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“Meeting notes?”
“Yes.”
“Facilities budgets?”
“Yes.”
“Marketing?”
“Yes.”
“Community outreach?”
“Yes.”
“Sponsorships?”
“Yes.”
“Player development?”
“Yes.”
She studies me.
“What aren't you giving me?”
The truth about why you're here.
My stomach twists.
“Anything legally privileged, personally confidential to employees or players, or unrelated to your story.”
She holds my gaze. Then nods.
“Fair.”
That's the worst fucking thing she could've said. Because she trusts me.
Maybe not blindly. Layla Hawthorne doesn't trust anyone blindly. But she trusts that the boundaries I've given her are honest. And they are.
Except for the one that matters most.
I stand.
“Come on.”
“Where?”
“You wanted access. I'm giving you access.”
I take her downstairs.
Introduce her to department heads she hasn't met.
Give instructions.
“If Miss Hawthorne asks for something related to the Rovers that falls within the parameters Legal distributed, give it to her.”
