For thirty perfect, uninterrupted seconds, there are no rules, no risks—just the feel of her lips and her hands tangled in my shirt, and the sound of my own blood roaring in my ears.
Then, the sound of voices in the hallway—sharp and close. We freeze. Her eyes go wide in the dim light, the reality of what we’re risking crashing back in. The footsteps pass, but the spell is broken. She pulls back, breathless and flushed, her lipstick delightfully smeared.
“We have to stop doing this,” she whispers, but she’s smiling.
“No, we don’t,” I say, stealing one last, quick kiss before I open the door just a crack. “Coast is clear. Go.”
She slips out, smoothing her blazer, and is gone. I wait a full minute, leaning against the door, my pulse finally starting to slow. This is torture. The best damn torture of my life.
The memory of her lipstick, delightfully smeared, is still burned into my mind as the engines of the team jet whine to life outside the window. It’s a familiar feeling, but the energy buzzing under my skin is all new. It’s all about the pact. All about the fact that Sloane McKenzie sits four rows behind me, looking like the picture of professional focus with her tablet balanced on her knees, when less than an hour ago she was pressed against a wall with my hands tangled in her hair.
I do the usual scan of the cabin—habit from years of reading the ice. Vets and coaching staff in the plush seats up front. Rookies scattered throughout the main cabin. Everything in its place.
My eyes land on Sloane. Window seat. Mid-cabin, a safe, professional distance.
The urge to walk back there is physical. But I force myself to stay put, in my assigned seat up front next to Easton.
Playing by the rules. For now.
I pull out my phone and hover my thumb over her name.
Worth it.
Four rows back, her screen lights up. I see it happen. See her shoulders tense slightly. She doesn’t move right away. Then her head tilts down. From here, I can’t see her face. Just the quiet precision of her posture
My phone buzzes.
Sloane
God, yes.
Okay done, back to work.
For now.
The corner of my mouth twitches.
A flight attendant passes down the aisle, and for a brief moment, the path between us is clear. She glances up, and our gazes meet directly over the top of the seats. A spark of live-wire connection across the distance. Then she’s looking back at her tablet.
Game on.
The ninety-minute flight becomes a silent, charged game. Her phone buzzes with work calls, and I listen to the clipped, professional cadence of her voice as she handles sponsors, metrics, logistics. There’s a sharpness in her tone that cuts through the dull rhythm of travel.
She’s all steel and polish.
It makes something in my chest tighten.
My phone buzzes again.
Sloane
MINNESOTA MAMMOTHS CODE OF CONDUCT. Required reading. Section 4, subsection B is particularly relevant to your interests.
Already read it. Pretty sure I’m violating at least three of those just by looking at you from four rows away.
You’re a walking HR violation, Sullivan.
Just wait until we land.
