Charles hung up the phone then leaned back in the chair, disappointment threatening to cloud his vision. He wanted to scream. To kick something. To curl his hand into a fist and put it through a wall.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath instead, slowly releasing it through his clenched teeth. This was nothing more than one more disappointment in a long line of disappointments. Just another obstacle. He should be used to it by now, right?

Hell, he had told himself he wanted the challenge, that he was up for it. Nothing like a nice challenge to sharpen his skills and focus his mind.

But fuck, it would be nice to catch one break. Just one. Was that asking for too much?

Apparently.

He glanced at his watch and bit back a curse. The meeting was starting in five minutes and he had absolutely nothing new to report. There was no more interest now than there had been since the first game three weeks ago. And the Blades had won all three—their first two at home, as well as their road game in New York on Saturday.

It didn't matter that the other teams were hitting the same brick wall he was: a complete lack of interest in women's hockey. It made no sense. He hadn't expected news outlets to be beating down his door with requests, but he hadn't expected this depressing wall of silence, either. Would this weekend's little exhibition at the Banners' home game help? Maybe. But he couldn't count on it.

And with a very limited budget for advertising, he was trapped. Social media only worked for so long. Low-budget ads in the local papers only reached so far. And forget television spots—there simply wasn't enough money for that.

Hell, the team barely had enough money to fix the fucking ice, something the girls had complained about—loudly—after their first game. He'd gone out there himself and could see exactly what they were talking about. And if he could see it, with his limited experience, why the hell couldn't Murphy?

Because Murphy wasn't looking at it the same way. Not even close. To Murphy and the rest of his cronies, this was nothing more than a quaint experience. A chance to live out a dream of owning a sports team. If it didn't work out, it would be nothing more than a tax write-off for the older man.

But it was a hell of a lot more than that to the ladies. To Taylor. Why couldn't Murph see that? It wasn't Charles's job, not even close, but even he could see something needed to change. If it didn't, Taylor's fears would become a reality: everything would implode before the season was halfway over.

Charles pushed back his anger and grabbed the thick file from the corner of his desk. He wasn't looking forward to the meeting, wasn't looking forward to dropping some cold hard truths on the table. It needed to be done, though, and he wasn't sure there was anyone else who could do it.

He pushed through the doors of the conference room, his gaze sweeping across the expensive leather chairs and gleaming surface of the custom table. Anger flashed through him again but he pushed it down, holding it in check as James turned toward him.

"Chuck. I was just getting ready to call you. What have you got for us? Good news, I hope. Ticket sales aren't even close to what we were hoping for."

Charles opened his mouth then quickly snapped it closed. His carefully planned speech hovered right on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't get the words out. Six sets of eyes watched him, their bored faces filled with nothing more than polite patience. Only Murphy looked like he was remotely interested, but not for the right reasons.

Not even close.

Charles scanned each impassive face, taking in the expensive designer suits and flashy rings and watches. His gaze rested on the large, intricately-cut Waterford crystal bowl that sat in the middle of the polished table then traveled to the new, state-of-the-art AV system built into the far wall. Why the hell did they even need it? Nobody was using it as far as he knew, not even the coaching staff, who filmed the practices and games on someone's personal camera then watched them at home.

Charles tossed the overstuffed file onto the table, hard enough that papers scattered across the surface. He leaned forward and planted his fists on the table then fixed Murphy with a frigid glare.

"How much was this table?"

Thick white brows shot up above steely eyes. "Chuck, I don't think—"

"How about this bowl? How much? A couple grand?" Charles pushed away from the table and moved to the end of the room, all eyes focused on him as he stopped in front of the AV system. "Or this? How much?"

"I don't see—"

"When the hell has anyone ever used it, Murph?" He pulled in a deep breath and let it out, slow and even as he walked around the table. Murph was staring at him, surprise and anger simmering in his steely eyes. Had Charles expected anything different? No, of course not. Not really. Hell, he didn't know what he expected.

So he might as well keep going.

"You've spared no expense when it comes to this front office. It was designed to impress and it sure as hell does its job. The only problem is, nobody is interested in coming here. Local media is less-than-enthusiastic about the entire team. The majority of the public doesn't even know the Blades exist. And those that do know don't care enough. There's nothing to entice them into coming. Nothing—"

"That's exactly why we brought you on, Chuck. It's your job to get them here."

His temper flared and he leaned across the table again. "With what? You gave me a job to do but absolutely no budget to work with. You sit up here in your designer suits surrounded by all the trimmings that scream success while downstairs, the girls are risking broken ankles by playing on destroyed ice. And they're doing it for damn near free."

"That's not true. They get paid. All of them."

Charles laughed, the sound sharp and bitter. "Paid? You can actually sit there and say that with a straight face? Every single one of them works another job. Some of them are working two jobs. But they keep showing up here, busting their asses, because they love the game."

"And where exactly do you suggest we pull money from? Ticket sales are stagnant. Like you said, people aren't interested. That was your job, Chuck. To get them interested."

Charles didn't miss the man's use of the past-tense. Had he just shot himself in the foot? Maybe. What the hell. He might as well keep going. It certainly couldn't hurt.

"You need to increase the marketing budget. Let me run some real ads. Come up with some giveaways and incentives to get people through the door. Look into sponsors. Spend some money for a line of souvenirs to offer for sale. Hell, something. Anything. Get the damn ice fixed before someone gets hurt. And do something about that damn bus you've got the team using for their road games. It has an exhaust leak that's damn near deadly."

Silence, thick and heavy, settled over the room. A few of the men dropped their gazes, focusing on the table. One or two looked out the large tinted window. But not Murphy.

The older man watched him with those steely eyes, his jaw set and his back and shoulders rigid. Charles met that cold look. Refusing to look away, refusing to back down.

He expected Murph to tell him to get lost. To tell him to clean out his desk and start looking for a new job. Fair enough—Charles knew that was a possibility before he opened his mouth. It would suck, but he could find another job. Because he was that good.

At least, he was that good when he actually had something to work with.

Murph finally broke eye contact and glanced around the table. He frowned then turned back to Charles. "How do you know all this?"

"Know all what?"

"About the ice. The bus. The girls working other jobs. How do you know?"

Christ, was he serious? Yes, he was. Charles ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. "Because I talk to them, Murph. Because I've gotten to know them. Maybe you should try it."

And yeah, that time he had gone too far. He could see it in the way color blossomed on Murph's face and in the way the older man's eyes narrowed. The man next to Murph—Charles couldn't remember his name—leaned in and said something in a low voice. Murph frowned again, shot another dangerous look at Charles, then turned back to the other man, still listening to whatever was being said. A long minute went by, filled with thick tension.

Murphy released a loud sigh, sat back in the chair, and steepled his fingers under his chin. The silence continued to stretch around them, long enough that Charles actually shifted his weight from one foot to the other, feeling like a kid ready to receive some kind of harsh punishment.

"I'll make sure money is added to your budget. And I'll have someone look into the bus situation. Will that work?"

Charles blinked, wondering if he was hearing things. No, he wasn't. It took more control than he thought it would to keep his mouth from dropping open in shock. "Yeah. Yes. That would be great."

"Good. Now, about the other things." Murphy glanced at the man next to him then turned back to Charles. "A few of us will be at practice tomorrow night. Make sure you're there. I want you to introduce the girls to everyone. And then I want you to have someone show me what the problem is with the ice."

"Yes, of course. No problem."

"Good." Murph pushed away from the table and stood, a clear signal of dismissal. Charles reached for the scattered papers and shoved them back into the folder, ready to disappear before Murphy changed his mind.

"Chuck? One more thing."

"Yeah?"

"I'm still expecting results. And soon. Understood?"

"Yeah. Absolutely." Charles nodded, glanced around the room and nodded again, then hurried out.

Holy shit. It had worked. Not that he had been planning on saying any of that, but it had worked. It was a start.

He glanced at his watch, wondering if it was too early to call Taylor. She was working at the gym until five tonight but her job was pretty flexible. Did she have a client right now? He couldn't remember.

It didn't matter. He'd still call her. If she couldn't talk, he'd leave her a voicemail and give her the news. Maybe she'd even have some ideas on what to say and do tomorrow night because he sure as hell didn't.