"Sloane doesn't need you to save her," he says. "Doesn't need me to save her either. She's been handling her own life since before either of us knew what responsibility meant." He meets my eyes. "What she needs is people who show up and ask what she wants instead of deciding for her."
"I can do that."
"Can you? Because so far your track record isn't great."
"I know." I hold his gaze. "I'm asking for the chance to prove I've learned something."
Easton is quiet for a long time. Long enough that I think he's going to get up and walk out.
Then: "I'll tell her you want to talk. That's all I'm offering. She decides if she wants to see you."
"That's enough."
"And Garrett?" He stands, looks down at me. "If she gives you another chance, and you pull anything like this again—I don't care how long we've been friends. I don't care about the team. I will make your life very difficult."
"Understood."
He nods once. Doesn't say goodbye. Turns to leave.
He's almost to the door when he stops. Doesn't turn around.
"Poker's at Webb's on Thursday. You missed last week."
I look at the back of his head. "Didn't think I'd be welcome."
"You're not." A pause. "But you still owe me sixty bucks, and I intend to collect."
He pushes through the door and disappears into the parking lot.
It's not forgiveness. It's not even close to okay.
But it's poker on Thursday. It'syou still owe me sixty bucks.It's fifteen years of friendship sayingwe'll figure this outeven when everything else is broken.
I sit there for a while longer, turning the whiskey glass I still haven't touched.
For the first time since that boardroom, I'm not trying to force my way through a door.
I'm waiting to be invited.
34
Sloane
The numbers on my laptop screen blur, but I keep typing anyway. Revenue projections. Market penetration analysis. The comprehensive framework that will either resurrect my career or confirm its burial. The coffee beside me has gone cold hours ago, but I don't notice. I don't notice anything except the audacious plan taking shape beneath my fingertips.
The Mammoth Community Champions Program. Not the watered-down version I'd pitched to Vivian in fragments over the past year, but the full vision. Thirty-seven million in projected first-year revenue. A sustainable model that transforms sports franchises from entertainment into community institutions.
Maya's gap-toothed grin flashes in my peripheral vision from where I've propped her photo against my monitor.Thank you for believing in her.The words that pulled me from the wreckage of self-pity and reminded me who I used to be before Frank Miller's corporate execution.
I'm not that broken woman anymore. The one who wallowed in blankets and self-recrimination. I'm Sloane McKenzie, and I build solutions from rubble.
The sharp knock on my door cuts through my focus instantly.
I freeze, hands suspended above the keyboard. The sound echoes through my apartment with an urgency that makes my heart jump. No one should be here. Easton and Brynn know better than to interrupt when I'm in this state. The building manager would call first.
Unless—
"No," I whisper to the empty apartment. He wouldn't. Not after our last conversation. Not after the things I said that can't be unsaid.
