“The Iceman: All Talent, No Heart.”
The words are a gut punch. The sterile conference room dissolves, the scent of recycled air replaced by the thick, sour smell of a losing locker room—sweat, tears, spilled beer.
I'm twenty-two again. The locker room air is thick—sweat and grief and something sharper, like metal left too long in the cold. Miller, our captain, a guy who seems carved from granite on the ice, has his face buried in his hands. His shoulders heave in waves I can hear more than see, each sob a punch to my sternum. Our coach stares at a spot on the concrete floor, mouth working silently, like the words died before they reached his tongue.
Someone has to hold the center.
I move. One foot, then the other. My hand lands on Miller's shoulder—the padding gives under my grip, foreign and too soft. I open my mouth. Sound comes out. I don't know what I'm saying. My jaw aches from clenching it so hard my molars grind. There's crushed glass in my throat, each swallow a fresh cut. My ribs feel wrapped in steel bands, tightening with every breath I force in and out, measured, even. If I breathe wrong—if I let the rhythm slip—the pressure behind my sternum will crack me open.
A reporter materializes as I push through the exit. Microphone first, then his face—sharp, hungry. He already has his story.
"Not much emotion from you, Sullivan. How does a loss like that feel?"
My vision tunnels. I can feel my pulse in my temples, behind my eyes, a throb that matches the white-hot pressure building at the base of my skull. My hands curl into fists at my sides, nails biting half-moons into my palms. The pain centers me. Keeps everything locked down.
I give him nothing. Just a flat, dead stare. Because if I open my mouth—if I let even one word slip past the barricade—the rest will follow. The howl will come. And I will shatter in front of everyone.
So I don't.
The harsh light of the conference room brings me back to the present. To Sloane, her cool green eyes watching me, seeing too much. The memory makes my stomach turn. My hand clenches into a fist under the table. The heat doesn't just spread through my chest; it's a wildfire, climbing my neck, turning my skin hot.
“What the hell is this?”
“This is what happens when you let someone else control the narrative,” she says, voice even. “One bad interview. One cold expression. And suddenly, you’re the villain.”
“You think because you read some clickbait from a decade ago, you understand who I am?”
“I don’t claim to know you.” Her tone is calm, unflinching. “But I know how fast this machine chews up reputations. And right now? You’re handing it the ammunition.”
I slam my palm onto the table. The laptop jolts. That article was bullshit. Written by some hack who decided I wasn’t sad enough. It cost me endorsements, cost me the captaincy on my last team when they decided they needed someone with more “leadership presence.”
I surge to my feet, my chair rolling back against the windows. “You have no idea what you're talking about.”
“Then tell me.” Her voice is steady, but there's something else there now. Something almost gentle. “Help me understand.”
I lean over the table, jabbing a finger at the screen. Close enough now to catch the subtle scent of herperfume—something clean and sharp, like citrus cutting through the sterile conference room air. “You want to understand? That reporter had his headline written before he asked a single question. My team was a mess. Our captain was sobbing. Our coach couldn’t speak. I was trying to hold the damn center. And because I kept my shit together in front of a camera, I was branded as the asshole with no heart.”
Her lips part, just slightly. The steel in her melts for half a beat. Not pity—just realization.
“Garrett—”
“No.” I shake my head, run a hand through my hair. “I’m done. We’re done here.”
I stalk toward the door, every muscle taut. The urge to escape claws up my spine. I should leave. I want to leave.
But my hand lingers on the doorknob.
Because I gave my word. And Tank Sullivan doesn’t break his word—not even when every instinct in his body tells him to run.
Behind me, the room stretches quiet.
She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just waits.
I turn back, jaw tight, pulse still high. “Not here.”
She blinks. “What?”
“If we’re going to keep doing this—” I jerk my chin toward the screen “—I need a beer.”
