"Am I, though? And she's always got those little smiles when his interviews come on. Plus, she practically glows whenever anyone mentions his name."
The coffee I came for sits forgotten as my blood turns to ice water. This is exactly what Vivian warned me about. The whispers are already starting. The liability narrative is taking root.
"That doesn't mean anything," the second voice—Nikki from social media—argues. "Maybe she's just proud of her work. That campaign strategy was brilliant."
"Or maybe she's getting a little too invested in her subject. I'm just saying, if I were Vivian, I'd be asking some hard questions. Especially with everything riding on Northstar."
If I were Vivian.
The words hit me like a physical blow. This isn't organic gossip spreading through the office. This is Vivian's campaign in action. She's already planted seeds, already begunthe process of making me look like the problem that needs to be solved.
"Think it'll blow up?" Nikki asks.
"Depends how smart they are about it. But honestly? The writing's on the wall. You can't have that kind of distraction during playoff season. Especially not with someone who's supposed to be managing team optics." Jennifer's tone carries the satisfied certainty of someone who's already decided the outcome. "It's exactly the kind of professional liability that gets people fired."
"Poor girl," Nikki says, but there's no real sympathy in her voice. "She's talented, I'll give her that. But talent doesn't protect you when you become the story instead of managing it."
Their conversation shifts to safer topics—weekend plans, the new coffee brand in the break room—but I'm no longer listening. The damage is done. My worst fears have been confirmed in stereo.
I wait until their voices fade down the hallway before emerging from my hiding spot, legs unsteady beneath me. The coffee I came for sits forgotten as I make my way back to my office, each step a heavy trudge through mud.
My sanctuary feels compromised now. Through the glass walls that once made me feel transparent and honest, I now feel exposed. Watched. Every movement catalogued for future judgment.
The conference room is a fishbowl under the harsh fluorescent lights, its glass walls offering no privacy from the curious gazes of passing colleagues. I've chosen the chair farthest from the door, my back to the windows that overlook the practice rink, my laptop positioned like a barrier between myself and the empty chair across from me.
When Garrett enters, he brings his usual easy confidence, the kind of relaxed energy that comes from being comfortable in his own skin. His hair is still damp from the post-practice shower, and he's wearing that navy pullover that makes his eyes look more green than brown. Yesterday, the sight of him would have made my pulse skip and my carefully professional mask slip into something softer, more genuine.
Today, it makes my chest tighten with panic.
"Hey," he says, closing the door behind him with the quiet consideration he always shows for my corporate sensibilities. "How's the playoff media timeline looking?"
"Fine." The word comes out clipped, sharper than I intended. I don't look up from my screen, where I've pulled up the content calendar that I've already memorized. "Player availability is confirmed through next Friday. The feature interviews are scheduled with Torres, Davidson, and Williams."
He settles into the chair across from me, and I can feel his gaze like a physical weight. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the small frown that creases his forehead—confusion at my tone, at the distance I've suddenly inserted between us.
"And the community outreach coverage?" he asks, his voice carrying a note of uncertainty that makes my heart clench.
"Handled." I click through to another spreadsheet, anything to keep my eyes off his face. "The youth clinic footage will be edited and distributed by Thursday. Social media rollout begins Friday morning."
The silence stretches between us, thick with unspoken questions. I can see him in my peripheral vision, leaning forward slightly, trying to catch my eye. Before, he would havemade some gentle joke about my corporate speak, would have found a way to make me smile, to bridge the professional distance with personal warmth.
Before, I would have let him.
"Sloane." His voice is quieter now, tinged with concern. "Is everything okay?"
"Everything's fine." I pull up another document, fingers moving across the keyboard with mechanical precision. "Did you need anything else regarding media coverage?"
I finally glance at him, and the hurt that flickers across his expression is like a knife between my ribs, but I force myself to maintain the professional facade. I can't afford to be soft right now. Can't afford to let him see how terrified I am, how the walls are closing in around us.
He opens his mouth to say something—probably to call out my obvious deflection, to push past the corporate politeness to the truth—when movement in the hallway catches my attention.
Easton.
My brother's massive frame fills the corridor beyond the glass walls, moving with the purposeful stride of someone heading to a specific destination. But as he passes our conference room, his steps slow. His head turns. And when his eyes find us through the transparent barrier, everything inside me turns to ice.
The look on Easton's face isn't casual curiosity or brotherly concern. It's laser-focused suspicion, the kind of sharp attention he usually reserves for reading shooters in the slot. His gaze moves from Garrett to me and back again, cataloguing every detail: the distance between us, the careful positioning of our bodies, the way I'm studiously avoiding eye contact with the man across from me.
But most damning of all is what he sees in my face. Despite my best efforts to remain composed, I know my expression betrays me to my brother. The guilt, the fear, the desperate attempt to appear professional while my world crumbles around me—it's all there for him to read.
