Page 35 of Sealing the Deal

His gaze sweeps the room before landing, briefly, on me.

“I was reminded recently that you can’t buy passion and belonging. You earn it. And I haven’t done that yet. So, I’m here today to listen. Tell me what you need from the ownership. Tell me where we’ve fallen short. Tell me what matters most to you as our local sponsors. Because if this team is going to succeed long term, it won’t be because of one person in this room. It will be because of all of us. Because we did it together.”

I sense the room absorb Grayson’s speech as I think about what Donny just said. And, yeah, maybe I’ve been so focused on the Ashborne name that I haven’t stopped to look at the man standing in front of me. Maybe I need to start seeing Grayson for who he is and not the reputation that walks into a room five seconds before he does.

There’s a round of applause that feels a fraction more than polite. Grayson inclines his head, says something to the man nearest him, and makes his way back to my side.

“Good speech,” I admit.

He looks taken aback by my compliment before offering a grateful smile. “I thought about opening with ‘I’m more than a hot guy with a private jet.’”

He pauses, eyes sparking with mischief as heat floods my cheeks, and I remember the slip I’d made in our argument on the way home from the Buffalo game. Had I really called him hot? Good one, Flic.

His smile widens. “I decided what you said about giving more of myself if I want something back might land better with this crowd.”

I glance around at the expensive watches, large bellies straining against suit jackets, and the few men in jeans and cowboy boots trying to look unimpressed. I nod. “Good choice.”

My gaze moves back to Grayson, and our eyes meet in a way that has me locked in place. Something electric seems to pass between us. The same pull I felt when our fingers brushed over that fifty-dollar bill the night of the playoffs. It’s the same pull I’ve felt every time I’ve been in the same room with this man. Except I was too busy being furious to feel like acknowledging it.

“Come on,” I say. “Let’s mingle.”

“Any advice?” He scans the room like a man about to face a firing squad.

I consider the cluster of business owners. What they care about. What they want. What they’re afraid of losing.

“Suggest the Stormhawks are exploring game day promotions that target those in the stands, not the fans watching at home. The people in this room don’t need their names flashed across the TV screens and they don’t want to pay the same as the bigger sponsors.”

He considers my words then nods as we step toward the nearest group together.

Later, when the last of the attendees drift out and the room feels less hostile—less like a battlefield and more like groundwork laid—I lean back against the long conference table and exhale. It wasn’t a roaring success, but it was a softening. A small shift. Grayson did well. He held his own. He admitted his weaknesses and his mistakes, and he listened to what the people in this room needed from their team.

Donny’s words circle my thoughts: Grayson doesn’t have many people on his side right now.

I find myself thinking of Mama and Harry and the boys then. And who I’d be if the Sullivans hadn’t opened their home and their hearts to me.

“Can you be free on Thursday for lunch?” I ask Grayson.

“Sure. What are you thinking?”

I flick a glance toward Donny before meeting Grayson’s eyes again. “It’s not what I’m thinking. It’s what we need.”

He raises a brow as his dark eyes fix on mine. There’s an intensity to his gaze that has my stomach flip in a way that’s hard to ignore now my anger isn’t drowning it out.

I smile. “Reinforcements.”

FIFTEEN

GRAYSON

“All I’m saying is that I could’ve driven,” Flic mutters from the leather seat beside me, arms folded, glowering out the window as Hunter takes the turning off the highway to Oakwood Ranch.

I gesture toward the front seat. “But if you’d driven, Hunter wouldn’t have gotten to see these incredible views.”

My driver gives a nod of agreement as Flic huffs, like agreeing with me would give her hives, but her gaze drifts to the window and the views anyway.

The long road stretches ahead, cutting through blankets of untouched snow. We turn a corner and a picture-perfect ranch house comes into view. To the right of the ranch house, a red barn stands tall, its open doors revealing a row of stalls—horses leaning their heads curiously over the half-doors like a welcoming committee. Maybe the only one I’m going to get.

The reinforcements Flic mentioned at the sponsors luncheon apparently come in the shape of the Sullivan family. Their public support of me would go a long way to showing the fans I’m not the worst human being on earth. But after the reserved greeting from Mama in Buffalo, and the photo that followed of me taking a call, I’m not sure what kind of welcome I’m about to receive.