Page 23 of Julian

He laughs, but there’s understanding beneath it. “She’s good for me,” he says after a beat. “Better than I realized.”

“I gathered as much. We’ll miss her here, but I’m happy to know she’s back in the industry she aspires to pursue a career in.”

We walk together toward the rink doors, the sounds of an optional practice growing louder as we near the ice. Some players are already in motion—drills underway, coaches barking instructions, blades carving crisp arcs into the surface.

“How’s the room?” I ask, shifting from personal matters to organizational ones.

“Solid,” Grizz replies. “No weird tension or contract drama. Guys are locked in. It’s… cohesive.”

Cohesion is fragile in professional sports. It’s built from trust, ego management, timing and shared ambition. When it’s present, you can feel it before you see it in the standings.

“I’d prefer we enter the holidays aligned,” I say. “Momentum compounds.”

“We’re there,” he assures me. “Energy’s good.”

I nod once, satisfied.

As we step onto the executive level overlook, I take in the scene below—the precision of passing drills, the synchronicity beginning to form in lines that, only weeks ago, felt experimental.

The ticketing crisis has stabilized. Social sentiment shifted within hours of implementing Harper’s suggestion. Sponsors have quieted and refunds are processing cleanly. Grizz is grounded. Daisy is staying with him to make sure he remains so. The team is finding rhythm.

From a purely operational standpoint, it is a favorable convergence of variables. Or in other words, everything’s fucking fantastic today.

And yet, as I turn toward my office, my thoughts drift briefly—unexpectedly—to the woman waiting outside in the car.

She declined the invitation to come inside, not out of intimidation, but out of pragmatism. She set boundaries without defensiveness. She offered insight without self-promotion. In my experience, most people angle for proximity to power, yet she seems intent on earning her position within it.

I don’t make impulsive decisions. Rearranging her employment was a calculation. Still, calculation doesn’t preclude curiosity, and she’s clearly got me curious.

I dismiss the intrusive thoughts the minute I step into the conference room and the morning meeting begins promptly, shifting into my top agenda item, something I’ve pursued and been denied for half a decade.

The All-Star Game.

Sure, the game is great and all, but it’s the entire weekend—the skills competition, the media spectacle, the international spotlight that follows like a second sun. It is the league’s most coveted (and press-generating) showcase, an annual statement of prestige and relevance. And for five consecutive years, our application to host it has been declined.

Each rejection, shrouded in diplomacy, cited things such as infrastructure concerns, rotational fairness and market considerations. Each one, in my view, bullshit, but this year will be different.

The executive conference room overlooks the practice rink, though no one at the table is paying attention to the ice below. Architectural renderings are spread across the surface in front of us—revised seating layouts, hospitality expansions, upgraded broadcast platforms, enhanced player facilities. I funded them all.

Millions poured into the arena over the past three years, with expanded concourses and redesigned premium suites. I’ve installed state-of-the-art locker rooms, and our technology integration rivals any venue in the league.

Not because I was certain we would win the bid but because I refuse to build anything that’s mediocre.

“The league wants assurance that we can handle the international media load,” my chief of operations says, tapping a page in the proposal packet. “They’re concerned about capacity.”

“We’ve expanded the press level twice,” I reply evenly. “We can expand it again if necessary.”

There are murmurs of agreement around the table.

Hosting the All-Star Weekend would not merely validate the upgrades—it would broadcast them. It would place the Vipers, and by extension New York City, at the center of the hockey world for three days.

I have long intended that the world see what we have built here. Not an aging franchise coasting on history and not a team trading on nostalgia. The New York Vipers is a modern organization. Competitive. And one day, dominant.

“We need to emphasize the city angle,” another executive adds. “The league loves the New York narrative.”

“They’ll have it,” I say. “But they’ll also have the numbers. Revenue projections. Sponsor commitments. Security infrastructure. We remove every reason for them to say no.”

Because this year, I don’t intend to be denied.