But business doesn't care about wrong. Business cares about indispensable.
I've been trying to prove what had been done to me was unjust, when I should have been proving what they lost when they let me go was irreplaceable.
My laptop sits buried under three days of takeout containers and self-pity. I clear the debris with sudden, sharp movements, my body finally responding to commands from a brain that's fully awake for the first time since the boardroom disaster.
The screen flickers to life, and I navigate to the locked folder I haven't opened in months: "MCCP - Master." The Mammoth Community Champions Program. Mypassion project. The comprehensive vision that stretched well beyond any single sponsorship deal.
I'd pitched pieces of it to Vivian over the past year, but she'd always dismissed it as "too ambitious" or "not commercially viable." So I'd developed it in secret, refining the framework in stolen moments between official duties, building something that could transform not just the team's brand, but their entire relationship with the community.
As I scroll through pages of research, projections, and strategic frameworks, Maya's photo burns bright in my peripheral vision. This isn't just about youth hockey programs. This is about urban development, educational initiatives, creating a sustainable model for sports franchises that want to matter beyond their win-loss record.
The Northstar deal had been thinking too small. A single corporate partnership, impressive but ultimately limited in scope. What if instead of chasing one major sponsor, we created a comprehensive community engagement platform that attracted dozens of corporate partners? What if we turned the Mammoths into the sports franchise that other teams tried to emulate?
My fingers fly across the keyboard, pulling together market research, demographic data, revenue projections. I integrate case studies from successful community programs in other markets, add my own innovations, weave it all together into a vision that's audacious enough to make even corporate executives pay attention.
The numbers are staggering. Conservative estimates put the potential annual revenue at thirty-seven million dollars. And that's just year one.
This isn't about proving I was wrongfully terminated. This is about proving they can't afford to let me stay terminated.
The apartment around me has gone silent except for the rapid clicking of keys. Outside, Minneapolis sleeps, unaware that in this small corner of the city, something is being born from the ashes of destruction. Not revenge—though that will be a sweet side effect. Revolution.
I save the file and reach for my phone, Maya's message still glowing on the screen. Sweet, brilliant Maya who believes in me even when I've stopped believing in myself. Who sees possibility where I saw only ending.
Time for me to return the favor.
I open a new message and type.
Brynn. I know I've been MIA and I owe you a massive explanation. I promise I'll give you one. But first—I need a huge favor. Can you get me Robert Blackwood's personal number? Please.
I hit send before I can second-guess myself, then lean back in my chair and smile for the first time in three days. It's sharp enough to cut glass, cold enough to freeze flames.
Frank Miller thinks he buried me. Vivian thinks she destroyed me. The entire organization thinks I'm a cautionary tale about the dangers of mixing business with pleasure.
They have no idea what's coming.
But they're about to find out.
33
Garrett
The silence in my loft is a living thing, pressing against my skull like the weight of forty feet of lake water. I've been suspended for four days now, and the stillness is driving me insane. No morning skate. No practice. No outlet for the restless energy that courses through my veins, sharp and volatile.
I pace from the kitchen to the windows overlooking the Mississippi, the same path I've worn into the hardwood for the past forty-eight hours. Outside, the world continues without me while I'm trapped in this glass box with nothing but my thoughts and the echoing memory of Sloane's voice, raw with fury:
"You took my moment and made it about you."
I stop at the window, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. The contact is grounding, real, but it doesn't quiet the chaos in my head. I keep replaying our fight, dissecting every word with the same focus I use on game film, searching for the moment where I could have said something different. Made her understand.
But the more I replay it, the more confused I become. I was trying to support her. Trying to show them how brilliant she was. How could that be wrong? How could fighting forsomeone you love be the thing that destroys everything? I shake my head, trying to clear it.
My phone sits silent on the coffee table, a black mirror reflecting my failures. I've drafted a dozen texts to her over the past four days. Deleted them all. What's left to say when every word that comes out of your mouth apparently makes things worse?
"You don't see the problem,"she'd screamed at me."Even now, after everything, you're trying to fix me instead of understanding that you broke something that can't be repaired."
The accusation lodges sharp beneath my ribs. I wasn't trying to fix her. I was trying to protect her. There's a difference, isn't there?
Isn't there?
