The realization is a sudden, cold weight in my chest. This isn't just a shared moment—it's a public statement, and we’re about to make it together. Through the window, I can see hotel staff waiting with luggage carts, team officials checking their phones, the normal choreography of a team arrival.
But nothing about this feels normal anymore.
The door hisses open, and Garrett stands, extending his hand to help me up.
Every eye in the bus is on us.
8
Sloane
The lemon scent of Vivian’s office cleaner makes my nose itch as I stand in front of her pristine glass desk, waiting. She doesn’t look up from her monitor for what feels like an eternity—but is probably ten seconds. Classic power move. Classic Vivian.
Since returning from Iowa, Garrett has been—shockingly—cooperative in our media prep sessions. Cooperative for Garrett, at least. And it’s showing. His interviews are crisper, less combative. Even Vivian has noticed, which says everything.
And I’ve kept it professional. No late-night debriefs. No bars. No heat.
Just business.
“Sloane. Glad you could make it.” Vivian’s voice is crisp, her posture regal against the city skyline. It frames her like a throne through the floor-to-ceiling glass.
I clutch my portfolio tighter. “You said it was urgent.”
“The Northstar Bank dinner.” She finally looks up. “Tonight. Summit Club. You’ll be our marketing point.”
My mind clicks into motion—Q3 analytics, fan engagement metrics, renewal timeline. This isn’t just dinner. It’s negotiation.
“Who’s the player rep?”
“Garrett Sullivan. They requested him specifically.”
My pulse trips over his name. Not a flip. Just... a pause. “Tank?”
Vivian’s smile is razor-thin. “You’ll be his handler. Keep him on message. Northstar’s team is data-obsessed.”
Handler. Like he’s a prizefighter about to punch the wrong executive.
“I can have demographic breakdowns ready in an hour. Cross-market analysis by—”
“Perfect.” She turns back to her screen. “That’s exactly the kind of initiative that gets noticed around here.”
I’m halfway to the door when the knife lands.
“Oh, and Sloane?” Her voice softens—honey poured over glass shards. “David Kellerman from the executive board requested a comprehensive proposal deck. They’ll want insights you don’t have yet. Data that wasn’t in the brief.”
She leans back, her expression softening into the cool, appraising look of a seasoned mentor sizing up her protégé to see if she has what it takes. "Senior executives anticipate the board's needs and deliver solutions before they're asked. Coordinators deliver what's in the brief. This is your moment to decide which one you are."
I nod, the weight of her challenge settling over me like a physical thing. My mind is already racing, calculating timelines and data points as I turn to leave.
"Oh, and one last thing," Vivian calls out just as I reach the door, her tone breezy, almost an afterthought. "I just got the finalized Q3 numbers from analytics. They're slightly different than the preliminary data I sent last week. Nothing major, but you know Kellerman. I'll shoot them over in an email shortly."
Slightly different.The casual words send a jolt of ice through my veins, but I force my expression to remain neutral. "Thank you, Vivian. I'll look for it."
The walk back to my office is the longest of my life. Every step is a countdown to the moment that email lands, the moment I find out exactly how deep the water is that she just threw me into. Back at my desk, the email arrives with an almost cheerful chime. The subject line: "Updated Numbers!" The exclamation point feels like a taunt.
I open the attachment, and my stomach drops as I scan the spreadsheet.Slightly different?The demographic breakdowns are off by fifteen percent. The engagement metrics I'd built my entire value proposition around have shifted enough to invalidate two of my key slides. My mind races through the implications—I have exactly four hours before dinner to verify these numbers, rebuild my projections, and rehearse new talking points.
Deep breath. I've got this.
