Page 56 of Julian

“This initiative,” I say, picking up the thread seamlessly, “is the most compelling argument we have. Not the infrastructure or the numbers—the story. New York as a city that doesn’t just host hockey but expands the reach, opens it up to new fans, makes it accessible.”

There are nods now, momentum building again as the conversation regains its rhythm.

“And the team’s performance?” someone asks. “Shouldn’t that factor into how we position the bid?”

“Of course,” I reply. “Winning matters. The league wants to showcase excellence, and right now we’re giving them that.”

Five to one against Chicago. A decisive win, one that reinforces everything we’ve been building.

“All of it works in our favor,” I continue, “but it isn’t sufficient on its own. It never is.”

If it were, this would have been secured years ago.

The discussion deepens after that, moving into execution, timelines and deliverables. The level of detail I typically thrive in. I contribute where necessary, redirect where needed, push where they hesitate.

But beneath that control, a part of me remains unsettled.

Because no matter how firmly I tether myself to the work, no matter how hard I refocus, my thoughts return to the same place.

To her. To the way she looked at me after the kiss, her eyes wide.

To the way she said no. And the more I think about it, the more I recognize it for what it is.

Not rejection. Restraint.

Which, in its own way, carries far more awareness and maturity.

I lean forward slightly, resting my forearms on the table as someone outlines the next phase of the campaign rollout, fully re-engaging because that’s what is required.

“Good,” I say, nodding once. “Move forward with that, and I want weekly updates—not summaries or high-level overviews. I want to see exactly how this is unfolding in real time.”

“Of course,” Jimmy replies.

The meeting winds down soon after, action items assigned and next steps clarified. The room gradually empties as people gather their materials and filter out.

I remain seated. Alone, finally. Below this floor, on the ice, players move through drills, patterns repeating with a consistency that stands in stark contrast to the direction of my own thoughts.

I have built my life on structure, on defined boundaries that exist for a reason and are maintained without exception.

But last night, I crossed one.

There is no benefit in pretending otherwise. It happened. I chose it.

The question that remains is not whether it occurred, but what, if anything, I intend to do about it.

I lean back in my chair.

For years, I have operated under a truth I accepted without question: that what I had with Kylie was singular, complete and irreplaceable. That once one experiences a love of that magnitude, it does not present itself again in another form, wearing a different face, asking to be considered as though it could ever measure up. I’ve structured my life around this paradigm. It was cleaner that way, simpler, contained within boundaries I understood and could maintain.

And then, in a single moment on the side of a dark road, with a woman who should have remained firmly within the confines of my professional world, that all changed.

The feeling wasn’t comparable. It couldn’t be. Not yet.

But it was something. And that’s what unsettles me most.

“Julian?”

The voice draws me back to the present. I look up to find Jimmy lingering near the door, a few others behind him, waiting with the polite patience of people who are unsure whether the meeting has fully concluded.