The Windex still clinging to the glass makes my nose itch. I've been spinning since the interview yesterday, fielding increasingly terse messages from Northstar's executives. The sponsorship deal that could propel my career hangs by a thread, and he can't even show me the basic courtesy of a rejection text.
Vivian's words from yesterday slither back into my mind. She didn't just want me to handle him; she was watching to see if I'd fail. Right now, sitting in this empty room, I feel like I'm walking straight into her trap.
This is Pittsburgh all over again. Different city, same playbook. When the quarterback decided he "preferred Mike for media strategy," I didn't argue. I swallowed it. Watched Mike pitch my campaign, watched him get the glory while I got shuffled into "special projects."
Six months later, I was updating my résumé and packing my life into boxes.
It wasn't just about the promotion, or the fear of another failure. It was about the work I knew I could be doing if I just had the latitude. My gaze drifts to a locked folder on my desktop labeled "MCCP - Master". The Mammoth Community Champions Program. My real passion project. A meticulously researched plan to weave the team into the fabric of the city through youth scholarships and mentorships—the kind of legacy-building work that actually matters. I sigh, the familiar frustration a bitter taste in my mouth. I'd pitched the concept to Vivian last month, and she'd dismissed it with a wave of her hand. "Stick to the metrics that move the needle, Sloane," she'd said. "Northstar cares about ROI, not your sentimental charity projects."
I can't let that happen again. Not when I'm this close. Not when Vivian finally seems to be watching with more than a scowl. This Northstar deal isn't just a sponsorship—it's proof I can navigate the minefield. That I belong in the room. That I can survive this league.
Thirty minutes.
I snap the laptop closed. The sound ricochets through the stillness, sharp and final. I stand with such purpose that my knee clips the edge of the desk, sending a jolt up my leg. Hissing, I grab my bag, shoving my laptop in with more force than necessary. My hands may be steady, but my blood simmers under the surface, and apparently, my coordinationhas already clocked out for the day. If he wants to drag this down to his level—fine. I'll meet him there.
The elevator button to the rink level gets a jab that borders on assault.
The equipment room hits me: sweat, leather, adrenaline. Testosterone practically leaks from the walls. The space is a fortress of gear and sharpened steel, racks looming like sentries. The air carries that acrid ozone tang from the skate sharpener, which mingles with the overwhelming smell of worn gear and sweat, creating an almost aggressive masculine energy that seems designed to remind outsiders they don't belong.
My heels click against the concrete as I navigate the maze. Somewhere deeper in the room, someone's practicing stick handling—the rhythmic thwack echoes off the walls, adding to the sense that I'm trespassing in sacred territory.
I refuse to be intimidated. I've earned my place here just as much as any of them.
I find him exactly where I expected: standing between two equipment racks, casually peeling off his practice jersey like he doesn't have a care in the world. Like he didn't just blow off a meeting that could determine whether I keep my job.
"Garrett Sullivan."
His name leaves my mouth like a challenge.
He glances up. Recognition flickers across his face—no surprise, no guilt. Just the faint irritation of someone whose afternoon has been mildly inconvenienced.
"Easton's little sister, right?" He tosses the sweat-damp jersey onto a hook, reaching for a clean T-shirt. "Look, I don't have time for corporate fluff. Whatever slideshow you brought—"
"Stopright there."
I step into the narrow aisle between the racks, blocking his exit. He's even bigger up close—six-foot-three and all sculpted defiance, the kind of presence that makes cramped spaces feel smaller, oxygen scarcer. When he straightens to his full height, I have to tilt my chin to meet his eyes. I don't blink.
"You cost us twelve million dollars yesterday with that interview."
He laughs, but it's hollow. "Twelve million? That's some creative accounting. Nobody cares what I say to a reporter."
"Northstar Bank cares. They're our title sponsor. Their executives watch every word that comes out of your mouth. And yesterday, you told the world you 'don't really think about the fans' and that sponsorship logos are 'just noise.' It went viral—for all the wrong reasons."
Something shifts in his expression, but I'm just getting started.
"You think media doesn't matter? Your teammates are carrying your weight every time they step in front of a camera because you've made yourself unavailable. Lucas spent twenty minutes yesterday explaining why you're not actually an arrogant asshole, which is time he should've been talking about his own achievements."
I step closer, watching his posture adjust. The lazy slouch sharpens into something engaged. His gaze narrows, and I see him recalibrating—reevaluating who, exactly, just cornered him in his sanctuary.
"When free agents choose teams, they look at three things: leadership, chemistry, and public perception. You know what torpedoes all three? Players who act like they're above the business that pays their salaries. You want to focus onhockey? Great. But the business side funds everything from your equipment to the plane that takes you to games."
His stance has shifted completely now—feet squared, shoulders set, like he's bracing for a hit. But his eyes are sharp, calculating, fully engaged for the first time since I walked in.
"So when you torpedo a major sponsorship deal because you're too cool to engage with the media, you're not protecting the team—you're undermining it. And when Northstar pulls funding and we can't afford to keep the depth players who make your stats look good? That's on you."
Silence expands around us, thick and electric. The air in the equipment room hums with distant machinery and the faint echo of stickhandling drills. Garrett stares at me with an expression I can't quite read—surprise, maybe, or calculation. The air between us is charged, electric.
When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter, more thoughtful.
