Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
Sloane
The first thing I notice is the silence.
Not the usual kind—the focused, caffeinated hum of a professional sports franchise spinning up for another day. This is the other kind.
The dangerous kind.
The kind that smells like smoke before the fire even touches your skin.
Tessa’s already standing at my office door when I round the corner.
Still in her coat. Bag slung over one shoulder. Hair pulled back in a severe bun, like she didn’t even pause at her desk.
She holds a tablet in both hands like it’s radioactive.
Not a word. Just lifts it and taps the screen.
The video starts playing before I can ask.
And then I see it.
Finn.
Waving from the back of a fucking Zamboni like he’s in the damn Macy’s Parade. Jersey untucked. Shorts hanging low.
He turns to throw candy—and his waistband catches.
Rips.
And just like that, the entire arena gets a clear full-screen shot of Finn McCade’s ass.
Boxers sliding. Jock strap clinging for dear life. One bounce away from a dick slip and a lawsuit.
My jaw doesn’t clench.
My expression doesn’t change.
Not even a blink.
I reach out, take the tablet from Tessa, and tap to pause the video.
Once is enough.
I hand it back.
“Get rid of that.”
Her voice is low. “It’s already viral. X, TikTok, IG, Reddit. Buzzfeed’s got a meme up that says ‘Finn-tervention Needed.’”
I nod once.
I don’t ask who was supposed to be watching him. I don’t ask why no one stopped it. I don’t ask why my phone wasn’t ringing off the hook two hours ago.
I say the only thing that matters.
“Get PR, comms, legal, Dean, and security.”
Tessa’s already two steps ahead. “They’re on your calendar. War room will be ready in twenty minutes.”
I finally exhale. “You really do love me.”
She hands over the coffee. Black. Extra strong.
I take a sip, then check my phone out of habit.
Nothing.
No text. No warning.
Just silence.
The kind that isn’t neutral—it’s intentional.
And that? That burns more than the video ever could.
I stare down at the screen, thumb hovering like maybe if I tap it again, something will change.
That the name I want to see will light up.
That the man who touched my body like a prayer and kissed me like a fucking war would bother to say something.
But no.
He stayed quiet.
He let me wake up to this—with cameras and chaos and headlines on fire—and didn’t even send a warning shot.
Not even a single damn word.
But what did I expect? The last time we talked two days ago, he made me come, made himself vulnerable, and then I told him I couldn’t do this right now.
What the fuck did I even mean by that?
I tuck the phone away like it doesn’t matter.
Like it’s not a fresh crack in a foundation I already knew better than to build.
Then I straighten my spine, square my shoulders, and take another sip of the coffee that won’t fix any of this.
Time for damage control.
Dean strides into the room like he’s auditioning for a roast special. He’s holding a tablet and grinning like the damn Joker.
“Do we fine him for public indecency,” he says dryly, “or send a thank-you note to Buzzfeed for the free marketing?”
I don’t look up. Just keep reading the internal comms thread on my phone. The messages are coming in too fast to track. Sponsors, media, community partners.
Everyone wants to know what the hell just happened at a youth skate on the road.
Join the damn club.
Tessa’s already booted up the smart board. PR, Legal, and Comms are seated, watching me like they expect me to detonate.
I don’t.
Instead, I tap the screen and pull up the trending clips.
Finn, waving like a parade clown. The snag, the rip, the horrifying near slip. The viral caption underneath: “#Zamboner”.
My jaw tics. I say nothing.
PR clears her throat. “We suggest a soft-touch response. Keep it light. Make it a ‘boys-will-be-boys’ moment without saying those words. Position Finn as the lovable goof. Public tends to be forgiving when we give them permission to laugh.”
Dean leans back in his chair like it’s a beach lounger. “God bless the idiot brand.”
Legal jumps in. “We can’t hit him too hard or it raises questions about uniform policy and equipment liability. The incident happened at a team-sanctioned event with minors present, but technically there was no exposure. The boxers stayed on.”
“For the most part,” Dean mutters.
I raise a hand. The room goes still.
“Here’s what we’re doing,” I say. “We draft a three-line statement. Emphasize it was an unfortunate wardrobe malfunction during a community event. Add that we’re reviewing internal protocol to ensure it doesn’t happen again. Full stop.”
PR nods, already typing.
“Internally,” I continue, “he’s on a leash. No media, no side interviews, no solo events. He’s glued to Logan or Eli for the next month. Every sponsor appearance, every youth partnership, every fucking breakfast fundraiser—we own his calendar.”
Tessa slides something across the table. A sticky note in her handwriting.
Fan footage. Maddox in the background.
Looks furious.
I don’t react. Not visibly. I fold the note in half and place it under my phone.
Dean notices. Of course he does.
“What?” he says, eyes narrowing. “Lasker didn’t step in?”
I look up. Slowly. “He’s not the hall monitor, Dean.”
“He’s the veteran. The anchor. He could’ve pulled Finn off the damn Zamboni.”
My smile is ice. “Maybe he didn’t want to create a bigger scene.”
Maybe I told him I wasn’t ready.
Maybe I pushed him away and let the silence grow between us until it turned into this.
Dean keeps going. “If he’s going to be a leader on this team, he needs to act like it. Especially on the road.”
“Enough.” My voice cuts clean.
The room falls quiet.
Tessa clicks her pen but doesn’t say a word.
PR slides the draft statement toward me. I skim it, make two edits, and nod.
“This goes out in ten. We pivot immediately to the toy drive announcement and flood socials with partnership content. Give them something else to trend with.”
Comms nods. “Already queued. Photos, press copy, captions.”
Legal pushes back from the table. “I’ll loop back on any risk factors.”
As they pack up, Dean hangs back a beat too long.
“You good?” he asks.
I don’t answer right away.
Because I am good. I’m great. I’m ice and fire and calculated precision.
Except for the part of me that’s unraveling quietly under my skin. The part that regrets not calling him back.
That wonders if he would’ve warned me if I’d let him in.
Instead, I give Dean the look that ends meetings.
“I’m always good.”
He smirks. “That’s what scares me.”
When they all clear out, I’m left with nothing but the silence and the folded sticky note under my phone.
Maddox saw it happen.
He didn’t call. Didn’t text. Didn’t do a damn thing.
And the worst part?
I can’t even blame him.
Heading back to my office, I’m exhausted and it’s barely nine in the morning.
A coffee IV would be the most appropriate thing for me at this point.
“PR campaigns are spinning up across socials,” Tessa announces as I approach.
“Thank God one thing is going right today.”
“So far.”
“Keep that positive spirit for me, Tessa.”
I step into my office and close the door behind me, the soft snick of the latch far too loud.
The silence hits like a slap.
I drop my phone on the desk and sink into the chair I haven’t had five minutes to sit in all morning.
My inbox is overflowing, my calendar looks like a battlefield, and the toy drive campaign launch is in three hours.
But I don’t open my email.
I pick up my phone instead.
No missed calls.
No texts.
Not even a meme.
The space between us used to buzz with static. With heat. With the things we didn’t say out loud but still knew.
Now it’s just air. Cold and quiet.
I tap the screen again like that might change something.
Still nothing.
The last time we spoke, I asked for space. Maybe not in so many words.
But I pulled back just the same, giving him some flimsy ass excuse.
I shut the door because I didn’t know how to walk through it without breaking.
And that’s on me.
But part of me—some small, traitorous, aching part—still thought he’d reach back anyway.
A single message. One line.
Even just “You okay?”
I open the viral clip. Not the one from the news outlets, but the raw fan footage from a parent’s Instagram story.
Finn waves, spins, flashes half the crowd, then almost flashes the rest.
The angle shifts, panning to the crowd behind the glass.
And there he is.
Maddox.
Frozen in the background, jaw tight, hands curled at his sides like he’s holding back the urge to punch something.
I pause the frame.
His eyes don’t track the camera. They track Finn. The incident. The fallout.
He saw it all.
And he didn’t call.
I stare at his face, searching for something—regret, frustration, maybe even guilt.
But the still image doesn’t give me any of that. Just the sharp angles of a man who keeps everything locked behind his ribs.
I should’ve reached out.
Should’ve told him I was scared.
That I wasn’t shutting him out—I was just trying to breathe without needing him so much.
But I didn’t.
And now?
Maybe he’s giving me what I asked for.
Clean lines.
No blurred boundaries. No blurred hearts.
I exhale through my nose and press play again.
“You wanted clean lines,” I whisper.
The video plays.
Finn’s laugh echoes.
I don’t laugh with it.
My hand shakes as I press rewind.
And watch it again.
Later that afternoon, the team’s returned from off the road and Finn McCade slouches into my office like he’s here for a damn massage.
Still in joggers, hoodie unzipped halfway, hair damp from a post-workout rinse he probably didn’t even shampoo.
The grin on his handsome face is automatic, wide and smug, like this is just another day and not a PR crisis with his ass at the center of it—literally.
“Hey, boss lady.” He winks, flopping into the chair across from my desk without asking. “Didn’t expect to be summoned so soon. You trying to keep me from going viral twice?”
I don’t smile.
Don’t respond.
I just slide a single printed frame across the desk. It’s from the paused video. The one where his shorts are halfway to hell and Maddox is blurred in the background, mid-flinch.
Finn blinks down at it. His mouth twitches.
“Okay, first—objectively hilarious. Second—those shorts were team-issued. Technically, this was a wardrobe malfunction. Shouldn’t I get hazard pay or something?”
I lace my fingers together on the desk. My voice stays level.
Calm.
Controlled.
Clipped with a serrated edge.
“You mooned a child in front of six sponsors, three local reporters, and the mayor’s wife. From the home team’s city.”
Finn winces. “She laughed. She definitely laughed.”
“She also called Dean to ask if your next stunt will involve streaking the holiday parade.”
He doesn’t answer.
I lean forward a fraction and let my tone cool a few more degrees.
“This isn’t just a locker room prank gone rogue, Finn. This is a viral headline. It’s a meme. It’s a potential liability. And it’s a warning shot for every exec on the legacy board waiting for me to screw up.”
His posture shifts slightly. Not cocky now. Just quiet.
I continue.
“You want to be the class clown? Great. Own it. But you’re also a professional hockey player with a seven-figure contract, a marketing clause, and a dozen kids out there who look at you like you’re something to become.
If you can’t be that without treating every event like a circus act, I’ll stop inviting you. ”
His mouth opens. Closes. He looks like he wants to argue.
But I give him nothing to push against.
No heat.
No emotion.
Just cold, brutal truth.
“You embarrassed this organization. You embarrassed yourself. And whether you realize it or not, you embarrassed your teammates—who now have to field questions about your ass instead of their game.”
Finn swallows hard. The grin’s long gone.
“I’m not suspending you. But I am pulling you from the next community event. You’ll still attend, but you’ll be on logistics duty. No media, no spotlight. Just grunt work.”
His brows lift. “I’m getting benched from handing out toys?”
“Correct.”
“You do know I’m the favorite Viper, right?”
I don’t blink. “Not today.”
The silence stretches. Then he nods once, jaw tight.
“Got it.”
He stands slowly, less swagger this time, and turns for the door. But just before he opens it, he pauses.
“It really was an accident.”
“I’m sure it was, only it doesn’t look like it on video. It looks like showboating.”
“I was just going with the flow. Thought I’d be funny.”
I meet his eyes, finally letting something flicker behind mine.
“It’s only funny until someone else pays for it.”
He leaves without another word.
I wait a full thirty seconds before I let my shoulders drop.
Then I pull my phone out again.
Still no message.
Just clean lines.
And a whole lot of space I don’t know what to do with.