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"Explain this to me," I demand, jabbing a finger at the newspaper laid out on the table. The headlinescreams, "Victor Stone: Ice-Cold Heart Behind Pee Wee Hockey's New Gear?"
"Obviously," I sneer, "your little stunt didn't work."
They exchange glances, searching for something to say that'll pacify the tempest standing before them.
"Victor, we need to?—"
"Save it," I cut off any attempts at excuses. "We need a new play because this one's landed us in the penalty box." I grimace that I even used a hockey term.
I can see the gears turning in their heads, desperate for a hail Mary to pull my reputation out of the dumpster fire it's become. But they're clueless. And why wouldn't they be? They don't get it. They don't get me. Nobody does. Nobody ever has.
Jenna's voice slices through the tension, "Victor, you've got to give it time. Public perception doesn't just flip overnight."
"Time?" I scoff, running a hand through my hair. "For what? For them to skewer me more? We've poured money into renting the rink and all that gear. It should've been enough."
Tom leans in, his face serious. "It's not about the money, Vic. The media noticed you weren't really 'there' with the kids."
"What do you mean, I wasn't there? Of course I was there!"
"He doesn't mean physical presence," Mark chimes in.
"Oh, you're right, you're right. Next time when I'm spending thousands of dollars on people who don't appreciate it, I'll be sure to make sure my chakras are aligned and hold a seance beforehand," I scoff.
Tom looks like he's about to say something, but Jenna shakes her head at him, and he closes his mouth.
"Maybe if you show up at a few practices, get involved, it might make a difference."
I fix her with a stare that could freeze over hell. "I was clear from the start—I'm just the checkbook here. Next thing you know, you'll be asking me to get out on the ice." The last thing I need is to be roped into some feel-good sports montage.
But like sharks smelling blood, they all perk up. "That's actually a great idea!" one of them chimes, and suddenly it's a chorus of agreement around me.
I throw my hands up in frustration. "No, this isn't part of the deal."
"Victor, think about?—"
"Enough," I cut them off, my tone brooking no argument. "Next idea."
"Look, attending a few practices isn't going to kill you," Jenna insists, her voice both firm and imploring. "It's part of the gig, Victor."
"Practices?" I scoff, glaring at the insistent faces crowding the conference room. "You do realize that means I'd be shuttling back and forth to Worcester like some commuter. That's not my style."
"Actually," Jenna interjects, tapping away on her tablet, "I can get a corporate apartment set up for you downtown. It'll help the town see you as one of their own. You grabbing coffee, shaking hands—it's good PR."
"Great, now I'm a part-time barista in your little plan." My sarcasm drips like acid, but she's relentless.
"Victor, this is your biggest development yet. The community needs to see you care, not just about profits, but about them."
The idea of playing local hero twists in my gut. But something in Jenna's gaze tells me she won't back down.
"Fine," I relent with a heavy sigh, feeling the weight of my own defeat. "Set it up. But I'm not doing cartwheels down Main Street."
"Wouldn't dream of asking you to," she replies, a hint of victory in her tone. And with that, the PR vultures disband, leaving me alone with the echo of my capitulation.
I yank my phone from my pocket, thumbing through messages until I find the group chat. The guys are going to have a field day with this.
Victor
Looks like I'm setting up shop in Worcester for a while