27
Sloane
The boardroom smells like expensive leather and day-old coffee, but my entire world has narrowed to the single, thrumming pulse in my throat.
My final slide glows on the wall-mounted screen, our legendary coach’s quote about legacy positioned perfectly beside the Northstar Bank logo.
"This isn't just about market share," I say, voice steady despite the pounding in my chest. "It’s about legacy. Our legacy. And now, Northstar’s."
Mr. Blackwood, Northstar’s CEO, leans forward. His steel-gray eyes haven’t left me once. The overhead LEDs bounce off the polished mahogany table, creating a glare that turns the whole room clinical. Precise.
Like an operating theater. Where careers are cut open and judged for viability.
“Your Q4 projections are ambitious, Ms. McKenzie. What’s your defense against market saturation?”
I don’t flinch. My fingers find the clicker, flipping back two slides to the data chart I built specifically for this. The motion is smooth. Practiced. Reflex from a dozen dry runs in my apartment with Garrett grilling me from the couch.
“It’s not saturation, sir. It’s diversification. We’re not chasing the same audience—we’re creating a new one. Theyouth hockey initiatives outlined on page twelve don’t just drive ticket sales. They cultivate multigenerational brand loyalty.”
Frank Miller, the GM, smiles from his corner seat. The skepticism that clung to him at the start is gone, replaced by something like admiration. Even the other Northstar execs shift forward in their chairs, expensive suits rustling, expressions engaged.
Just land the plane, McKenzie. Don’t look at Garrett. Don’t let yourself be distracted by his stupid, proud face.
But I feel him watching me—steady and warm. Like sunlight through a window. Across the table, Vivian’s fingers tap against her leather portfolio, her smile razor-thin.
She checks her phone when she thinks no one’s watching. A knot of ice forms in my stomach. I push the distraction aside.
“Walk me through your revenue acceleration timeline,” Blackwood says.
I flip to the rollout schedule, my delivery seamless. “Phase one launches with opening night. Community partnerships initiate bi-weekly through December. By February, we’ll have early engagement data tied to season ticket retention.”
“The digital media allocation looks conservative,” one of the other suits chimes in.
“Because traditional advertising doesn’t work on Gen Z,” I shoot back. My tone is crisp, no hesitation. “Authenticity does. Player-generated content outperforms professional campaigns three to one—and costs a fraction. We’re not buying attention. We’re earning it.”
The questions keep coming—but now they’re soft. Pro forma. I can see it in Blackwood’s posture. His arms haverelaxed. His tone has warmed. The subtle nod when I explain our community impact metrics. It’s happening.
Victory builds in my chest like rising pressure behind glass.
“Impressive work,” he says, and the validation is so potent, it makes my vision swim. “The cultural integration component is especially compelling.”
It hits with the force of a physical jolt. This is it. The respect. The promotion. The career I’ve bled for.Right there.One breath away.
Blackwood inhales. I can already see the shape of the words:Congratulations, Ms. McKenzie.
And then I hear it. A soft scrape. Chair leg against polished floor.
Heads turn. The air stiffens. Something’s wrong.
Garrett is standing.
No. No, no, no.
The room shifts. All that sharp, focused energy I’ve built begins to fracture—a sudden, sickening crack under pressure.
My eyes snap to him across the table, and I give the smallest shake of my head. A silentplease. A warning.
He doesn’t see it. He’s looking at me like I just scored the overtime winner in Game 7. So full of pride and love that he’s blind to what he’s about to do.
