I brace myself, expecting a hit from the blind side.
“It’s a zero-tolerance mandate.”
Behind me, whispers start up. Low, sharp. Taylor's voice.
“Heard it’s Miller and one of the interns.”
"Rookies," Parks mutters. "Don't know what they're risking."
"What do you mean?"
"Careers, man," Taylor answers. "Seen it happen. Player gets involved with someone on staff, chemistry goes to shit, everything falls apart."
Kowalski's voice drones on—chemistry, distractions, accountability—but all I hear is the conversation behind me.
"It burns everything down," Taylor mutters.
And that phrase—it slices clean.
You let it burn everything down, Sullivan.The GM's voice from ten years ago. The cold office. The C stripped from my jersey.
"Burns everything around it," Taylor adds.
I look back up. Look ather. Sloane. Her story about Sarah. She lost everything. He lost nothing.
This isn't about me anymore. It's about her.
Kowalski's voice sharpens. "I won't let personal drama poison this locker room. You risk your job, you risk the team's future. Make your choices."
The meeting ends. The chairs scrape. Players rise. Tension stretches over everything like a pulled muscle.
I catch a glimpse of Vivian up front—stone-faced, arms folded, not even pretending to hide her disdain. She’s not looking at Kowalski, she’s staring at a fixed point on the far wall, her expression a mask of cold, familiar fury. When her eyes briefly meet Sloane's across the room, there’s no professional solidarity, only a look that says,See?This is what they do. This is how they burn it all down.
My first instinct, sharp and absolute, is to find Sloane.
I navigate the tense crowd, shouldering past a couple of rookies who are whispering nervously. I see her up ahead, talking with a colleague from her department, her expression carefully neutral, but the stiffness in her shoulders gives her away.
“Sloane,” I say, my voice lower than I intended.
She turns, her eyes meeting mine. And I know before she speaks—she’s already armoring up.
Her colleague ducks away. We’re left standing in the chaotic hallway, a bubble of intense silence around us.
“Well,” she says, her voice crisp and cool, a stark contrast to the warmth from last night. “That was… unambiguous.”
“Are you okay?” The question feels stupid and inadequate.
“I'm fine,Sullivan.” She uses my last name like a shield, her gaze flicking over my shoulder as if to remind me we're being watched. “I have a proposal to finish for Northstar. That's my focus.”
Then she turns—cool, professional, closed.
I watch her go, pulse surging with something that isn’t quite panic but damn close.
Then I see it.
A reporter, cutting her off by the media tunnel. Not one of the good ones. He’s all angles and elbows, recorder inher face, his questions slick with implication about team chemistry.
The possessive heat surges through me—move. Intervene. End it.
