But just as the check arrives, Easton’s phone buzzes with a team alert. His expression shifts, subtle but sharp.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he says too quickly. “Just... team stuff. Sullivan had a run-in with a reporter after practice. Daniels said it got heated. Looked like he was ready to drop gloves—with a mic.”
The chicken parm in my stomach turns to lead. “Do we know what happened?”
“Not yet. But it’s probably going to be your problem tomorrow.”
I stare at the melting candle between us, suddenly nauseous. A test, I think. Vivian knew this might happen.
“You sure you’re ready for this?” Easton asks quietly.
No.
“I’m ready,” I say, the lie tasting foreign in my mouth.
5
Garrett
The sixth-floor conference room is a vacuum—quiet, sterile, the kind of space built to mute emotion. I push through the glass door and get hit with recycled air, dry and chilled, a poor imitation of the clean bite of rink-level ice that actually means something.
Afternoon sun slices through the windows, turning the polished mahogany table into a blinding slab of reflected light.
Sloane sits behind her laptop, a study in composure. That auburn ponytail is pulled tight and clean, not a hair out of place. She doesn’t look up. Just types, fingers moving fast and precise like she’s auditing my worth.
“Right on time,” she says, eyes still on the screen.
I drop into the chair across from her, the leather sighing beneath me. “Let’s get this over with.”
Now she looks up—cool green eyes sharp and unreadable. “Good. Because we need to deal with your media presence using actual data, not guesswork.”
She taps her keyboard, then swivels the laptop toward me. “In the last forty-eight hours since your interview aired, your social sentiment dropped thirty percent. Your Q-ratingamong the eighteen-to-thirty-four demo—Northstar’s core demographic—is down fifteen points. And the comments you made last night haven’t helped matters.”
Then she opens another tab. “This is what their exec sent us.”
I lean forward. The email is short but brutal:Concerned about brand alignment... need to see significant improvement in public perception... reviewing partnership terms.
“Point made.”
“We’re not done.” She clicks again—and a familiar, bitter feeling rises in my throat.
The interview.
My voice fills the quiet room, low and detached, as I offer up shrugs and one-word answers. The silences stretch. The reporter’s fake smile trembles. I watch myself dismiss a question about community outreach like it was beneath me.
She freezes the video. “This is what we’re working with.”
“So?”
“So,” she says, eyebrows lifting, “this isn’t about camera charm. These partnerships fund everything from the sticks in your hands to the gym you train in. When you tank an interview, you don’t just hurt yourself.”
I sit back, arms crossing. “Media training isn’t going to change who I am.”
“I’m not here to change who you are.” She clicks to another tab, fingers moving with practiced efficiency. “I'm asking you to tell your own story before someone else does it for you.”
The screen changes, and something cold slams into my chest.
