Chapter 88 Something Real
Crew's POV,
The call from Groundwork came three days after the article published, on a Sunday morning while Harper and I were attempting to make pancakes and failing spectacularly.
Marcus's name lit up my phone. I almost didn't answer—he'd been unusually quiet since the interview, and I was pretty sure he was either furious with me or trying to figure out how to drop me as a client without looking like an asshole.
"Yeah?" I answered, flipping a pancake that immediately fell apart.
"Crew. We need to talk. Are you sitting down?"
"I'm making breakfast. Or trying to. What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. Something's very right, actually." He paused for dramatic effect, which was so Marcus it hurt. "Groundwork Athletic wants to meet with you. Tomorrow if possible. They're flying their CEO up from Portland specifically to talk to you about an endorsement deal."
I turned off the stove. Harper looked up from her coffee, eyebrows raised.
"The company Maya mentioned?"
"The very same. And Crew, they're serious. They want you as the face of their new campaign—not despite your recovery, because of it. They're calling it 'Built From Broken.' Athletes who've overcome real adversity. Real stories. No bullshit."
"How much are we talking?"
"They're offering four hundred thousand base over two years, plus profit-sharing on any signature line products. Could end up being more if the campaign does well. It's not Apex money, but it's legitimate."
I felt Harper's hand on my arm.
"What's the catch?" I asked. "What does the morality clause look like?"
"That's the thing. There isn't one. Well, there is, but it's basically 'don't commit crimes or be a Nazi.' Nothing about recovery or addiction or mental health. They actually want you to be public about it. They're planning to donate a portion of proceeds to addiction recovery organizations. They want you involved in choosing which ones."
I sat down at the kitchen table, suddenly dizzy. "This is real?"
"This is very real. They've been watching your career since the first article published. When you turned down Apex and did that interview, their CEO apparently told his team 'that's the guy.' They want authenticity. They want someone who's not afraid to be human."
"When do they want to meet?"
"Tomorrow. One PM at their Vancouver office. They're opening a Canadian headquarters here next month, so they've got temporary space downtown. Can you make it?"
I looked at Harper. She was nodding before I even asked.
"I'll be there."
After I hung up, Harper hugged me so hard I couldn't breathe.
"This is good," she said into my shoulder. "This is really good."
"It's not three million."
"It's honest money. That's worth more."
"We'll see if you still think that when we're eating ramen for dinner."
"We're eating burned pancakes for breakfast. Ramen would be an upgrade."
\---
Monday at noon, I was standing in front of my closet having a minor crisis about what to wear to meet a CEO who specifically wanted me because I was authentic.
"Just wear what you'd normally wear," Harper suggested from the bed, where she was allegedly working on clinic scheduling but actually watching me panic.
"I normally wear sweatpants and Canucks gear. That doesn't feel professional."
"Then wear jeans and a nice shirt. You're overthinking this."
"I'm about to meet someone who might give me four hundred thousand dollars. I think overthinking is appropriate."
I settled on dark jeans and a button-down, the kind of outfit that said "I'm trying but not too hard." Harper approved. Marcus texted that he'd meet me there.
The Groundwork office was in a renovated warehouse in Gastown, all exposed brick and industrial lighting and the kind of deliberately casual aesthetic that screamed "we're successful but still down to earth." A receptionist who looked about twenty-two led me to a conference room where Marcus was already waiting.
"You look nervous," he observed.
"I am nervous. I'm bad at this stuff."
"You're not bad at it. You're just honest. Which is exactly what they want." He straightened his tie. "Crew, let me do most of the talking for contract stuff. But when they ask about your story, about recovery, about why you turned down Apex—that's all you. Just be yourself."
"What if myself isn't good enough?"
"Then they're idiots and we walk. But I don't think that's going to happen."
The door opened. A woman in her forties walked in—athletic build, graying hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing jeans and a Groundwork hoodie. She had the kind of face that looked like she'd spent a lot of time outdoors, laugh lines around her eyes.
"Crew Lawson," she said, extending her hand. "I'm Rebecca Torres. CEO of Groundwork. Thanks for meeting with me."
Her handshake was firm, confident. She sat across from us, declining the receptionist's offer of coffee.
"I'll get right to it," Rebecca said. "I've been following your career since you signed with Vancouver. The article about your recovery—the first one, the one you published three weeks ago—that resonated with me. My brother struggled with addiction for fifteen years. Opioids, same as you. He died four years ago from an overdose."
The room got very quiet.
"I'm sorry," I said.
"Thank you. But here's the thing—my brother was ashamed of his addiction. He hid it. He lied about it. He thought asking for help made him weak. And that shame killed him." She leaned forward. "When I read your article, I thought: this is what my brother needed. Someone public, someone successful, someone saying 'I'm an addict and I'm not ashamed.' So I've been watching to see if you'd sustain that honesty or if it was just a PR move."
"It wasn't PR," I said. "It was survival. I couldn't stay sober while lying."
"I know. And that's why I'm here." She pulled out a tablet, showed me mockups for a campaign. "Built From Broken. We want to feature athletes with real stories. Injuries. Addiction. Mental health struggles. The stuff that usually gets hidden or sanitized. We want to show that athletic performance isn't just about natural talent—it's about overcoming actual adversity."
The mockups showed athletes in various states of struggle and recovery. A runner with a prosthetic leg. A basketball player mid-panic attack. And there, in the center—me, in Canucks gear, with text that read: "122 days sober. Still playing. Still fighting. Still here."
"This is powerful," Marcus said, studying the designs.
"It's honest," Rebecca corrected. "And that's our brand. Transparent manufacturing. Ethical labor. Real stories. No bullshit." She looked at me. "Crew, I heard you turned down three million from Apex because they wanted you to hide your recovery. Is that true?"
"Yes."
"That took courage. And it told me everything I needed to know about whether you'd be a good fit for Groundwork." She swiped to another screen—contract terms. "Four hundred thousand base over two years. Quarterly installments. Profit-sharing on any signature products—we're thinking a recovery-focused line, portion of proceeds going to treatment programs. You'd have input on which organizations we support. And there's no morality clause beyond basic 'don't be a criminal or bigot' language."
"What about NA meetings? Recovery events? Talking publicly about addiction?"
"Not only allowed—encouraged. We want you at recovery events wearing Groundwork gear. We want you talking about this stuff. The more authentic, the better."
I looked at Marcus. He was grinning.
"There's one more thing," Rebecca said. "We want you to help us develop a grants program for athletes in early recovery who can't afford treatment. Your name on it. Your story driving it. You'd be on the selection committee, help decide who gets funding. I'm thinking fifty thousand annually to start, scaling up as the company grows."
Something in my chest cracked open.
"Why?" I asked. "Why do all this? You could sign any athlete. Why specifically me and specifically this?"
Rebecca was quiet for a moment. "Because my brother needed this. Because there are thousands of athletes out there hiding addiction, thinking they have to choose between honesty and their careers. Because someone needs to tell them that's a false choice." She looked me dead in the eyes. "And because you already proved you'd choose honesty over money. I want to work with someone who has those values. Even if it costs him."
"Especially because it cost him," Marcus added quietly.
We spent the next hour going through contract details. Marcus negotiated a few points—increasing the profit-sharing percentage, adding performance bonuses tied to campaign success, ensuring I had creative input on marketing materials. Rebecca was easy to work with, flexible, genuinely seemed to care about building something meaningful instead of just profitable.
By three PM, we had a deal.
"I'll have legal draft the formal contract and send it over this week," Rebecca said, shaking my hand. "Welcome to Groundwork, Crew. I think we're going to do something important together."
After she left, Marcus and I sat in the conference room alone.
"That was surreal," I said.
"That was a miracle. Three days ago, you were unemployable. Now you have a deal with a company that actually values what you stand for." He closed his laptop. "Crew, I'm sorry I pushed you toward Apex. I was thinking about money instead of what you actually needed."
"You were doing your job."
"My job is representing your best interests. Not just your bank account." He stood up. "You made the right call. Turning down Apex. Doing the interview. All of it. This is proof."
I left the office and called Harper immediately.
"How'd it go?" she asked, breathless.
"I signed. Four hundred thousand over two years. No morality clause. They actually want me to be public about recovery. And Harper—they're starting a grant program for athletes who can't afford treatment. They want me to help run it."
She made a sound that might have been a laugh or a sob. "You did it. You actually did it."
"We did it. You're the one who told me to choose integrity."
"And you're the one who actually chose it. Even when it was terrifying."
I walked to my truck through downtown Vancouver, feeling lighter than I had in days. Not rich—four hundred thousand was good money but not life-changing money. But it was honest money. Money I could take without compromising myself.
Money that came with purpose instead of shame.
At home, Harper was waiting with takeout from our favorite Thai place—the expensive stuff we usually couldn't afford.
"We're celebrating," she announced. "You just landed an endorsement deal by being yourself. That deserves pad Thai."
We ate on the balcony even though it was cold, looking out at the city lights, talking about what this meant. Not just the money, but the validation. The proof that choosing honesty wasn't self-sabotage.
"Rebecca's brother died from an overdose," I said quietly. "That's why she wanted to sign me. Because I'm doing what he couldn't—being public about it. Asking for help."
"That's a heavy responsibility."
"Yeah. But it feels right. Like maybe all of this—the addiction, the recovery, the article, turning down Apex—maybe it all led here. To something that actually matters."
"You think everything happens for a reason?"
"No. But I think we can make meaning out of terrible things. We can take the worst parts of our stories and use them to help other people."
Harper kissed me, tasting like Thai basil and hope.
"I'm proud of you," she said. "For all of it. For turning down Apex. For doing the interview. For choosing this even when it was scary."
"Couldn't have done it without you."
"Yes you could have. But I'm glad you didn't have to."
That night, I posted on Instagram for the first time in a week—a photo of the Groundwork contract signing, with a caption:
Excited to announce I've partnered with @GroundworkAthletic for their Built From Broken campaign. This company gets it—recovery isn't something to hide. It's something to be proud of. Part of this partnership includes a grant program for athletes who need treatment but can't afford it. Because nobody should have to choose between getting help and having a career. 125 days sober. Still here. Still fighting. Still grateful.
Within an hour, the post had 10,000 likes.
Tyler, the rookie I sponsored, commented: This is why you're my hero. Thank you for being brave enough to be real.
And buried in the comments, dozens of messages from people I'd never met:
I'm three days sober because of you.
I'm a college athlete and I just told my coach about my pill problem because you made me believe it was possible.
My son is in treatment. Your story gives me hope.
I showed Harper the comments, tears in my eyes.
"This is worth more than three million dollars," I said.
"I know."
We fell asleep early, wrapped around each other, finally believing that doing the right thing could lead somewhere good.
That integrity wasn't just expensive—it was valuable.
And maybe, just maybe, we'd be okay.