I set the phone down.
I'm doing it again.
The realization hits like a punch to the ribs.
Here I am—hiding the most extraordinary woman I've ever known. Making her sneak through shadows. Acting like this thing between us is some shameful secret instead of the best part of my life.
Sloane says secrecy protects her career, but what if I'm just using that as armor? What if I'm using her legitimate concerns as an excuse to avoid the vulnerability of goingpublic again? What if I'm making her pay the price for my cowardice?
Derek gets to post photos with his wife at charity galas while I can't even acknowledge that the woman who just revolutionized my world exists in my life. He gets to call her his partner while I pretend Sloane is just another coworker.
I think of tonight. Her smile. Her trust. The way she looked at me like I was her whole world.
She deserves more than shadows. She deserves to be claimed. Fought for.
Emma was wrong about a lot. But she was right about this: Silence isn't dignity. It's cowardice.
No. Not this time. Not with Sloane.
I won't make the same mistake twice. When the right moment comes—when she's proving to everyone how extraordinary she is—I won't let her stand there alone. I'll make sure everyone understands exactly what they're witnessing: not just a brilliant woman, but excellence delivered by the most remarkable woman I've ever known.
I'll find a way to show them all what she means to this team, what she means to this organization. I'll make sure she gets the recognition she deserves.
This time, I'll fight for her the way she deserves to be fought for.
21
Sloane
The press box smells like burnt coffee and nervous energy.
I shouldn't be here. I have a dozen emails waiting, a content calendar that needs updating, and a sponsor deck that won't finalize itself. But when Emily from social media mentioned she had an extra seat for tonight's game against Colorado, I said yes before my brain could catch up with my mouth.
Three rows down, Garrett takes the ice for warm-ups, and my heart does that stupid flutter it's been doing for weeks now. He moves with that effortless grace that makes six-foot-three look elegant instead of hulking, stick handling through cones like the puck is magnetically attached to his blade.
Focus, McKenzie. You're here to observe team dynamics for the Q4 campaign. This is research.
The lie tastes stale even in my own head.
The arena fills around me—eighteen thousand fans in blue and gold, the energy building like static electricity before a storm. The Jumbotron flashes player stats, and when Garrett's face appears, a group of women three sections over start screaming. I feel a completely irrational spike of jealousy, which is ridiculous, because they don't know what hislaugh sounds like at 2 a.m., or how his voice drops when he says my name, or the way he looks at me like I'm the only person in any room.
Get it together.
The anthem. The roar. The puck drops.
Colorado comes out aggressive, testing our defense with quick transitions and heavy forechecking. I find myself leaning forward, reading the plays the way I have since I was eight years old, perched on cold bleachers watching Easton's peewee games. There—the way Garrett positions himself in the neutral zone, already anticipating where the puck is going before the pass is made. The subtle shift of his weight that tells me he's about to close a gap. The patience that separates elite defensemen from everyone else.
First period ends scoreless. The Zamboni makes its slow loops while I pretend to check my phone, hyperaware of the women behind me discussing which player has the best "hockey butt." When someone mentions Sullivan, I have to physically stop myself from turning around.
Second period. Colorado strikes first on a power play, their sniper finding the top corner while Easton sprawls desperately across the crease. The arena groans. I watch Garrett tap Easton's pads—a quick, wordless reassurance—before skating back to center ice.
We answer six minutes later. Daniels buries a rebound off a feed from Lucas, and the building shakes with eighteen thousand voices. I'm on my feet before I realize I've moved, clapping with everyone else, anonymous in the crowd.
This is safe. This is fine. I'm just another fan enjoying a Tuesday night game.
Then the third period happens.
Colorado's down by one with eight minutes left, and they're playing desperate. Bodies crash into boards. Sticks get tangled. The refs swallow their whistles as the game gets chippy, physical, mean.
