Three hours later, I'm pacing my living room with my phone in my hands.
This is my second call to Sloane tonight. The first one was pure emotion—fury, outrage, words spilling out before I could filter them. "Zac fucking Torres, Sloane. Of all the players in this goddamn league—" I'd hung up before she could ask questions. Before I had to manufacture answers.
I've pulled myself together. A scalding hot shower always does the trick. This call is different. I'm actually trying to decide.
My phone sits on the coffee table, Sloane's contact pulled up but not yet dialed. Outside, a siren wails past and fades into the distance. February in Minneapolis means dark by five and cold that seeps through walls, and I've already turned the heat up twice.
I sink onto the couch and stare at the ceiling.Two years I've managed to avoid this. Two years of carefully not covering Chicago games, not Googling his name, not letting myself think about what might have happened if I'd stayed for breakfast.
And now he's here. In my city. On my team. And my editor wants me to spend two weeks following him around like the universe has a sick sense of humor.
I tap Sloane's name before I can talk myself out of it.
She answers on the second ring. "Okay, I was giving you space, but it's been three hours and you hung up on me mid-sentence, so—"
"I've calmed down." I don't sound calm. I try again. "Okay, I've mostly calmed down. I need your PR brain."
"My PR brain is concerned about your life brain."
"Career advice. That's all I'm asking." I stand up, sit back down, press my palm flat against my thigh to stop fidgeting. "A profile on Zac Torres for Sports National. Good visibility or career suicide?"
Sloane pauses. In the background, I hear what might be a hockey game—Garrett's probably watching tape. "It's good visibility," she says carefully. "If you can deliver."
"I can always deliver."
"Brynn."
"What?"
Another pause. Gentler this time. "You don't have to take this. He's worse with the press than Garrett was when I met him. Wasn't it Zac a few years ago that—"
"Nothing happened." The words come out too fast, too sharp. I force my voice lighter. "I told you, we crossed paths once. He was difficult. End of story."
"You said 'not after' andhung up on me earlier. That's not 'nothing happened.'"
My chest tightens. I stand up, move to the window, press my forehead against the cold glass.
"It was a long day," I say. "I was being dramatic. You know me—I make everything a bit."
"That's exactly what worries me."
Silence stretches between us. The city bleeds through my thin walls—traffic, distant bass from a neighbor's apartment, someone laughing too loud in the hallway.
"There's something I should probably—"
The words form in my mouth.He wasn't difficult. He was—
I shut it down. Pivot.
"—consider," I finish. "Like whether his whole thing with journalists is going to make this piece impossible. He once answered twelve questions with variations of 'we played hard.'"
The silence that follows tells me Sloane knows. Not the specifics—she can't know those—but she knows I pivoted. She knows she's being handled.
"Sure," she says. "That's definitely what you were about to say."
"It was."
"Okay."
