The stranger beside me kept his eyes glued to the bold black letters. "Wait," he muttered, pointing a grease-stained finger at the document on my lap. "Does that say—"
"It says nothing," I interrupted.
I slid the crisp parchment back into the manila envelope and folded the flap down.
"Hey, let me see that again," the guy demanded, reaching across the armrest.
I swatted his hand away. "Keep your hands to yourself."
"I just want to read the logo!" he argued, his face flushing red under the stadium lights. "That was the Falcons' crest!"
"Watch the draft," I told him.
I stood up, gripping my canvas tote tight against my ribs, and pushed past his knees. He grumbled a string of insults, spilling half his beer on the concrete, but I tuned him out. The roar of the crowd swelled again as Caleb held up his new jersey on the jumbotron. I didn't look back. I navigated the steep stairs, dodging intoxicated fans and discarded popcorn buckets.
A security guard held his hand up near the exit tunnel. "Ma'am, once you leave the seating area, you can't re-enter without a new scan."
"I won't be coming back to these seats," I assured him.
I pushed through the heavy turnstiles, leaving the blinding arena lights behind. The night air outside felt sharp and cold, a stark contrast to the suffocating heat of the stands. I hailed a yellow cab at the corner and gave the driver the address to my new place.
Thirty minutes later, the deadbolt on my apartment door clicked shut. The space was small, smelling of fresh paint and cheap linoleum. A single streetlamp cast long shadows across the empty living room. I dropped my bag onto the scratched wooden dining table in the center of the kitchen.
I pulled out the envelope and emptied the contents.
These were the worthless paper stocks Desmond had laughed about.
I spread the offshore shell company preferred stock settlement slips across the surface. The ink looked pristine under the harsh overhead bulb. Next to them, I placed the heavy, gold-embossed statutory registration certificate from the League Wolfblood Medical Committee.
The bold print at the bottom of the certificate listed me as the sole registered Maternal Calming Source for Caleb Holt.
"Your family's pocket change can't support your lifestyle, Maren," Desmond had sneered on the porch the day I sold my parents' house. "You're just playing pretend. Enjoy your trash."
He never knew about the Holt family trust. Over eighteen years, I had quietly funneled forty million dollars of my inheritance into those shell companies, buying up shares of the Falcons in three massive blind transactions. Desmond thought I was making soup in the kitchen. He had no idea I was buying the team.
I picked up my phone and entered a twelve-digit sequence. The screen went black, then flashed a green encryption icon. It rang once.
"Line secure," a low male voice answered.
It was the third time we had spoken in two years. He only knew my codename.
"It's Architect," I said, leaning against the edge of the table.
"The final transfer cleared this morning, Architect," he noted, his tone strictly professional. "You hold fifty-one percent of the voting shares. The Falcons belong to you."
"I saw the draft," I replied, tracing the edge of the medical certificate. "The front office got their rookie."
"Caleb Holt. Number one overall pick. The executives are ecstatic. They're planning a massive press conference tomorrow to officially welcome him and introduce the new majority owner."
"Who is managing the guest list?" I asked.
"The PR department. Desmond Holt requested six front-row VIP passes for his family and associates. He also demanded field access for his partner, Lola."
My grip on the phone tightened. "Did they grant the request?"
"Pending ownership approval," the voice replied. "The current board members want to meet you before the event. They're nervous about the sudden buyout. They don't like answering to a phantom."
"Let them sweat," I instructed. "Approve Desmond's ticket request. Give Lola her field access."
"Are you sure?" he asked, a hint of confusion breaking his professional facade. "They are acting like they own the franchise. Desmond has already called the head coach twice to discuss offensive strategies."
"Let them play the part," I said. "Let them walk in tomorrow thinking they run the city."
"The board is threatening a walkout if you don't show your face to them beforehand," the voice added. "The minority owners are terrified you're going to gut the front office."
"I will gut the front office," I replied smoothly. "But not tomorrow. Tomorrow is about the draft pick."
"Desmond Holt is already giving interviews. He told a reporter an hour ago that his son's success is entirely due to his rigorous training camp. He's taking full credit."
"Did he mention the soup?" I asked, a dry smile touching my lips.
"Excuse me?"
"Nothing," I said, shaking my head. "What else did Desmond demand?"
"A private locker room for Caleb. A dedicated parking space for himself. He even submitted a list of acceptable caterers for the VIP lounge."
"Approve it all," I ordered. "Give him the parking space. Give him the caterer. Make him feel untouchable."
"You're building him a very high pedestal, Architect."
"A high pedestal guarantees a fatal drop," I stated.
"Understood. What about the medical staff? The team doctors reviewed Caleb's file. They noticed the anomaly in his muscle regeneration."
"They won't figure it out," I told him. "They don't know about the wolfblood trait. Desmond kept it buried to protect his own image."
"The boy's file is flagged. The League requires a registered Maternal Calming Source on payroll for any active player with that specific genetic marker. If he doesn't receive the serum, his hamstring will tear again by week three."
"I have the statutory registration certificate right in front of me," I said, tapping the gold seal on the paper. "I am the only registered source."
"Will you provide the serum to the team doctors?"
"No."
The line went quiet for a brief moment. "If he plays without it, his career is over. The League will suspend him for medical non-compliance before he even takes a snap."
"He claimed Lola did the heavy lifting," I reminded the man on the phone. "Let Lola heal his torn muscles."
"She can't," he pointed out. "She doesn't share his bloodline."
"Exactly."
"The medical committee reached out to my office directly," the proxy continued. "They need the Maternal Calming Source to sign off on Caleb's physical by noon tomorrow. If the signature isn't on the dotted line, the contract is voided."
I ran my finger over the raised gold lettering of my name on the certificate. Maren Holt. The only person on earth who could keep Caleb's supernatural strength from tearing his own body apart.
"Tell the committee the signature will be provided at the press conference," I instructed. "In person."
I walked over to the small kitchen window and looked out at the city skyline. The towering glass buildings glowed against the dark sky. Desmond and Lola were probably celebrating in one of those expensive penthouse suites right now, drinking champagne paid for by Caleb's signing bonus.
"Architect, the board needs your final directives for the press conference," the voice prompted. "They have a designated seat for the mystery owner. The media is expecting a major reveal."
I turned away from the window and stared at the documents scattered across my cheap dining table. I thought about the divorce papers Desmond shoved in my face. I thought about Caleb refusing to look at me, telling me not to make things embarrassing.
"Leave the center of the main table for me at tomorrow's induction press conference," I said into the receiver.
The line went completely silent. Two full seconds ticked by.
