“Great game tonight,” he says—but his eyes are already on her. One arm draped over the back of her chair. Smiling like he’s doing her a favor by showing up.
“You must be the one making these guys look good on Instagram.”
The casual condescension punches me in the gut.
You’re just there to look pretty, Tank. Don’t take it so seriously.
Derek's voice from three years ago. Right before I found him in my apartment. With Emma.
I grip my steak knife until my knuckles go white.
The urge to stand up, to put myself between them, claws at my chest. My jaw clenches so hard it aches, and I force myself to stay seated, to appear normal while my pulse pounds in my ears.
But something makes me wait. Watch. Trust.
Sloane angles her body slightly away from O'Malley, and suddenly I can see the difference between her and Emma so clearly it takes my breath away. Where Emma would have giggled and played up the attention, Sloane's spine straightens with quiet steel.
“We handle multi-platform brand strategy and partner activations,” she says. “Instagram content is a small fraction of our data-driven fan engagement funnel. But I’m sure you have more important things to focus on—like tomorrow’s game.”
It’s a masterclass in polite demolition. O’Malley flushes, mumbles something, and slinks away.
I exhale a breath I hadn’t even realized I was holding, my death grip on the knife finally loosening.
She didn't need me to ride to her rescue. Didn't want it, either. She handled herself like the competent professional she is, shutting down a threat with nothing but words and absolute confidence in her own worth.
The realization hits me with startling clarity: I'm not just attracted to Sloane McKenzie. I'm not just breaking rules for the thrill of it. That spike of jealousy, that terror at the thought of losing her—not to O'Malley, not to anyone—it's real. Terrifyingly real.
The jet cruises through the dark at thirty thousand feet, the win behind us, the world a quiet blanket of clouds below.
Four rows behind me, I see her silhouette against the small porthole window.
My phone buzzes.
Sloane
I saw you about to jump in with O'Malley.
You didn’t need my help.
Never do. That’s the point.
I read it twice. Then lean back, eyes closed.That’s the point.
But something shifts in me. It’s not enough anymore. The glances. The hidden threads. I needher.
I open the keyboard. Type. Delete. Type again.
I need to see you. Away from the rink. Just us.
My finger hovers over the send button. This is the move that breaks the game we made. This is the one that asks for everything. I hit send.
The little “Delivered” lights up. I watch. Nothing. Five seconds. Ten. Then—the dots. Typing. Gone.Shit.Back again. One minute passes. Then two.
My phone buzzes.
Sloane
Yes.
