“Thanks,” she murmurs as I set the refilled mug beside her hand, still not looking up. She reaches for it automatically, pure muscle memory. Her fingers flex slightly—another tell. She’s been at this for hours.
The apartment smells like dark roast and clean paper. Outside, commuters are probably scraping frost off their windshields. But in here, it’s warm and focused. Ours.
“Ready for a scrimmage?” I ask, sliding into the chair across from her.
That gets her attention. She looks up, and there it is—that small, fierce smile that hits me square in the chest. “Hit me.”
The shift is instant. I straighten, let my voice lose its warmth, take on the edge of an exec who wouldn’t hesitate to make her sweat in a real boardroom.
“Alright, Ms. McKenzie. I’ve got a dozen proposals on my desk. Why are the Mammoths anything more than a tax write-off?”
Her posture snaps straight—shoulders back, chin up, green eyes holding a sharp, focused intensity. The knee bounce stops dead.
“Because you’re not just buying a hockey team. You’re buying a community. Our fan engagement metrics show—”
“Your Q3 projections are optimistic, considering the broadcast-rights negotiations are stalled,” I cut in, leaning forward like I’m going for the hit. “Prove this isn’t wishful thinking.”
She doesn’t blink. “Page fourteen of the appendix shows we built those projections around the uncertainty. The streaming partnership we’re proposing creates revenuestreams independent of traditional networks. In fact, the current stall gives us leverage because—”
Jesus. She’s ripping through clauses and market models like she’s calling plays. Every word, precise and lethal. I throw a curveball about competitor analysis, referencing the Rangers’ recent streaming pivot. She twists it back into a strength so seamlessly I almost forget I’m supposed to be playing defense.
This is her zone. Every tell vanishes. What’s left is raw confidence and execution. She references data like line pairings, stacks logic like power plays, and anticipates my next move before I make it.
“The Sacramento deal you mentioned actually reinforces our approach,” she says, spinning her laptop toward me and tapping a chart. “Their numbers seem strong until you factor in market saturation and service overlap. Our proposal targets an untouched segment that—”
I push again, this time on long-term sustainability, and she lights up—completely in her element—as she dismantles the concern piece by piece. She’s not just good. She’s surgical. Brilliant. The kind of strategist who sees plays no one else notices.
And somewhere between her explanation about revenue diversification and scalable models, it hits me—a clean blindside hit.
This is it.
I can’t imagine my life without her. I want all of it.Forever.
“—and that’s why the Northstar partnership isn’t just profitable. It’s essential for both organizations moving forward.” She leans back, flushed with the high of the win. “Next question?”
The mock meeting dissolves instantly. I’m just Garrett again, staring at her like she invented the moon and taught it to pass the puck. “Damn, Sloane.”
She grins, the fierce executive falling away to reveal the woman who steals my hoodies. “Too much?”
“Not even close.” I stand, glance at my watch, trying to steady myself after the emotional hit. “We should get moving.”
If she crushes this pitch like I know she will, even Easton will have to admit we’re better together than apart. This isn’t just about winning Northstar—it’s about proving we’re a team. That what we have makes us stronger.
She nods and closes her laptop with the kind of care that says every detail is locked and loaded. We move around each other in the narrow space between kitchen and table like we’ve done it for years instead of weeks. That silent rhythm of two people who justfit.
I’m fixing my tie when she appears in front of me, reaching up to adjust the knot I’ve apparently screwed up. Lucky break that the GM invited the captain and alternate captains to the Northstar meeting. Miller's office said the request came down from Henderson's people to show player buy-in, not just a corporate pitch—probably just for show, but I’m grateful. I get to see her do this live. Not just hear about it later.
Her fingers graze the column of my throat, and in a second the air between us shifts. Business to personal.
I cover her hand with mine. Then I reach up and tuck that stubborn piece of hair behind her ear. It'll fall out again in twenty minutes, and I love that I know that. Love that I get to be the one to fix it.
“You’re going to kill it today,” I tell her, voice low and firm. “You’re the most brilliant person I know.”
She looks up, and something in her softens. The tension she’s been carrying for days finally releases. Her eyes meet mine—clear, certain, trusting—and they’re full of something that makes my own breath catch in my throat, leaving just the two of us.
“We’re a good team.”
The words land with weight. Not just about the meeting. Not just about today. Everything.
