“Tempting, but I have to prep for another 'synergy session' with Captain Monosyllabic tomorrow.” The thought makes my shoulders tense. “I need to be sharp.”
“Ugh, fine.Be a responsible adult.” There’s a pause, then her voice softens. “You okay? You sound... wound tight.”
“It’s just work,” I lie, too tired to untangle the real answer. “Big project. Difficult client. The usual.”
“Right.” She doesn’t push, which is one of the reasons I love her. “Well, if you change your mind, I’m only one spillable coffee away from ‘accidentally’ body checking him in the hallway.”
I laugh, the knot in my shoulders easing. “You’ve been practicing your ‘oops’ face, haven’t you?”
“Religiously.”
“Thanks, Brynn. Really.”
“Always. That’s what best friends are for. Now go be brilliant and make that human cinderblock look good for the cameras.”
Hanging up, I can’t stop smiling. Talking to Brynn is always the perfect antidote. But her final words echo in my head:make that human cinderblock look good.The smile fades as the reality of my task settles back in, heavy as stone.
Tomorrow, the easy part is over. Tomorrow, I have to go to work on the cinderblock.
7
Sloane
The team charter bus idles outside the Mammoth Center’s service entrance like a sleeping beast, its diesel exhaust curling into the frozen air. I stand on the loading dock, briefcase in hand, watching the fluorescent bay lights glint off the tinted windows. My breath escapes in sharp white puffs as I mentally tick through my checklist: Northstar proposal draft. Player media stats. Travel itinerary. Everything I need to prove I deserve to be on this trip.
This Northstar deal wasn't just my career on the line; it was Miller's and Vivian's, too. After Miller fumbled the last two trade deadlines and Vivian's 'New Era' campaign last season tanked our season ticket renewals, Henderson's patience was wearing dangerously thin. We all knew Henderson had no patience for owning an unprofitable team. The Northstar deal wasn't just my big moment; it was their last lifeline.
The engine rumbles through the soles of my boots. This isn’t just transportation. It’s their sanctuary in motion—and I’m an outsider being granted temporary access.
Sarah’s face flashes through my mind.The look on hers that day. The way she packed up in twenty minutes flat—certifications rolled into a tube, reputation shredded by whispers and coffee proximity. Coach Kowalski's messagehad been crystal clear then. It should be crystal clear to me now.
I cannot afford to become collateral damage.
The driver tips his cap as I board. “Morning, Miss McKenzie.”
“Morning, Frank.”
Inside, the air shifts—thicker, warmer, saturated with old gear, fresh cleaning solution, and something distinctly territorial. Two rows of leather seats stretch before me like a minefield.
I scan the layout automatically, cataloging the unspoken code. The rookies will flood the front, buzzing with first-playoff energy. The middle belongs to staff and trainers. And the back? That’s veteran territory. Unwritten law. Untouchable.
I choose a seat mid-right. Safe. Strategically invisible. Close enough to observe, far enough not to intrude. Career preservation disguised as seating etiquette.
The rookies file in, voices crackling with caffeine and nerves. A few veterans offer polite nods—Easton’s sister, after all. My shoulders loosen slightly.
Then Easton boards.
His goalie bag is slung over one shoulder like a second spine. Our eyes meet. His nod is a silent, complicated language I've known my whole life: pride and warning, all in one. Pure Easton. He continues toward the back, and the breath I didn't realize I was holding escapes in a slow exhale.
The bus fills steadily. I keep my eyes on my screen, tracking social media mentions, until the conversations seem to go quiet around me.
I glance up to see Garrett stepping aboard.
He's one of the last to board—veteran privilege. His hair is damp from the morning skate, clinging to his temples. He moves with that loose, predatory confidence I’ve come to recognize.
He stops at the front. Surveys the cabin.
Plenty of open seats near the back with the other vets. A few with the equipment staff. Safe, expected options that follow the protocol carved by three decades of team culture.
