It’s not a request.
The walk from the arena to The Penalty Box bar is three blocks, but it's a skate uphill through molasses. ThePenalty Box is one of the few bars around here that I can go to and generally keep a low profile. Neither of us speaks. Sloane keeps pace beside me, her heels clicking against the sidewalk, each step snapping like a metronome against the silence stretching between us. The tension from upstairs follows like a ghost, clinging to the back of my neck.
Every few steps, I catch her sneaking glances—curious, cautious—like she’s trying to read a particularly complicated power play.
The cold should help. It doesn’t. My chest still feels tight, the lingering sting of that article making every breath taste like rust.
The Penalty Box delivers what I need: low lighting, the smell of grease and stale beer, the ambient murmur of a game playing overhead. Familiar. Uncomplicated. Hockey sounds.
I claim a corner booth with a fresh pint, watching Sloane settle across from me with her untouched club soda. She's taken off her blazer, and I notice the way her sweater clings to her shoulders, the graceful line of her throat as she tilts her head to glance at the game overhead.
The silence stretches between us, thick with fallout from the office.
I take a long drink, buying time. The beer is cold and bitter, grounding.
“The article. It’s a sore spot.”
She doesn’t rush in with apologies or small talk. Just watches me, hands wrapped around her glass, steady as a goalie in net.
“It’s not just the nickname,” I say, eyes on the foam. “It’s how fast the world decides who you are in a headline—and how damn long you spend trying to prove them wrong.”
Something in her expression softens, the precision in her eyes giving way to something warmer. “I shouldn’t have used that article. It was a shitty move.”
“You were making a point.”
“A bad one,” she says. “And you’re right—the media loves a good villain.”
Her fingers start tracing the rim of her glass, a nervous habit she probably doesn't realize she has. There's something almost hypnotic about the small gesture.
Her words from the conference room—you're letting them run the show—echo in my head, making my skin crawl. My ex-fiancée used stuff like that during our breakup. The thought is a pale summary of the real memory flashing hot and sharp behind my eyes. Emma hadn't just used the article; she’d built a whole damn campaign on it. I could still see the headline from the gossip blog that ran with her exclusive interview, the words seared into my memory. “He lets other people tell our story because he's too cold to write his own.”
She hadn’t just twisted my silence; she’d given them the weapon and the narrative to destroy me with. A narrative of cold indifference that the world eagerly believed. I’d stood by and said nothing, thinking it was the honorable path. Instead, that silence had cost me the captaincy on my last team. It had cost me a multi-million dollar endorsement with a family-focused brand that said I no longer fit their “core values.” It had cost me everything. And now, years too late, this woman across the table was here to teach me how to talk.
“She twisted my silence into admission of guilt,” I hear myself say, the words a hollow echo of the real damage. “Made me out to be this cold bastard who couldn't love anyone. She fed quotes to reporters, painted herself as thevictim who tried so hard to reach me, but couldn’t break through the ice.”
Sloane’s fingers still on her glass. Her gaze sharpens. “Jesus.”
“She sold it. That whole 'poor-girl', heartless hockey player angle. They ran with her story because it was better copy.” I drain half my beer. “I learned my lesson. Don't give them anything to work with.”
She's quiet for a long moment, and I find myself studying the way she processes information—like she's cataloging every piece, building a complete picture before she responds.
“If I can't fix this Northstar deal, I'm probably out of a job,” she says suddenly. Her voice is steady, but there's vulnerability underneath. “Vivian's looking for any excuse to cut me loose, and failing with their biggest sponsorship would definitely qualify. I've been fighting to be taken seriously since my first day in sports marketing, and this...” She gestures between us. “This could end everything I've worked for.”
The honesty levels the playing field somehow. Makes this feel less like an interrogation and more like a conversation between two people who both have something to lose.
I lean back in the booth, studying her face. “Why sports?”
“Easton was always on the ice. The rink raised me.” Her whole face lights up when she talks about the game, professional mask slipping away to reveal genuine passion. “I know hockey from the inside out—the business, the players, the fans. But half the executives I deal with think I'm just some arena rat who got lucky.”
“Are you?”
She grins, and it transforms her entire face. “Absolutely. And I’mdamn goodat my job.”
The air shifts.
The professional wall between us crumbles into comfortable rubble. I find myself leaning in, catching every word as she tells me about hiding in the bleachers to eavesdrop on coaches as a kid.
"And then my last boss," she says, puffing out her chest and dropping her voice into a deep, patronizing tone, "told me to 'circle back with a more synergistic approach.' I think my soul left my body."
