1
Sloane
The man on my screen is committing career suicide, and I can't stop watching.
Garrett "Tank" Sullivan hasn't blinked in ten seconds. I've been counting. The reporter asks about team morale—an easy question, the kind you answer with two sentences and a smile—and he responds with silence. Just... silence. Long enough that I check if my stream froze.
"So, Garrett, what's the team's mood heading into this weekend's series?"
His jaw ticks once. "Fine."
The reporter's smile twitches, falters. "And the power play improvements we saw in practice?"
"Yep."
I grip my coffee mug—the one with Minnesota Mammoths wrapped around the team's emblem—and my knuckles go white. For a man paid millions to communicate on the ice, he's apparently allergic to the English language when there's a camera involved.
The reporter clears her throat, clearly hoping for more. When the silence stretches long enough to make viewers uncomfortable, she pivots with forced brightness. "Well, I know our viewers—especially your incredible fan base—would love to hear more about what you've beenworking on. What would you say to the young hockey players who look up to you?"
Garrett's eyes narrow slightly, like the question personally offends him. He leans back in his chair, and when he speaks, his tone could freeze water. "They should focus on their own game instead of looking up to anybody."
The reporter blinks, clearly thrown by the dismissal. "That's... refreshing honesty. Speaking of your fans, attendance has been incredible this season. What does that kind of support mean to you?"
"Means they have tickets." He shrugs, and the gesture manages to convey both indifference and contempt. "They can do what they want with them."
My coffee mug trembles in my hands. This isn't just bad—it's catastrophic. He's actively alienating the very people who buy jerseys, concessions, and premium seats. The people whose loyalty pays his salary.
But the reporter isn't done. She's got one more grenade to lob, and I watch in horror as she pulls the pin. "Before we wrap up, I'd love to talk about your partnership with Northstar Bank. They've been such incredible supporters of the team's community outreach programs. What's it been like working with them on initiatives like the youth hockey clinics?"
The change in Garrett is instant and brutal. His entire face hardens, and he does something I've never seen a professional athlete do in an interview: he rolls his eyes. Not a subtle look of annoyance, but a full, theatrical eyeroll that screams disdain for the camera to capture.
"Community outreach." He says the words like they taste rotten. "Right. Look, I play hockey. That's what I get paid to do. I'm not a guidance counselor or a role model or whateverelse people want me to be." His voice drops an octave, gaining a hard, final edge. "And I'm definitely not a spokesperson for some bank's PR campaign."
The reporter's face goes through several expressions in rapid succession—shock, panic, professional desperation. "But the youth programs—"
"Are not my job." Garrett cuts her off with surgical precision. "Northstar Bank can find someone else to smile for their commercials. I'm here to win games, not hold hands with kids who probably can't even skate."
The silence that follows could power a small city. The reporter's mouth opens and closes, gasping for words that won't come. Somewhere off-camera, I can hear what sounds like muffled cursing from a producer.
When Garrett stands abruptly, his chair scrapes against the floor—sharp, violent, absolute. "We done?"
The reporter stammers through her closing, but he's already walking away, pulling off his microphone and dropping it on a nearby table without bothering to hand it to anyone.
I snap the laptop shut, then open it again a beat later—masochist that I am—and rewatch the disaster, my brain automatically logging the missteps. Poor eye contact: negative 5 engagement points. Hostile tone: 10-point drop in trustworthiness. The full-body eyeroll at the mention of community outreach? Catastrophic. He wasn't just tanking an interview; he was torpedoing our entire Q4 brand strategy. This wasn't apathy—it was disdain, precision-delivered like one of his trademark wrist shots, high glove side.
Six floors below my office window, the practice rink sits dark and empty, waiting for tomorrow's morning skate. I'm already dialing Vivian before my pulse settles.
"Sloane." Her voice is velvet over a blade. "I was just about to call you. I trust you saw the… performance."
"I've got a mitigation plan," I say, the words already forming a strategy in my head—a three-part 'Behind the Pads' content series highlighting his charity work, leaning into the 'strong, silent' archetype. "We can pivot this to authenticity—"
"No, Sloane." The velvet vanishes. "You need to handle him. Garrett Sullivan is now your sole priority. Get him in line."
An order. Not a discussion. I open my mouth to respond, but she's not finished.
"And Sloane," she adds, her voice becoming low and lethal, "you know how Coach Kowalski is."
The line goes dead. I'm left staring at the phone, her words settling in my chest—heavy, suffocating, inescapable. That wasn't advice. That was a threat in stilettos.
