“I know that. But when do you get to just...be? When do you get to want something just because it makes you happy, not because it fits into some master plan?”
The question lodges under my ribs like a splinter. Because the truth is, I don't know how to want things without calculating the cost, the risk, the potential for everything to fall apart. Happiness is a luxury I can't afford, a weakness that leaves you vulnerable to men who pack their bags in the middle of the night without saying goodbye.
Maria arrives with our food—my chicken parm, Easton’s outrageously large calzone—and I’m grateful for the interruption. I let the practiced, polished expression slide back into place.
“Speaking of high-stakes diplomacy,” I say, slicing into my chicken, “I’ve got a new assignment testing every skill I’ve got.”
Easton arches a brow, picking up the cue. “Oh?”
“Garrett Sullivan. Media training for the league’s least cooperative player.” I keep my voice light, like this is just another box to check, not a problem that’s been consuming my every thought for days. “He treats reporters like they’re hostile interrogators.”
“Tank?” Easton’s posture changes—alert, protective. “What’s wrong with his media game?”
“Everything. One-word answers, stone face, enough hostility to tank a sponsor relationship. Vivian wants me to turn him into a human brand ambassador.”
I expect him to laugh. Instead, his expression darkens.
“Be careful with that one, Slo.”
I pause, fork halfway to my mouth. “Why?”
“Guys like him... they don’t let people in easily. And when the front office wants someone ‘fixed,’ they usually meanmanaged. If you end up between Garrett and whatever demons he’s wrestling, it won’t be a fair fight and could get messy.”
“Messy how?”
“The kind of messy that ends careers.” He meets my eyes. “You know what this business is like. It doesn’t protect the staff. It protects the assets.”
Ice water floods my stomach.
“You think I can’t handle one difficult player?”
“I think you can handleanything. But I also think you’re ambitious—and that makes you a threat. Add in a player with a complicated reputation and a GM with a history of scapegoating, and you’re playing a dangerous game.”
I want to argue. But the worst part is—I know he’s right.
“Thanks for the confidence,” I say, trying to keep the hurt out of my voice.
“Hey.” He reaches across the table again, but this time I don't pull away. “I'm not doubting your abilities. I'm questioning their commitment to protecting you if things go sideways. There's a difference.”
“Things aren't going to go sideways. It's media training.”
“Just promise me you'll be smart about it,” Easton says. “I love Tank, but I know he can leave a wake of destruction behind him.”
“I’m not someone he's just going to bulldoze.”
“You know what I mean.” His expression softens. “You have a good heart, Slo. Sometimes too good for this business. And players like Tank... they're used to people wanting something from them. They don't always know how to handle someone who's just trying to help.”
“Message received. Keep my distance. CYA. Don’t give anyone ammunition.”
“Exactly.” He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Now stop stress-eating my breadsticks.”
I glance down at my plate, sheepish. Half the basket has mysteriously migrated to my side.
“Okay, maybe I’m stress-eating a little.”
“Maybe?”
We drift into easier conversation—road trips, presentation timelines, Mom’s latest matchmaking attempts with her book club’s grandchildren. The kind of normal that smooths over raw nerves.
