The moment I saw Coach Vic’s short-notice email about hiring her as a performance strategist—a job I’ve never even heard of before—I started digging, trying to find her online.
And the results were concerning.
Aside from a single, mostly blank LinkedIn page, there was next to nothing on Wren Beaumont online. No news clips from a high school track team. No friends or even friends-of-friends on social media mentioning her in a post. An eerily quiet online presence that made me instantly on-guard.
If you were asking the internet for proof that she existed, she would be practically invisible. And something about that bugs me. I’ve known guys who hire and meet with elite athletecoaches. Teams hire strategists all the time—buttheyhave online platforms. They have testimonials from other clients to show that they’re effective.
Wren Beaumont has none of that.
When somethingdidcome up—a headline reading16-year-old Detained in Relation to Sports Betting Fraud Also Suspected Fine Art Forgery Scheme, Other Unsolved Cases—I tapped on it right away.
Only for505: Page Not Foundto stare back at me. And when I tapped back out to the original search, the listing was completely gone, like it had never existed in the first place.
Did I see it right? Something about sports betting, art fraud?
At first, I wasn’t sure. But now, looking at her, I’m convinced it wasn’t a fluke. She looks like the kind of woman who could forge something very close to the real thing.
“With all due respect,” Wren says, her voice cool and melodic, sending a shudder up the length of my spine. “I prefer to work alone.”
I can feel the tension coiling through my body like a serpent. Where the hell did Vic even find her? How did he convince the VP and other hiring managers to bring her on board?
“Now, wait a second. I think this could be good,” Vic says, reaching out and touching the table in front of her. His eyes bounce between the two of us. “Luca knows more about this team than anyone.”
Because I’ve spent the past four years of my life building this team from nothing. I’ve brought in the guys, created the community, and earned every single fan that tunes in to watch our games.
And I’m not about to let some grifter come in here, mess with my strategy, and send us off course. Not when this is the year—thisis finally the year that we’re going to win the Stanley Cup.
We’re going to break the record for fastest championship after team inception—a mark on the history of this sport that nobody will be able to take from us.
Throughout the rest of the meeting, Wren gives me cool, calculating looks, but I pointedly keep from catching her eyes again. I’m not going to give her the satisfaction. Plus, I don’t want her to realize that I’m onto her.
Coach Vic means well, but his consistent experimentation with the team can sometimes be to its detriment. Mandatory goat yoga. Spiritual release therapy. Each player memorizing his own poem as a way to “expand our minds and unlock our potential.” Hiring a strategist that doesn’t even have a solid portfolio is exactly something he would do.
Still, outside of the constant fad-chasing, he’s a genius. And we’re not getting anywhere close to the championship without him.
For the next hour, I sit across the table from her as she outlines her background, most of which sounds purposefully vague or straight-up vague. Education in game theory. A history in sports. Then, her time with the FBI, delivered with a cheeky, “But, as you know, I can’t divulge much of the details when it comes to that.”
“Of course,” the VP says, nodding, though he shouldn’t be. He should be pressing for more details than this. Does she have a degree? Has she ever worked on something like this before? How is it that these guys are eating out of her hand? “We understand.”
Realizing I’m not going to get anywhere protesting this during the meeting—I catch Coach Vic and stop him before he heads into the hallway.
“Coach,” I start, but he cuts me off.
“We’re all on board, McKenzie,” he says, glancing up at me through his bushy eyebrows.
“You’re letting in a total stranger,” I argue, crossing my arms. “What if she—I don’t know—influences our strategy, then feeds that information to another team to double her income?”
Something flickers over Vic’s face, and he clears his throat before shaking his head and tucking a few papers into a folder under his arm. “This will be good for the team. That girl is a genius, and she’s just what we need. Just trust me.”
“I trustyou—”
“She’s also signed an NDA,” he interjects, “just like you did. Just like we all did.”
I bite my tongue, glancing out into the hallway and catching a glimpse of Wren disappearing around the corner. I could stay here and argue with him, or I could follow her and confront her about her intentions.
“Alright.” I clap Vic on the shoulder and turn, letting him sit in his surprise that I haven’t decided to press the issue.
I’m halfway down the hallway when I hear Wren’s voice, low and sharp. I stop in my tracks, flattening myself to the wall. In the elevator doors, I can see the form of her, slightly warped in the metal, staring at her phone, then bringing it to her ear.
