I lean against the wall and watch her disappear around the corner. The pride that surged a moment ago curdles into something cold and sour. This isn't protection. This is erasure.
The team meeting drags on forever. Coach is breaking down power play adjustments, diagramming formations on the whiteboard with the kind of detail that usually holds my focus.
But I’m not locked on Xs and Os. I’m three rows ahead and two seats to the right—where Sloane sits with her tablet, taking notes. Focused.
She’s in that navy blazer that makes her look like she could run a Fortune 500 company. Her auburn hair is pulled back in a sleek ponytail, baring the line of her neck.
Twenty minutes ago, I was kissing that neck in a supply closet.
Now, I’m pretending she’s just another staff member.
“Sullivan.” Coach’s voice snaps across the room.
Heat climbs my neck. “Yes, sir.”
“Need you to coordinate with Sloane on playoff coverage. Player interviews, behind-the-scenes stuff. Make sure we’re projecting the right image.”
Sloane glances back. Her expression is perfectly professional. But her lips curve just slightly.
“No problem,” I say, holding her gaze for three seconds. Then I look away.
Any longer, and someone might notice the way we look at each other like we share secrets. Which we do.
The meeting ends twenty minutes later, players filing out in small groups, complaining about ice time and discussing weekend plans. I linger, organizing my notes with deliberate slowness, waiting for the room to clear.
“Garrett.” Her voice is neutral. Controlled. “Coach wants us to align on the playoff media strategy.”
“Right.” I stand, hyper-aware of her proximity. Of everything I can’t do.
“Your office?”
“Conference room down the hall,” she says, already moving. “More professional.”
Professional.Each word felt like swallowing dust.
We walk the hallway with practiced distance. Not quite together. Not obviously apart.
A choreography we’ve perfected. But tonight, it feels forced.
In the conference room, she immediately crosses to the windows, putting the length of the table between us.
The message is clear.
This is business.
“Coach wants regular player availability,” she says, pulling up her calendar. “Short interviews, practice footage, community documentation. Enough content to shape a strong playoff narrative.”
I watch her speak. Watch the way she avoids looking at me for more than a second at a time. Even here—alone—she won’t let her guard down.
The weight of what we’re hiding thickens the air between us.
“Sounds reasonable,” I say. “What do you need from me?”
“Your cooperation.” She finally meets my eyes. And I see it—the exhaustion, the strain. “I know media isn’t your thing. But if we control the narrative—”
“Sloane.” Her name escapes rougher than I intend. “We don’t have to do this.”
She stiffens. “Do what?”
