"Tomorrow afternoon." I close the laptop and turn to face him fully. "We're going to walk into that room with an offer he can't refuse and consequences he can't ignore. You're going to be the stick to my carrot."
"What do you need me to do?"
The question hangs between us, loaded with possibility and the promise of partnership rather than rescue. For the first time since our fight, I see the man I fell for—not the hero who needed to save me, but the strategist who trusts me tolead.
"Help me prepare." I gesture toward the couch where we used to plan our secret meetings, back when we thought love was enough to overcome any obstacle. "We have twenty-four hours to build something they've never seen before."
He moves toward the couch, but stops at the edge of my workspace. "Sloane?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you." The words are simple, but they carry the weight of everything he understands he almost lost. "For letting me try to do this right."
I don't respond immediately. Can't, with the way my throat has suddenly constricted around emotions I'm not ready to feel. Instead, I focus on the work ahead, on the war we're about to wage together.
But as I settle beside him—careful to maintain professional distance—I allow myself a moment of cautious hope. Not for us, not yet. But for the possibility that from the ruins of our destruction, we might build something stronger.
Something that honors both our brilliance instead of diminishing either.
The apartment settles around us as we begin to plan, two strategists preparing for battle. Outside, Minneapolis moves on, unaware that in this small corner of the city, a revolution is taking shape.
And I can barely admit it to myself, but I like that I’m not alone.
35
Sloane
The silence in my apartment has transformed from the heavy quiet of defeat into something electric—the charged stillness before a storm. Four hours have passed since we launched our coordinated assault on the Minnesota Mammoths organization. Four hours since I called Robert Blackwood's personal line and pitched him a partnership that could reshape professional sports. Four hours since Garrett's agent submitted a formal trade demand that jolted the league office. Four hours since Brynn armed her media network with carefully crafted information, ready to release on command.
Now we wait for the sky to break.
Garrett stands motionless at my windows, his broad shoulders carved in sharp relief against the late afternoon light filtering through the glass. His reflection is ghostly against the Minneapolis skyline, but I can read the controlled tension in every line of his body—the way his hands rest flat against the window like he's bracing for impact, the slight tilt of his head as he listens for sounds that haven't come yet. He's been my silent anchor for the past hour, radiating the calm confidence of someone who knows the play and trusts the strategy completely.
"Traffic on social media is insane," Brynn murmurs from her perch at my kitchen table, fingers dancing across her laptop keyboard with the focused intensity of a concert pianist. Her eyes flick between multiple browser windows—Twitter feeds, industry forums, her network of contacts lighting up with speculation and rumors. "The Sullivan trade demand story broke twenty minutes ago. My editor just texted asking if I want to go on record about organizational dysfunction in professional hockey."
She pauses, glancing up at me with predatory satisfaction. "Henderson's assistant has called me three times in the last hour. They're scrambling."
Easton abandons his restless pacing for the first time since we began our vigil, his massive frame settling against my bookshelf with coiled energy. His phone hasn't stopped buzzing—a constant stream of updates from teammates, reporters, league contacts feeling the tremors we've set off spreading through the hockey world.
"Locker room's in chaos," he reports, scrolling through another wave of texts. "Half the guys are asking if Tank's really leaving. The other half want to know if there's truth to the rumors about organizational corruption. Coach called an emergency meeting for tomorrow morning."
His green eyes—so much like mine—find my face across the room. "Miller's been locked in his office since two p.m. Won't take calls from anyone except Henderson."
I absorb each piece of intelligence with the cool focus of a general tracking enemy positions. This is exactly what we wanted—confusion, panic, the carefully ordered hierarchy of power beginning to crack under pressure. They're reacting instead of acting, responding to our moves instead of making their own.
"What about Northstar?" I ask Brynn, though I already know the answer from the grim satisfaction on her face.
"Blackwood's been in meetings all afternoon. My source in their communications department says they're 'reassessing their partnership strategy' and 'considering all available options.'" She grins, sharp enough to cut glass. "Corporate speak for 'holy shit, we need to figure out what's happening before we get caught in the crossfire.'"
All of us are suspended in this crystalline moment, knowing that everything we've sacrificed, everything we've risked, comes down to the next few hours. The apartment hums with focused energy—the controlled anticipation before a strike.
Garrett turns from the window, his reflection dissolving as he faces the room. When his eyes meet mine, there's something new there—not the overwhelming intensity that once threatened to consume me, but steady partnership. Recognition of an equal. A shared glance that says we did this together without needing words.
I nod once, firm and certain. He answers with the slightest upturn of his mouth—not quite a smile, but acknowledgment of what we've built.
My phone erupts from its place on the coffee table.
The sound cuts through the apartment, sharp and immediate. Frank Miller's name blazes across the screen, and the sight sends adrenaline flooding through my veins so fast it makes my fingertips tingle.
