The Grass Isn't Greener- Chapter 9

The Ronald Hypergrid Stadium, Borealis Bay, Republic of Sǫ̀mbak’è

 

November 20, 2022,
8:02 local time,
The Grand Sǫ̀mbak’è Ballroom,
Yellowknife District, Borealis Bay, Republic of Sǫ̀mbak’è

Morning light filtered through the crystal panels of the Grand Sǫ̀mbak’è Ballroom, refracted into cool blues and pale whites that softened the edges of power. Breakfast had been laid with deliberate restraint- coffee, fruit, bread still warm- nothing indulgent, nothing that lingered.

By afternoon, a WFL game would kick off across town.

By evening, Borealis Bay would be judged.

The owners took their seats with the quiet efficiency of people who understood time as leverage. Some sipped coffee. Others didn’t touch a thing. The windows behind them framed the harbor, where icebreakers and cargo ships moved with slow confidence through the bay. Capital at ease.

Neutral ground. For now.

At the head of the room stood Leo Corbin, Commissioner of the World Football League, already halfway through his second cup. He didn’t waste time with ceremony. The league seal hovered discreetly beside him, rotating slowly.

“Let’s begin,” Corbin said.

The agenda illuminated the wall.

Ownership Approval – Gotham Tea Party
Ownership Approval – Washington Football Club
Market Observation – Borealis Bay (Informal)

The last line carried no vote.

Everyone understood it anyway.

Thomas McCrain sat alone—not isolated, just unencumbered. No team colors. No pin. No attempt at performative continuity. He looked less like a man acquiring a football team and more like one closing a merger before lunch.

Across the table, Ronald Rust looked energized by the room. Open collar. Confident posture. He smiled easily, spoke quietly, and made sure to be seen doing both. Washington- or whatever would come after- already felt portable in his hands.

Corbin gestured. “Mr. McCrain. Before the vote, questions.”

One came quickly.

“You’ve announced a full organizational overhaul,” said an owner from the Philemon delegation, voice measured. “Coaching. Front office. Player personnel. Midseason. The Tea Party are one and nine. Why should this league absorb that level of disruption right now?”

McCrain folded his hands.

“Because the disruption already exists,” he said evenly. “I’m not creating instability. I’m ending denial.”

A low murmur passed through the room.

“The Tea Party aren’t losing because of randomness,” he continued. “They’re losing because no one’s been willing to break the glass. I am.”

“And the fan base?” another owner asked. “Gotham isn’t known for patience.”

McCrain looked up.

“Fans don’t need reassurance,” he said. “They need clarity. If clarity hurts, it was already broken.”

Corbin watched him for a beat, then nodded. “Thank you.”

The vote appeared.

Approved.

Unanimous.

Breakfast plates remained untouched.

Corbin turned. “Mr. Rust.”

Rust straightened, already ready.

“There has been significant discussion,” Corbin said carefully, “regarding your public comments on Washington’s long-term future.”

Rust smiled, hands open. “Discussion is healthy.”

“You’ve stated your intent to relocate.”

“I’ve stated my intent to evaluate opportunity,” Rust replied smoothly. “Including Borealis Bay.”

No one missed the glance toward the windows.

“You’re aware Washington is one of the league’s legacy identities,” said Jerrel “J.J.” Jameson, leaning back in his chair. His voice carried the weight of someone who’d buried that argument under stadiums and survived. “Cities don’t forget being abandoned.”

Rust met his eyes. “Neither do leagues that refuse to grow.”

A pause- longer this time.

Corbin raised a hand. “This body is not voting on relocation. Only ownership eligibility.”

“Understood,” Rust said, without hesitation.

The vote appeared.

Approved.

Not unanimous…but more than enough.

As the results faded, Corbin stood.

“Today’s game will proceed as scheduled,” he said. “We’ll observe. Quietly. Operations, turnout, civic response. No promises. No announcements.”

Outside, a ship’s horn echoed faintly across the bay.

Sǫ̀mbak’è heard it.

McCrain rose first, already mentally elsewhere. Rust followed, smiling like a man who enjoyed being evaluated.

Two new owners.

Two incompatible visions.

And a city that knew this was more than a game.

Breakfast adjourned.

Kickoff awaited.

After the meeting, most of the owners drifted toward side conversations or their phones. A few stood at the windows, already talking about kickoff logistics and broadcast angles. The Ballroom had relaxed—not because tension was gone, but because the formalities were finished.

Thomas McCrain had already sat back down.

A plate had appeared in front of him without comment. He hadn’t ordered. He never did. Scrambled eggs. Toast. Black coffee. He ate like someone who didn’t expect to be interrupted.

Ronald Rust slid into the chair across from him, carrying his own plate, still warm.

“So,” Rust said lightly, setting it down. “That went well.”

Thomas didn’t look up. “It went predictably.”

Rust smiled. “You always say that after the fact.”

Thomas took a sip of coffee. “I say it before, too. People just don’t listen.”

They ate in silence for a moment. Forks. Porcelain. The muted sound of money thinking.

Rust broke first.

“You didn’t flinch,” he said. “Not once. Even when Jameson started posturing.”

“He wasn’t posturing,” Thomas replied. “He was mourning.”

Rust laughed softly. “You make it sound so clinical.”

“It is,” Thomas said. “Cities age. Leagues pretend they don’t.”

Rust studied him, then leaned back slightly.

“You were right,” he said. “About Washington. About the timing. About Borealis Bay.”

Thomas kept eating.

“But,” Rust continued, “you’re also… invested.”

That got Thomas’ attention. Not a reaction—just a pause.

“I’ve seen the filings,” Rust said. “Infrastructure. Hospitality. Secondary logistics. Quiet stakes. You’re not just betting on the team. You’re betting on the city.”

Thomas set his fork down neatly.

“I don’t bet,” he said. “I position.”

Rust tilted his head. “That’s a big position.”

“Yes.”

“Why here?” Rust asked. “Of all places. You could’ve pointed me at a dozen markets that would’ve said yes faster.”

Thomas glanced toward the windows, where Borealis Bay sat under a pale winter sun—ice, steel, water, and order.

“Because this city doesn’t need permission,” he said. “It needs recognition.”

Rust frowned slightly. “That’s not an answer.”

“It is,” Thomas said. “You just don’t like it.”

Rust smiled despite himself. “Alright. Then give me the other one.”

Thomas leaned back.

“Borealis Bay already functions like a major market,” he said. “Capital concentration. Transit. Corporate appetite. Labor discipline. It just hasn’t been branded as one yet.”

“And the cold?” Rust asked. “The distance?”

“Features,” Thomas said. “Not bugs.”

Rust chuckled. “You sound like a planner.”

“I sound like someone who reads balance sheets,” Thomas replied. “Warm cities spend money trying to look important. Cold cities spend money because they already are.”

Rust let that sit.

“You’re sure the league follows through,” he said. “No last-minute hesitation. No sentimental revolt?”

Thomas met his eyes.

“The league doesn’t decide first,” he said. “It ratifies last.”

Rust exhaled slowly. “So it’s done.”

“It’s done,” Thomas agreed. “They just haven’t written the language yet.”

Rust picked up his coffee again, swirling it thoughtfully.

“And Gotham?” he asked. “You really going to burn it down midseason?”

Thomas shrugged. “I’m going to stop pretending it’s fine.”

Rust smiled. “You convinced me to move a team halfway across the continent, and you still look like the calmer one.”

Thomas took another sip.

“Because I’m not attached to outcomes,” he said. “Only trajectories.”

Outside, somewhere across the bay, preparations for kickoff were already underway.

Rust stood, plate empty.

“Well,” he said, “if you’re right about this place…”

Thomas looked back to his breakfast.

“I am,” he said.

Rust laughed once, low and satisfied, and walked away—already picturing a new skyline, a new logo, a city that would soon belong to him.

Thomas finished eating.

Winter waited.

As the owners ate, Leo Corbin stood with his hands loosely clasped behind his back, facing the windows.

From this height, Borealis Bay looked almost deliberate—ice tracing the shoreline, steel rising cleanly from rock, ships cutting slow, disciplined lines through the water. Winter hadn’t softened the city. It had clarified it.

Thomas McCrain joined him without announcement.

“They’ll like the game,” Leo said, more to the glass than to Thomas. “Cold weather sells. Broadcast numbers love contrast.”

“They already love it,” Thomas replied. “Your numbers are the best they’ve ever been.”

Leo turned slightly. “They are.”

“And yet,” Thomas continued, “ESPC renewed with a polite bump. Not an aggressive one.”

Leo sighed. “You saw the deal.”

“I read contracts for sport,” Thomas said.

Leo gave a half-smile. “That’s my problem.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the city doing what it always did—working.

“You don’t think they value us?” Leo asked.

“I think they value exclusivity more than they value you,” Thomas said. “Those aren’t the same thing.”

Leo frowned. “We’ve had a good relationship with ESPC. I’m not interested in poisoning it.”

“You wouldn’t be,” Thomas said. “You’d be fertilizing it.”

Leo turned fully now. “That’s a generous metaphor.”

Thomas didn’t smile.

“Right now,” he said, “they have no reason to compete. You’re the biggest property they can keep without effort. So they do.”

“And your solution is to scare them?” Leo asked.

“My solution,” Thomas replied, “is to remind them what fear costs.”

Leo folded his arms. “You’re talking about courting other networks.”

“I’m talking about options,” Thomas said. “Marquee. Civic. Different audiences. Different incentives.”

Leo shook his head. “That’s a line you don’t uncross easily.”

“You don’t need to cross it,” Thomas said. “You just need to step on it.”

Leo raised an eyebrow.

“Give them a package,” Thomas continued. “Not the crown jewels. A late window. A regional slate. A handful of neutral-site games. Let them prove production value. Let ESPC notice.”

“And if ESPC gets offended?”

Thomas gestured toward the skyline.

“They’ll get competitive.”

Leo stared back out at the bay. The wind had picked up; flags along the harbor snapped sharply.

“You make it sound simple,” he said.

“It is,” Thomas replied. “It’s just uncomfortable.”

Leo exhaled. “I don’t want to blow up a relationship that took years to build.”

“You won’t,” Thomas said. “You’ll strengthen it. Exclusivity breeds complacency. Access breeds bids.”

Another pause.

“I’m not committing to anything,” Leo said finally.

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” Thomas replied. “Only to notice the leverage you already have.”

Leo glanced at him then—really looked.

“You know,” he said, “for someone who can’t tell a nickel defense from a paper bag, you sound awfully confident about the future of football.”

Thomas’ eyes stayed on the city.

“I don’t talk football,” he said. “I talk business.”

Leo laughed quietly at that—not because it was funny, but because it was uncomfortably true.

Outside, Borealis Bay held its shape.

Somewhere, also, networks were already recalculating.

November 20, 2022,
12:12 local time,
Ronald HyperGrid Stadium,
Yellowknife District, Borealis Bay, Republic of Sǫ̀mbak’è

Ronald HyperGrid Stadium was not loud yet.

That was the first thing the owners noticed as they stepped into the bowl—no music, no crowd, no forced spectacle. Just space. Cold air. Structure. The quiet confidence of a system warming up.

The field crew moved with rehearsed precision, checking seams in the smart turf, calibrating embedded sensors, confirming wind deflection along the open rim. Above them, faint holographic traces flickered and vanished as the HyperGrid ran diagnostics- routes appearing briefly in the air, ghosting out again.

Leo Corbin stopped near the railing.

“This is… finished,” he said.

“It was finished before you agreed to come,” Ronald Rust replied mildly.

Rust stood a step ahead of the group, hands clasped behind his back, watching the stadium the way an architect watches a building finally stop resisting its purpose. Composite alloys caught the pale daylight cleanly. Nothing wasted. Nothing decorative.

“This place is going to be miserable,” muttered Rolando Virelli, the South Beach Tide representative, squinting toward the open edge of the bowl where cold wind threaded through unimpeded. “My receivers are going to file grievances.”

Thomas McCrain didn’t turn.

“They’ll adjust,” he said. “Or they’ll lose.”

Virelli snorted- but he didn’t argue. His eyes had already drifted back to the field, to the massive lower bowl that seemed to press inward rather than rise, compressing noise into something sharper.

Someone else said it quietly, almost reverently.

“Ninety-two thousand,” an owner murmured. “And every seat wired.”

“Optional overlays,” Rust corrected. “We don’t punish traditionalists.”

Thomas glanced at him. “You don’t indulge them either.”

Rust smiled faintly.

Above the stadium, drones lifted in synchronized arcs, rehearsing the opening moments of the Bison Charge- not yet the full stampede, just outlines, test patterns, a suggestion of motion to come. Even unfinished, it was arresting.

Leo exhaled slowly.

“You built this,” he said to Thomas. Not a question.

“I asked for it,” Thomas replied. “Ronald executed.”

The group began moving again, drawn toward the south end where the halftime staging area was already alive with activity.

That was when someone noticed her.

Tulip Errons stood near the edge of the field, wrapped in a long coat that did nothing to disguise her presence. Technicians hovered respectfully nearby, adjusting lighting angles, testing audio levels. Even without music, the space bent toward her.

A few owners slowed. No one said her name out loud at first.

“That’s… for halftime?” someone asked.

“Yes,” Rust said. “She wanted to rehearse in the actual environment.”

Thomas watched the owners watch her.

Not awe. Calculation.

Then someone else noticed him.

Off to the side, half-shadowed near a tunnel entrance, Eamon Archer stood with his arms folded, eyes fixed on Tulip. Not performing. Not signaling. Just there- present in the way people are when they’re anchored to something they don’t fully control.

A couple of glances flicked his way. No one lingered.

He wasn’t the story.

Tulip was.

Yet the owners felt it almost simultaneously- the shift, the quiet intake of breath that happens when money senses culture before culture senses money.

“If even a fraction of her audience-” one of them began.

Leo didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.

Football had never needed permission to be popular. Yet this- this was adjacency. Osmosis. A different kind of growth.

Thomas said nothing.

He didn’t need to sell the idea. The stadium had already done it. The city had done it. Tulip was just the catalyst that made the math obscene.

Ronald Rust looked pleased- but not surprised.

“Kickoff’s in two hours,” he said. “We’ll let you get settled.”

As the group turned back toward the concourse, the HyperGrid completed another silent check. Data flowed. Wind shifted. The cold held.

Borealis Bay was ready.

The league was catching up.

By nightfall, everyone would pretend this had always been the plan.

The owners continued their tour. They were halfway along the lower concourse when the flow stalled—not from confusion, but recognition.

A small security detail had appeared ahead, understated but unmistakable. No uniforms. No weapons on display. Just posture.

Leo slowed first.

“Ah,” he said quietly.

The man who stepped into view wore a dark overcoat suited more for wind than ceremony. No entourage. No performance. Just presence.

Darren Rydell, Great Speaker of Sǫ̀mbak’è, surveyed the stadium with a measured calm that suggested he was less interested in being impressed than in confirming what he already knew.

“This is,” Rydell said, “larger than the renderings.”

Ronald Rust inclined his head. “We aimed for honesty.”

Rydell smiled faintly. “You aimed for inevitability.”

The owners straightened—not out of fear, but instinct. Even Virelli nodded politely.

“For the record,” Rydell continued, “the Republic appreciates that the league chose to visit rather than announce.”

Leo answered carefully. “We’re evaluating.”

Rydell glanced toward the field, where faint HyperGrid overlays shimmered and disappeared.

“So are we,” he said.

He didn’t linger. He didn’t bless anything. He simply walked with them for a few steps, long enough for everyone to understand what this meant.

This wasn’t a lease.

It was alignment.

As Rydell peeled away toward the tunnel, Thomas caught Leo’s eye.

No words.

Just confirmation.

Later- much later- analysts would say this was the moment the WFL stopped treating Borealis Bay as a market and started treating it as a partner.

In the stadium though, in the cold, with drones rehearsing above and Tulip’s voice echoing faintly from the far end of the field, it felt simpler than that.

A country had shown up.

The league had noticed.