“You write the OutSports interview prep. He’ll do the interview. You won’t. You’ll be in the photo at the bottom of the piece, no quote in the body. The piece is about him. You’re context. We don’t want to look like we’re using this to elevate Eclipse, and we don’t want him to look like a man being saved by a boyfriend.”
“He is, a little,” I admit.
“He’s not a story like that. He’s a man who got hit by a wave and got up. We tell that story. We don’t tell the rescue story.”
“Okay.”
She pulls the laptop toward her. “Pride Sports does a same-day quote for Kennedy. Manufacturers post on Friday afternoon when the BrawlZone segment runs—we make their post the best thing in the feed at the same hour. Frost’s involvement we hold; we never confirm or deny capital sources, that’s Julian’s call. Saturday morning, Victor posts an Instagram statement—you’ll write it, he won’t. The hashtag #StandWithKaine is starting to organize itself; we don’t touch it; we let it grow.”
“How do you know it’s organizing itself?”
“Because I built half of it from a coffee shop on Wednesday, and the other half is real.”
I look at her. “Sloane.”
“What?”
“Thank you.”
She doesn’t look up from the screen. “Don’t. We’re not done.”
By the time Sloane closes her laptop, Victor is on his way to the bank.
I text Victor before his bank meeting.
Walk in with your head high. You’re not alone in this fight. Not anymore.
His response is simple:
Thank you for believing when I couldn’t.
As I stare at those words, I realize something profound is happening. In trying to save what Victor built, we might be building something even stronger.
49
VICTOR
The conference room is set up wrong.
I notice it the moment Patricia opens the door for me—three chairs, a closed folder on the table, a glass of water already poured. Patricia is already standing, and there’s a man in the corner I haven’t met. Tall, thin, late fifties. The kind of charcoal suit that costs as much as my rent.
“Victor. Thank you for coming in.” Patricia’s smile is warmer than the room. “You remember Mr. Linwood. From credit.”
I don’t remember Mr. Linwood. I’ve never met Mr. Linwood. We both know it. He’s here because the meeting requires institutional weight, and Patricia is here because the meeting requires a face I trust.
We shake hands. Linwood’s grip is the practiced one of a man who shakes hands forty times a week. I sit. They sit.
I have a folder of my own. Cashflow projections. The expansion budget restructured. Three downside scenarios. Two days of work. I set it on the table.
Linwood doesn’t look at it.
“Victor, I’ll be direct,” he says. “Given current market conditions and considering certain reputational factors thathave entered the public conversation in the last few days, the bank is going to pause on the expansion line of credit.”
There it is. Forty seconds in.
“Pause.”
“Defer,” he corrects himself. “We’ll plan to revisit at the start of Q2.”