“I’ve only met him a handful of times, at team functions and whatnot, but he didn’t strike me as an evil villain,” Dane said. “But I don’t know him personally. I’ve got no idea how he reacts to situations like this.”
“So we don’t know what we’re walking into,” she said, her brow heavy.
“I’m sure we’ll be fine.”
They pulled up to his estate. The entrance was protected by a wrought-iron gate. Dane announced himself into the speaker, and the gate opened with a whir. They drove along what felt like a mile of paved driveway until glimpses of Mr. Sullivan’s red brick and stone mansion began to show through the branches of tall, ancient trees.
“And you thoughtmyhouse was big,” Dane said as he parked the Maserati in the circular driveway.
“Wow,” Austen mumbled, craning her neck to see the top of the mansion’s turrets.
Rows of neatly manicured shrubs and rose bushes lined the walk to the front porch. The ornate double doors were made of solid wood and guarded by two bronze lions.
“I’m nervous,” Austen muttered, clinging to his side.
“We’ll be okay,” Dane said. He grabbed the metal knocker and banged it against the plate.
Mr. Sullivan came to the door a second later. He was a wiry man in his late sixties and dressed casually. His gray, wispy hair had only a few faded streaks of blonde remaining. Red splotches speckled his face, the damage from years of accrued sun exposure.
“Dane,” he said, “good to see you again.” They shook hands. “And you must be Austen.”
“Yes.” She shook his hand, too. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Sullivan.”
“Call me Dick.”
Mr. Sullivan introduced the pair to his wife, who offered refreshments. Mr. Sullivan led the two to his backyard patio, where the group sat with tea and looked over his private lake. A small flock of Canada geese swam about and waded in the water.
They meandered through small talk before Mr. Sullivan set his mug down and got serious.
“No point beating around the bush; you came here to talk today,” he began. “Throughout my years in business, I’ve learned that people excel when given the trust and autonomy needed to do their job without a manager breathing down their neck.”
Dane and Austen nodded.
“People perform at their very best when they have pride in their job—when money is not the reward, but lovingwhat you do is the reward. I believe this is true at every level, from the most entry-level position in an organization, all the way to the executives.”
Dane felt uneasy, and Austen shifted uncomfortably in her seat. They couldn’t quite see where this was leading.
“That is half the reason why I’ve taken such a hands-off approach to sports ownership. The other half,” Mr. Sullivan said, with the hint of an ornery smile, “is because, as much as I love hockey, I don’t know the first damn thing about building a winning hockey club. This is just an expensive hobby for an old man like me. I’d rather find the people who know how to build a successful franchise, hire them, and then get out of their way.”
The group turned their attention to the lake, where the group of Canada geese had begun to honk and flap their wings. The flock took to the sky and flew right overhead, honking.
Mr. Sullivan turned to Austen. “Naturally, as soon as I heard the news, I had to read your piece myself. What I read about how my organization operated was deeply troubling.”
“It was troubling for me, too,” Austen said.
“Ifit’s true,” Mr. Sullivan said, holding up a finger. “Before I met with you, I talked with Mr. Baumbach and Mr. Bray to hear their side of the story. Mr. Bray admitted there was a gag order but denied everything else in your story.”
Austen reached for her bag. “I figured he would, so I came prepared.”
She passed Mr. Sullivan the stack of photos that she’d taken from Thayer. Mr. Sullivan examined the first few, but his interest waned when the photos became intimate. He handed them back, a hint of disgust on his lips. “But why would Mr. Bray give you these?”
“He didn’t. I stole them from him when he tried to blackmail me.” Austen pulled out her laptop. “I’ve got this to prove it, too.” The phone recording began to play. Mr. Sullivan only needed to hear the first damning detail before he waved his hand in the air.
“I’ve heard enough,” he said with a sigh. “He clearly lied to me. Hm.” Mr. Sullivan took a moment to ponder his thoughts. “This is the downside of my philosophy. Some people take the freedom you give them and abuse it for their own personal benefit. I’m afraid that’s what happened over the past couple of years.”
“What do you mean?” Austen asked.
“With the death of Campbell, business got personal.”
