Maria appears with my usual pinot and Easton’s sparkling water, her smile as warm and familiar as the soup specials. “The usual?” she asks, even as her pen is already moving.
“Please,” we say in unison.
But the ritual feels hollow tonight. Forced.
When Maria disappears toward the kitchen, Easton leans back against the booth, his posture deceptively casual. But I know that look. It’s the same intense focus he brings to reading shooters in the slot, analyzing every micro-expression, every tell that might give away the play.
“So,” he says, voice carefully neutral. “How’s the Sullivan project going?”
My wine glass freezes halfway to my lips. The question lands clean, like a wrist shot to the gut. Calm on the surface. Lethal underneath.
“Fine.” It comes out clipped. “He’s been more cooperative lately. The media training’s working.”
“Cooperative.” He says the word like it’s unfamiliar. “That’s an interesting way to describe Tank Sullivan.”
My phone buzzes a third time. I don’t look, but the pull is there. That now-familiar ache just behind my sternum.
“People can change,” I say. “Sometimes they just need the right approach.”
“Mmm.” He drums his fingers against the table, a rhythm that matches his pre-game warm-up routine. Controlled. Calculating. “And what approach would that be?”
The weight of his attention is suffocating. Every word feels like a trap, every pause an opportunity for him to read between the lines I'm desperately trying to blur.
“Professional. Consistent. Building trust.”
Corporate jargon—reliable as Kevlar.
But Easton’s too smart for that.
His skepticism melts into something sharper. More concerned.
“Sloane.” His voice drops to that serious tone he uses when he's about to ask something that matters. “What's really going on?”
The directness of it stills the air between us. My escape routes are closing. My mind races, searching for a plausible out, a piece of the truth big enough to hide the rest. I find one. A lifeline.
I let out a long, weary sigh and drag a hand through my hair. “It’s not… it’s not what you think. It’s work. God, is it ever work.”
Easton leans forward, eyebrows drawing together. “What work? The Northstar thing?”
“I wish.” I lower my voice, like this is confidential intel. “It’s Caleb Jones.”
His expression shifts immediately. “Cal? What’d the kid do now? Post another gym thirst trap with a typo in the caption?”
“Worse. Way worse.”
My phone buzzes again. This time, I glare at it with real, unscripted frustration.
“He was on a livestream last night with some influencer. Thought it ended. It hadn’t. He spent two minutes mocking the away-team jerseys. Called them ‘pajamas for sad clowns.’”
Easton groans, tipping his head back. “Jesus. These kids…”
“Yeah. I’ve been on the phone with legal and our GM all day. The league called. The other team’s PR is salivating. This is what’s been blowing up my phone. This is why I look like I have a fever.”
He shakes his head. “They grow up with phones in their hands but don’t understand how to use them without setting their lives on fire.”
“And I’m the one holding the extinguisher,” I mutter into my wine glass.
“What are you going to do?” he asks, all brotherly concern now. “Take away his phone until the playoffs?”
