A surge of pride, sharp and potent, swells through me. The campaign metrics had projected a twenty percent fan engagement lift from this milestone; a quick glance at the roaring crowd tells me we shattered that number. Every screen in this arena played the countdown videos I designed. Every fan knew exactly what they were witnessing tonight because of my work.
Ourwork, I correct myself, the thought a professional reflex. This is data-driven satisfaction. A successful execution of a multi-platform strategy. But the warmth spreading through me has nothing to do with analytics, and the triumphant pounding in my chest isn't about brand synergy. It’s about him. And that is far more dangerous.
Across the chaos of the arena, Garrett’s eyes find mine. The easy, public grin slips—replaced by a slow smile that’s just for me.
Kowalski’s voice echoes in my head from the meeting.Zero tolerance.
My hands shake as I grip my tablet tighter. The noise is too loud, the celebration too bright, the weight of eighteen thousand people pressing down until I can barely breathe. I need air. I need space to think without Garrett’s eyes on me, without the memory of his voice in that wine room. Without the terrifying knowledge that if I stay here watching him celebrate, I might do something catastrophically stupid.
I slip away from the tunnel, pushing through the heavy door into the equipment corridor. The sound cuts instantly—from deafening roar to muffled thrum, like diving underwater. The contrast makes my ears ring. My shoulders drop as I lean against the cool cinderblock wall, finally able to breathe.
The hallway smells like ice and rubber and the sharp ozone that clings to the air after a game. Harsh fluorescent lights buzz overhead, making everything look stark and exposed—a world away from the carefully orchestrated spectacle beyond that door. It's not pretty, but it's quiet. And right now, quiet feels like salvation.
Here, I can think. Here, I can remember why my promotion depends on staying invisible until the season ends. Why—
The door opens behind me.
Every muscle in my body seizes. I know it’s him before I turn. The shift in the air. The static pull across my skin. The soft squeak of his skates on concrete, each step measured and sure.
Garrett steps into the corridor, still in full gear except for his helmet. Sweat dampens his dark hair, clinging to his forehead. His face is flushed with exertion and victory, hazeleyes bright with something that makes my mouth go dry. He looks massive in the narrow hallway, broad shoulders nearly spanning the space. Heat rolls off him in waves.
He doesn’t speak. Just looks at me, steady and unguarded, like he can see straight through every wall I’ve built.
The door clicks shut behind him, sealing us in this bubble of fluorescent-lit silence. Suddenly the oxygen feels thin.
“Congratulations,” I say, because I need to fill the space with something normal. Something safe. My voice comes out breathier than I mean. “Two hundred assists is—”
“Sloane.”
His voice is low, rough. He steps closer. Then again. That same focused stride he uses on the ice. No hesitation. No doubt. Just quiet, unwavering intent.
My brain screams:DANGER. ZERO TOLERANCE.But my feet won’t move. I’m frozen, trapped between the wall and six-foot-three of determined hockey player looking at me like I’m the only thing that exists.
With each step, more details snap into focus: the rise and fall of his chest under all that gear. The faint scar through his left eyebrow. The intensity in his eyes that makes my knees wobble.
He stops in front of me. So close I have to tilt my head to meet his gaze. The scent of salt, sweat, and something clean clings to him. His jaw flexes. The heat of him makes the cool wall at my back feel almost freezing.
“I heard him,” he says.
His hand lifts. Calloused fingers graze my jaw with surprising gentleness. The touch short-circuits every logical thought in my head. His thumb brushes my cheek, angling my face up.
“He’s asking me to choose,” Garrett murmurs, his voice low and rough. “And for the first time in my life, hockey might not be the answer.”
For one terrifying moment, my mask cracks wide open—pride, want, fear—all of it right there on my face for him to see. A low groan rumbles in his chest. “Sloane.”
My name on his lips is a match to a fuse. I look up at him, and my body acts before my brain can stop it, leaning in.
That’s all the permission he needs.
Something in his expression shifts, the last thread of his control seeming to snap. The playful victor is gone, replaced by a raw, unguarded need that steals the air from my lungs. His focus narrows, his gaze dropping to my mouth, and the heat in his eyes is a promise of the storm about to break.
He leans down and his mouth covers mine. It’s not soft. It’s a collision, hungry and claiming, that tastes of victory, salt, and weeks of coiled tension finally snapping free. His mouth moves against mine with the same intensity he brings to everything else—focused, purposeful, devastating. The hard plates of his gear press into my chest, and the scent of him—ice, exertion, and that clean soap I’m beginning to associate with losing control—fills my senses.
His tongue sweeps against my lips, a demanding question I answer without hesitation, opening for him. The kiss deepens, and he closes the last inch between us, pressing me back against the cold concrete, his body a hard, undeniable presence against mine. A low sound rips from his chest, half groan, half possession. “Mine,” he growls against my lips, the single word vibrating through me and silencing every rational thought.
The rough scratch of his stubble is an addictive friction against my skin. My hands, which had fisted in his jersey,uncurl. One tangles in the thick hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, desperate for more. The other slides down his chest, feeling the solid, powerful muscle beneath the damp fabric.
My brain screams.This is insane. This is career suicide. This is—
