My phone buzzes, cutting through the silence like a salvation. Marcus's name appears on the screen, and I grab it before the second ring.
"Tank, buddy—how're you holding up?"
Marcus Rodriguez. My agent for the past six years. His voice carries that practiced calm that agents use to manage crises, the tone that says everything's under control when nothing is.
"Not great, Marcus." I collapse onto the leather couch, suddenly exhausted. "Not great at all."
"Hey, I get it. This whole thing's a nightmare. But I've got good news—I've been making calls all morning, and I think we can shut this down quickly."
Shut this down quickly. Treating this like just another PR crisis to be managed. Just another speed bump in a long, lucrative career.
"The suspension?" Marcus continues, his voice warming with professional optimism. "I've already reached out to theleague office. They're open to negotiation. We're probably looking at five games, ten at the most. And the fine?" He makes a dismissive sound. "Steep, sure, but hey—it's a business expense. Part of the job."
Business expense. The casualness in his voice makes my stomach clench.
"We'll schedule a soft interview," he continues, building momentum. "Something local, friendly. You'll express regret, talk about lessons learned, emphasize your commitment to the team. Classic crisis management. You'll be back on the ice in a week, two max."
I close my eyes, letting his words wash over me. Standard playbook. Manageable problem. Career barely bruised.
"Marcus," I interrupt, my voice lower than intended. "What about Sloane?"
The pause tells me everything I need to know. It stretches for three agonizingly long seconds.
"Tank, I know you care about her, but that's not really our concern right now. My job is protecting your career. Her situation is... unfortunate, but it's separate."
Separate.
The word hits me like a blindside check.
Separate. Like we live in different worlds. Like we weren't destroyed by the same moment, the same words, the same catastrophic miscalculation.
"She got fired, Marcus." I can barely get the words out. "Forced to sign an NDA. Career destroyed. And you're telling me I'll be back next week with a slap on the wrist."
"That's..." Marcus sounds genuinely surprised, like he's hearing this for the first time. "That's harsh. I'm sorry to hear that. But Tank, you can't take responsibility for decisionsabove your pay grade. You've got to focus on what you can control."
What I can control.
I hang up without saying goodbye.
The silence that follows is different now. Heavier. Charged with something that makes the hair on my arms stand up.
Separate.
I stand from the couch, moving to the window on unsteady legs. The city spreads below me, indifferent to the earthquake happening in my chest.
Sloane lost everything. Her job. Her reputation. Her career. The life she'd spent fifteen years building, demolished in one afternoon because of what I said. How I said it.
And me?
A fine I can pay without thinking. A suspension that's already being negotiated down to nothing. Marcus planning soft interviews and image rehabilitation while she's... what? Updating her résumé? Explaining to potential employers why her last position ended with a security escort?
The whole thing plays in my mind again, but this time it's different. This time I'm not watching it through the lens of wounded pride or righteous confusion. I'm watching it through Sloane's eyes.
I see myself standing up, commandeering her moment. Her presentation—the one she'd worked on for months, the deal that was supposed to secure her future—and I made myself the main character.
"I trust Sloane McKenzie with the future of this team... and with mine."
Jesus Christ.
