The pivot is so smooth, I almost miss it.
He nods toward me. “She identified a twelve percent crossover between our season ticket holders and Northstar’s premium credit card users.”
He turns, that same intensity now focused on me. “Sloane, walk them through the conversion model?”
The handoff is perfect. I launch into the numbers, riding the adrenaline high of being in my element.
“The demographic overlap targets high-income professionals, ages twenty-eight to forty-five. We’re projecting a fifteen percent increase in premium card applications during game weeks—direct revenue correlation tied to emotional investment in the team.”
I swipe to the interactive model on my tablet. “If we time campaigns around playoff runs, we can spike conversion even higher. Sports loyalty becomes brand loyalty when the messaging aligns with emotional peaks.”
Jennifer leans forward. Her expression shifts—skepticism giving way to something closer to respect. “You’re talking about leveraging parasocial relationships for financial products.”
“Exactly,” I say, pulse steady. “The trust fans place in their team becomes trust in Northstar’s brand. We’re not just sponsoring hockey—we’re sponsoringbelonging.”
Blackwood smiles for the first time all night. “You two make an interesting point. I think this is the start of something bigger—if you keep bringing this level of insight.”
His words hang in the air—professional praise threaded with something more complicated. Under the table, Garrett’s foot brushes mine, a brief contact that zips up my spine like static. I glance over and find his gaze already on me.
There’s pride in his eyes. But there’s also heat. Unmistakable.
“But enough business,” Jennifer says, signaling the server. “Robert, didn't you want another bottle of wine to have with desert?”
“Absolutely. Garrett, why don’t you two pick something special? I heard you have an eye for wine. The private collection's in the wine room.”
Of course it is.
The wine room door shuts behind us with a soft click, muffling the restaurant's hum to nothing. Rows of bottles stretch from floor to ceiling in temperature-controlled glass cases, and the air smells like oak and earth and aging paper—rich, intoxicating scents that make me feel drunk on more than wine. Everything in this room has been waiting, aging, building toward something.
Like us.
Garrett leans against a rack of champagne, and I watch the transformation happen in real time. The tight discipline he wore during dinner loosens now, corporate polish dissolving like sugar in rain. What's left behind is raw magnetism that makes the small space feel even smaller.
"You were incredible out there."
The words hit lower than they should, rougher than professional courtesy. I turn toward the wine display, desperate for something to anchor me that isn't the heat radiating from his body.
"We were incredible," I manage, my fingertips trailing along a bottle I can't afford to pronounce. The cool glass does nothing to calm the fire spreading through me. "Not bad for a Friday night."
"Sloane."
My name in that voice—low, edged with something dangerous—makes me freeze. I feel him move before I see it, feel the air shift as he pushes off the champagne rack and crosses the narrow space between us. When I turn, he's close enough that I have to tilt my chin up to meet his gaze, close enough that I catch the scent of his cologne mixing with something uniquely him.
"This isn't about the job anymore," he says softly. "And I don't think it has been for a while."
My pulse hammers against my throat. "Garrett, no." The words come out breathless, desperate. "We work together. The Kowalski rule—"
"Screw Kowalski." The defiance in his voice sends heat spiraling through my chest. He steps closer, and suddenly he's everywhere—his presence, his warmth, the way he's looking at me like I'm the only thing that exists.
"It's not that easy." My back hits the wine case, cool glass pressing through the silk of my dress. "For you, breaking the rule is a fine. A slap on the wrist. For me, it's a career death sentence."
I turn away, but there's nowhere to go. My trembling fingers find the label of a Dom Pérignon, tracing its edges like a lifeline.
"I knew someone," I whisper, my voice barely audible above the soft hum of the temperature controls. "Sarah Carlson. She was my mentor when I interned at the Titans."
The air behind me goes still. I feel Garrett's attention lock onto me with laser focus, but he doesn't speak. Just waits with the patience of someone who understands that some stories can't be rushed.
"She was brilliant. Best marketing mind I've ever seen. Could take a last-place team and make them profitable within a season." My voice catches, and I have to swallow past the tightness in my throat. "She had this corner office with windows overlooking the practice facility. Used to keep it stocked with the good coffee because she said great ideas deserved great caffeine."
