and toward what still requires invention. “The community initiative—where are we with continuing to implement the secondary phases?”

A member of the marketing team straightens, clearly prepared. “After the success we had with the Manhattan schools, we’ve begun outreach to schools in the outer boroughs—the Bronx, Staten Island, and Brooklyn. Ticket allocations are being finalized for the next three home games, and we’re coordinating with social media to capture—”

“Not capture,” I interrupt, my words biting just enough to redirect without derailing. “Enable.”

He briefly falters before nodding. “Sorry, yes. Enable.”

“Don’t script it,” I say. “Don’t manufacture it. If this is going to work, it has to feel real. It has to be real.”

The words come easily, but I’m aware—uncomfortably aware—of where they originate.

Not from this room. Not from months of strategic planning.

From a lunch table in Tribeca, across from a woman who had I had no business asking to solve my problems and did so anyway, who then gave clarity my own team hadn’t reached.

Harper. She’s behind it all, and that’s the truth.

The memory of last night, our kiss, doesn’t drift in gradually. It arrives whole, cutting cleanly through the meeting in front of me. I see her exactly as she was—searching in the dark for those stupid lug nuts, her voice threaded with panic as though the entire situation rested on her shoulders.

And then she spun, right into me. The warmth of her body against mine and my fucking hands moved without thought.

Everything else fell away.

And then… I kissed her.

Couldn’t help myself.

I shift slightly in my chair, not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough to remind myself where I am. The discussion continues around me with voices layering over one another, ideas building and evolving, but the words don’t take root the way they should. They register, but they don’t hold.

Because I can still feel it.

The warmth of her. The hesitation that wasn’t hesitation at all. The way she didn’t pull away—not at first.

And then, just as clearly, the way she did.

We can’t do that again. You’re my boss.

I draw a slow breath, steadying my focus, forcing my attention back to the table, to the people who are waiting for direction, for the version of me that does not get distracted.