Page 23 of Twisted Shot
She takes a deep breath. “The Whalers don’t need reinvention—they need reconnection.”
This gets Roger’s attention. His fingers stop drumming.
“You’ve got legacy fans—people who grew up on the Whalers, whose parents took them to games. That’s not a niche. That’s a foundation. What if, instead of chasing trends, we anchored the campaign in what you already are to this city?”
A murmur of agreement. One of the sales guys actually nods.
She flips to a different set of mock-ups. Hers.
“Here’s what we’re thinking. A ‘Generations on Ice’ campaign. Highlight families—grandparents, parents, kids—all wearing Whalers gear, coming to games together. We create short spots for local TV and digital. We host family nights, youth scrimmages on the ice before games, ticket bundles for multi-gen groups. It’s not about going viral—it’s about filling the seats with people who care. And the messaging doesn’t say, ‘We’re new.’ It says, ‘We never left.’”
There’s a pause.
Then one of the sales guys gives a quiet, “Damn.”
Jim takes the tablet she slides across the table and swipes through the images, his bushy eyebrows lifting with each slide.
“This is clean,” he says, half to himself. “Feels...right.”
Roger nods once. “We can sell this. Families, schools, clubs—this hits home. Not clicks.”
Richard offers a tight smile. “Of course, we’ll refine this direction?—”
“I’d like to see more from her side of things,” Jim interrupts mildly, not unkind, but firm.
Mila sees Richard’s jaw twitch in her periphery.
Roger leans back. “Let’s get a full campaign proposal built around this concept. Can we see something next week?”
“Absolutely,” Mila says, heart thundering behind her ribs.
The meeting winds down. As people gather tablets and shake hands, Jim steps closer to Mila, his large, weathered hand reaching out to grasp hers in a warm, steady grip.
“Thanks for coming down,” Jim says, voice warm and fatherly. “And for helping that Mitchell kid out. He’s got something, that one. But needs someone to keep him from setting himself on fire.”
Mila blinks, her throat tightening. “Believe it or not, I’ve known Jesse since he was in diapers.”
Jim huffs a laugh. “Well, he’s lucky he’s got you.”
As people file out and Richard mutters vaguely about regrouping, Jim lingers next to her.
“Mind staying a second?” he asks.
She hesitates, glancing toward Richard, who is already halfway down the hallway, stewing in silence. She nods. “Sure.”
Jim walks back to the window, hands tucked into the pockets of his sports coat, and stares out at the view. The parking lot below is half-empty, with the pavement cracked in places. Beyond it, Hartford’s modest skyline edges toward the horizon, brick and glass framed by the steady bend of the Connecticut River. Above it all, the Travelers Tower rises, a weathered sentinel that has seen decades of this city’s wins and losses.
“I meant what I said,” he murmurs. “That pitch of yours…That’s the most heart I’ve heard in here in a long time.”
Mila stands still, unsure whether she should thank him or brace for something heavier. It turns out to be the latter.
“I’m getting old,” he says suddenly. “A decade ago I swore I’d die in the owner’s box. But now I’m tired, Ms. Anderson.”
She frowns. “Are you…thinking about selling?”
He nods slowly. “I don’t want to, but the organizationhas lost a step. We’re not connecting with the fans like we used to. It might be time to hand the reins over to someone with fresh ideas.”
A chill ripples through Mila.
