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That . . . seems to be the right thing to say.

We help each other get rid of every shred of nervous energy for the next hour, and then I sleep like a baby.

June 30th

I don’t know why this has become a habit, but when the cab drops me off in front of the preppy building the next morning, I spend a few minutes staring up at it.

I’m early, so I can afford some staring.

I want to take this moment and get in the right mindset to⁠—

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I take it out with the intention of turning it off. I don’t want to be distracted at all.

But the notification is from an unknown number, and there’s no text this time, only a picture.

It’s stupid and seriously unnecessary right now, but I open it.

And then I almost drop my phone.

It’s me.

Walking out of the building where the boys have their swimming lessons. I’m carrying Mason with one arm and holding Maddox’s hand with the other. Their faces are fully visible, as is Johnny’s, who’s waiting with the back door of the SUV open for us.

It was taken last Thursday, that’s the day they both chose to wear red shirts but Mason still has his green lunchbox.

This is⁠—

There can be no more denying or ignoring these texts. I have to do something about this because the boys—those precious boys do not deserve this. They might never know, and they might never be in danger, but having who knows what kind of person taking pictures of them in the street is wrong.

Maybe it’s finally time to call the police, but⁠—

Not right now.

I power off my phone and walk into the building.

Tucker

I walk into the ridiculous boardroom half an hour early.

Wearing my best suit and holding the briefcase Jim said I’d need at some point—the one gift he gave me that might’ve actually meant something—I settle on the corner at the head of the table and look around.

A Barclay started this office, just like a Barclay started the office of every sporting league in this country.

The headquarters of the NHL shouldn’t be in New York—I feel pretty strongly about this—but my family has been capitalizing by weaponizing organization for a very long time, and they’ve won the race more times than I can count. But it is pretty convenient for me personally, to have the board of governors’ meeting be practically in my back yard.

I don’t want to think about everything that’s been decided inside this room, I only want to focus on what comes next.

So I open the briefcase and make sure all the copies of my proposals are neatly stacked inside as well as my tablet and a cable in case the giant TV mounted to the far wall can’t connect wirelessly.

I stay by the head of the table when the white dinosaurs start to trickle in.

Every single one of them shakes my hand, tries to hide the amusement they feel when they look at me—let them laugh—and offers their fake condolences for Jim’s death.

I keep my face impassive and thank every one of them.

Last to walk in, of course, is the only woman who’s ever attended these meetings.

Gabrielle Darnell, owner of the Las Vegas Pirates, the reigning champions, and of the Las Vegas Rogues, an NFL team. She’s the only other person here—besides me—who owns teams in more than one league. The daughter of a legend of the NFL, sister of a player, aunt of a player, and she’s been shaking up both leagues ever since she decided she wanted to make them her bitches.