“This is still a terrible idea,” I whisper.
“What is? Two people sharing music on a bus ride?”
“You know what I mean.” I risk a glance at him. Regret it immediately. He’s turned toward me, close enough that I can see the flecks in his eyes. “The team has rules.”
“About earbuds?” he deadpans.
“About this.” I motion vaguely between us, fingers brushing his jacket in the process. The contact sizzles. “Whatever this is.”
His expression shifts, softens. I catch something unguarded flicker across his face.
“I know exactly what this is, Sloane.”
My name in that low voice nearly undoes me.
Before I can respond, he pivots.
“So—Des Moines. First media trip?”
I grab the lifeline. “Yes. I’m documenting how the team handles high-pressure environments. It’s critical for Northstar.”
“And here I thought it was just about scoring goals.”
There’s no mockery. Just curiosity. And a quiet respect that makes it easier to speak.
“Your interview has been viewed forty-seven thousand times,” I say, pulling up a chart. “The comments... aren’t flattering.”
He leans in to look. His knee brushes mine as the bus takes a curve. Neither of us moves.
“Forty-seven thousand people care what I think?” he murmurs.
“Forty-seven thousand people are forming opinions about the Minnesota Mammoths based on your answers.” I force myself to focus on the data, using work as an anchor against the storm of awareness he's creating. “Sports isn't just about what happens on the ice anymore.”
“You’re really taking this seriously.” He points to a correlation chart I'd built, his arm brushing mine. “Impressive.”
The compliment catches me off guard. “It's my job.”
“No, this is someone who actually understands both sides.” His voice carries respect. “Arena rat, remember?”
“Terminal case,” I admit, the honesty slipping out before I can stop it.
His grin is devastating. “I knew it.”
A loud throat-clear from somewhere behind us snaps the moment like a twig.
The bubble bursts.
I look away from him and out of the window, where the suburbs have turned into fields without me noticing. A couple of playlists later, the bus begins to slow.
I see the hotel rising outside the window—we’re here.
Garrett removes his earbud. The music dies.
Reality rushes in: gear being shuffled, players stretching, voices rising. Everyone stays seated. The hierarchy is clear.
Veterans first.
Which means Garrett and I will walk off this bus together, in full view of everyone.
