The familiar scent of garlic and basil wraps around me like a warm hug as I push through the heavy wooden door ofMarcello’s. The restaurant hasn’t changed in the year since Easton and I first started coming here—same checkered tablecloths, same Dean Martin crooning from hidden speakers, same elderly hostess who always pretends not to recognize us before breaking into a grin.
“McKenzie, party of two,” I say, even though we both know she’s already spotted Easton’s unmistakable frame folded into our usual booth.
“Ah, Sloane! Your giant is already here, stealing the breadsticks as usual.”
I laugh, weaving between tightly packed tables toward the corner where Easton is doing his best impression of a linebacker trying to fit into a dollhouse. At six-four, he makes everything in this cozy place look miniature—but it’s always been our sanctuary. Neutral ground. A place where I’m just his sister, not the Mammoths’ marketing exec walking a corporate tightrope in the same organization where he guards the net.
“You’re late,” he says without looking up, mid-demolition of what must be his second bread basket.
“You’re early,” I retort, sliding into the booth and snatching the basket before he can demolish the rest. “Don't you have a game tomorrow? Shouldn't you be eating quinoa and visualizing puck trajectories or whatever weird goalie zen you do?”
“My weird goalie zen includes carb-loading and stealing my sister's breadsticks.” He grins, that easy smile that got him out of trouble our entire childhood. “Besides, I was hungry. You said six-thirty.”
“I said seven.” I check my phone. “It's six forty-five.”
“Potato, po-tah-to.”
The conversation is familiar, comforting. It dissolves the edge I’ve been carrying all day. After a week of corporate landmines and trying to crack the Garrett Sullivan code, this place—with its marinara-stained tablecloths and wax-drenched Chianti bottles—is a needed reprieve.
Our server, Maria, appears with my pinot grigio and Easton’s sparkling water with lemon. She doesn’t even ask anymore.
“The usual?” she says, already writing.
“Please,” we echo, then laugh at ourselves. Some rituals never change.
But when she disappears toward the kitchen, Easton's expression shifts. The playful mask slips away, replaced by something more serious. Something that makes me instantly wary, because I know that look. It's the same expression he gets right before asking if I'm really okay, really happy, really taking care of myself.
“So,” he says, leaning forward and lowering his voice. “How are you settling in? Really settling in, not the corporate-speak version you gave Mom last week.”
I sip my wine. The honest answer is messy.
The job is exactly what I asked for—high stakes, real influence, a chance to prove I belong in the big leagues. But it’s also a daily act of threading needles in rooms where credibility is assumed for everyone except me.
“It’s good,” I say carefully. “Challenging, but good. The Northstar account’s going to be huge if I can land the pitch.”
“That’s not what I asked.” His eyes—same green as mine, but more direct—study my face like he’s tracking a puck in the slot. “You’ve been pulling late nights for three weeks straight. When’s the last time you had a weekend without a spreadsheet?”
“Says the guy who watched game film in his underwear last Sunday.”
“Different. Ilovemy job.”
It lands like a soft challenge. Do I?
“I love my job too,” I say, but even to my own ears it sounds defensive. “I'm just... it's a lot of pressure. New role, new expectations. I have to prove I belong there.”
Easton reaches across the table and covers my hand with his massive one. His fingers are scarred from years of deflecting pucks, warm and solid and completely familiar.
“Slo,” he says gently, using the nickname only he's allowed to use. “You've been in overdrive since you were a kid. Ever since Dad left, you've been trying to build a life so perfect that nothing could ever touch it.”
The words hit like a slap shot to the chest. I pull my hand back, reaching for my wine glass instead. “That's not—I'm not—”
“You were nine years old making five-year plans,” he continues, relentless but soft. “Color-coding your school supplies. Paying Mom’s bills when she couldn’t get out of bed. You’ve been the adult in every room since elementary school.”
“Someone had to be.” Sharper than I meant, but I don’t take it back. “Mom was underwater for two years. You were barely keeping your head above it. I kept the lights on.”
“You shouldn’t have had to—”
“But I did.” I lean forward, meeting his concerned gaze with steel in my own. “And you know what? I wasgoodat it. Iamgood at it. Taking care of business, managing crises, making sure everything runs smoothly—that's what I do.”
