Page 22 of Twisted Shot
“You sure you’re okay?” Natalie’s voice softens with concern.
“I will be,” Mila says, meaning it. “Besides, if we win this account I get to spend more time in Hartford with you.”
Natalie launches into her plans for the next time she visits, and Mila lets the comfort of her best friend’s voice settle around her like a blanket. The pitch in Hartford might be complicated. Richard might be a parasite. But this? Her people? They make it worthwhile.
She glances at the deck again.
“Alright,” she says. “Thanks for the recon. Tell Jesse if he screws this up, I will haunt his dreams.”
“Copy that,” Natalie says. “And M?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re gonna crush it.”
Her mouth twitches. “Damn right I am.”
She ends the call, rolls her shoulders, and dives back into the deck—fingers flying, wine forgotten.
Tomorrow’s for politics. Tonight is for building her legacy.
The conference room in the Whalers’ arena looks like it time-traveled from 1997 and refused to leave. Beige carpet, beige walls, beige chairs—an aggressive commitment to mediocrity. Even the framed action shots lining the walls are faded and curling at the corners, like even the decor has given up trying to keep pace with the modern world.
Mila sits beside Richard at a long oval table, posture perfect, tablet glowing in front of her. Across the table is the Whalers’ owner Jim Pearce, somewhere north of seventy, with a face like a scuffed hockey puck and sharpblue eyes that miss nothing. Beside him, the team president Roger Simmons, sporting a salt-and-pepper buzz cut, crosses his arms in the universal language ofimpress me. Around the table, half a dozen other executives in wrinkled polos—sales, operations, communications—watch Mila with barely concealed suspicion.
She offers a polite smile. Not a single one returns it.
Perfect.
In the taxi from the airport, Richard had oh-so-casually informed her thathewould be leading the meeting, generously allowing her two slides at the very end on community outreach. His reasoning: he was senior, more practiced, and better suited to make a strong impression on a sports client. His subtext: no matter how hard she worked, her vagina was a liability. Sitting here now, choking on the boys’ club atmosphere, she hates that he might be right.
Now he’s on his fifth slide. His voice is crisp, polished, and the wrong kind of eager.
“We’re proposing a multi-tiered digital push—hyper-local influencer content, TikTok crossovers, micro-trend engagement. You’ve got untapped potential in younger demos who’ve never been inside the arena. We turn the Whalers into a brand that lives online.”
He smiles as if he’s gifted them fire.
Mila observes the room. Jim’s expression is polite but unreadable. Roger looks skeptical, arms still crossed, heel bouncing in a rhythmic twitch. Two of the sales guys are on their phones, subtly angling them under the table.
The vibe is slipping, and Richard doesn’t see it—too in love with the sound of his own voice.
“Pair that with targeted hashtag campaigns like #WhalersWave, or something else we can A/B test. We create buzz, virality, and long-tail digital engagement that converts into ticket sales.”
Mila glances at Jim again. Still blank. But his fingers drum lightly against the tabletop. Restless.
She sits up straighter.
“Sorry, Richard,” she says, loud enough to cut through without slicing. “Can I jumpin here?”
Richard pauses mid-sentence. His eyes flick sideways with an irritated tic he doesn’t bother hiding.
Jim leans back in his chair, interested now. “Go ahead.”
Mila stands, her heart drumming like a marching band in her chest, but her voice stays steady.
“I think the social media angle has merit,” she begins, “but I also think this team’s strength isn’t about being trendy. It’s about roots. Legacy. You’ve got parents bringing their kids to games because their parents brought them. I mean, the Whalers logo alone—half this city wears it even when they’re not going to games.”
Jim gestures toward her with a small smile. “Go on.”
