Chapter 2
Sloane
The fluorescent lights in the corporate wing buzz with their usual morning aggression, casting everything in stark, surgical angles.
I pace the polished marble corridor with my second coffee of the day, reciting talking points for the Sullivan meeting like incantations.
The sharp, chemical scent of floor polish hangs in the air, blending with the low hum of the HVAC system—a soundtrack composed by capitalism itself.
Then I pass Vivian's office.
Something stalls my stride.
She's not typing. Not talking. Not issuing rapid-fire orders or dissecting spreadsheets with surgical precision. She's just... sitting. Perfectly still behind her glass fortress, staring at her computer screen with an expression I've never seen on her before.
Unshielded. Hollow. Almost... broken.
My marketing brain automatically catalogs the incongruity. This is the woman who dissects quarterly reports like a surgeon, who never shows anything but silk-wrapped steel. But right now, her carefully constructed armor has cracked wide open.
From my angle, I can make out what has her so transfixed: a photograph on her monitor.
It shows a much younger Vivian, barely out of her twenties, standing beside a man in a Columbus Blue Jackets jersey.
My mind, a veritable Rolodex of hockey lore, flips to the right card: Jake Morrison, star defenseman, early retirement, off-ice scandal that swallowed his career whole.
But it's not him I'm focused on—it's her.
Her arm is looped through his, but her body leans subtly away.
No smile. Her expression is taut, brittle, eyes narrowed in a way that suggests possession rather than pride.
It's not a snapshot of love; it's a study in control.
Of someone holding too tightly, desperate not to lose whatever grip she has.
In the stillness of the present, Vivian's gaze on the image isn't wistful. It's razor-edged. Bitter. Like she's staring at a ruin she helped build and wondering whether the fire was worth it.
And beneath that bitterness: something colder. The flint-eyed calculation of a survivor who learned the hard way never to trust a falling tower—and who won't hesitate to burn someone else's village to keep her own safe.
It was the same look I'd seen on my mother's face in the months after my father left—the look of a woman who'd had her entire identity ripped away by a man and would burn down the world to never let it happen again.
It wasn't just ambition; it was survival.
And I suddenly, inexplicably, felt like a threat.
The moment holds until she senses me.
Her head snaps up. Eyes lock with mine through the glass. The photo vanishes with a single, sharp click.
Vivian rises and opens her office door, her voice cutting through the corporate quiet.
"Don't you have a multi-million-dollar asset to babysit, McKenzie? Or are you planning to stand there gawking all day?"
The venom in her tone is disproportionate, personal in a way that makes my skin crawl. I hurry toward my office, filing away this moment as another variable in the puzzle that is Vivian—one I don't yet understand, but that feels important.
Dangerous.
Human.
I check my laptop for the third time in five minutes. 2:27 p.m.
Garrett Sullivan is now twenty-seven minutes late to a mandatory meeting.
The sixth-floor conference room is a tomb—high-gloss mahogany table, gleaming glass walls, and one solitary chair facing mine like a challenge. My first slide waits frozen on the screen: "Media Synergy she was watching to see if I'd fail. Right now, sitting in this empty room, I feel like I'm walking straight into her trap.
This is Pittsburgh all over again. Different city, same playbook. When the quarterback decided he "preferred Mike for media strategy," I didn't argue. I swallowed it. Watched Mike pitch my campaign, watched him get the glory while I got shuffled into "special projects."
Six months later, I was updating my résumé and packing my life into boxes.
It wasn't just about the promotion, or the fear of another failure.
It was about the work I knew I could be doing if I just had the latitude.
My gaze drifts to a locked folder on my desktop labeled "MCCP - Master".
The Mammoth Community Champions Program.
My real passion project. A meticulously researched plan to weave the team into the fabric of the city through youth scholarships and mentorships—the kind of legacy-building work that actually matters.
I sigh, the familiar frustration a bitter taste in my mouth.
I'd pitched the concept to Vivian last month, and she'd dismissed it with a wave of her hand.
"Stick to the metrics that move the needle, Sloane," she'd said.
"Northstar cares about ROI, not your sentimental charity projects. "
I can't let that happen again. Not when I'm this close. Not when Vivian finally seems to be watching with more than a scowl. This Northstar deal isn't just a sponsorship—it's proof I can navigate the minefield. That I belong in the room. That I can survive this league.
Thirty minutes.
I snap the laptop closed. The sound ricochets through the stillness, sharp and final.
I stand with such purpose that my knee clips the edge of the desk, sending a jolt up my leg.
Hissing, I grab my bag, shoving my laptop in with more force than necessary.
My hands may be steady, but my blood simmers under the surface, and apparently, my coordination has already clocked out for the day.
If he wants to drag this down to his level—fine. I'll meet him there.
The elevator button to the rink level gets a jab that borders on assault.
The equipment room hits me: sweat, leather, adrenaline.
Testosterone practically leaks from the walls.
The space is a fortress of gear and sharpened steel, racks looming like sentries.
The air carries that acrid ozone tang from the skate sharpener, which mingles with the overwhelming smell of worn gear and sweat, creating an almost aggressive masculine energy that seems designed to remind outsiders they don't belong.
My heels click against the concrete as I navigate the maze. Somewhere deeper in the room, someone's practicing stick handling—the rhythmic thwack echoes off the walls, adding to the sense that I'm trespassing in sacred territory.
I refuse to be intimidated. I've earned my place here just as much as any of them.
I find him exactly where I expected: standing between two equipment racks, casually peeling off his practice jersey like he doesn't have a care in the world. Like he didn't just blow off a meeting that could determine whether I keep my job.
"Garrett Sullivan."
His name leaves my mouth like a challenge.
He glances up. Recognition flickers across his face—no surprise, no guilt. Just the faint irritation of someone whose afternoon has been mildly inconvenienced.
"Easton's little sister, right?" He tosses the sweat-damp jersey onto a hook, reaching for a clean T-shirt. "Look, I don't have time for corporate fluff. Whatever slideshow you brought—"
"Stop right there."
I step into the narrow aisle between the racks, blocking his exit.
He's even bigger up close—six-foot-three and all sculpted defiance, the kind of presence that makes cramped spaces feel smaller, oxygen scarcer.
When he straightens to his full height, I have to tilt my chin to meet his eyes. I don't blink.
"You cost us twelve million dollars yesterday with that interview."
He laughs, but it's hollow. "Twelve million? That's some creative accounting. Nobody cares what I say to a reporter."
"Northstar Bank cares. They're our title sponsor. Their executives watch every word that comes out of your mouth. And yesterday, you told the world you 'don't really think about the fans' and that sponsorship logos are 'just noise.' It went viral—for all the wrong reasons."
Something shifts in his expression, but I'm just getting started.
"You think media doesn't matter? Your teammates are carrying your weight every time they step in front of a camera because you've made yourself unavailable.
Lucas spent twenty minutes yesterday explaining why you're not actually an arrogant asshole, which is time he should've been talking about his own achievements. "
I step closer, watching his posture adjust. The lazy slouch sharpens into something engaged. His gaze narrows, and I see him recalibrating—reevaluating who, exactly, just cornered him in his sanctuary.
"When free agents choose teams, they look at three things: leadership, chemistry, and public perception.
You know what torpedoes all three? Players who act like they're above the business that pays their salaries.
You want to focus on hockey? Great. But the business side funds everything from your equipment to the plane that takes you to games. "
His stance has shifted completely now—feet squared, shoulders set, like he's bracing for a hit. But his eyes are sharp, calculating, fully engaged for the first time since I walked in.
"So when you torpedo a major sponsorship deal because you're too cool to engage with the media, you're not protecting the team—you're undermining it. And when Northstar pulls funding and we can't afford to keep the depth players who make your stats look good? That's on you."
Silence expands around us, thick and electric. The air in the equipment room hums with distant machinery and the faint echo of stickhandling drills. Garrett stares at me with an expression I can't quite read—surprise, maybe, or calculation. The air between us is charged, electric.
When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter, more thoughtful.
"You sound more like a general manager than a marketing director."
"I understand hockey. That's my job."
He pushes off the equipment rack, his posture shifting from casual dismissal to sharp attention. His eyes narrow, tracing the line of my jaw as if he's seeing me for the first time. The weight of his focus lands on my sternum, and my pulse stumbles.
"Most suits I deal with," he says, his voice lower now, "couldn't tell a forecheck from a face-off."
"I'm not most suits."
He leans in—not to intimidate, but to close the distance. His height, his heat, the subtle scent of soap and something sharper wrap around me like a net. There's a pale scar along his forearm I hadn't noticed before, and now I can't look away.
"Fine," he murmurs. "I'll do the training."
The tension in my chest loosens, sudden and disorienting—my lungs remember how to work again. But before I can exhale, he adds, "But I'm only doing it with you. No one else."
My breath catches. It's not a concession. It's a provocation.
"That's not how this works. We have a whole media relations team—"
"Then I guess we don't have a deal."
He starts to brush past me, and I don't move. We're close enough now that I can count the gold flecks in his irises, feel the heat radiating from his skin. This is exactly the kind of proximity Coach Kowalski warned me about. The kind of dynamic that gets staff reassigned, demoted—erased.
"Why?" I manage, voice tight.
A smile—barely a curve—ghosts across his mouth.
"Because you actually get it. Most people in your position don't." He clears his throat, the sound rough in the quiet aisle.
For a moment, his gaze darts away, down the row of equipment, before locking back on mine.
The easy arrogance is gone, replaced by something more focused. More real.
Then he moves past me. His shoulder brushes mine—intentional, unhurried—and the contact ignites something low in my spine, crawling up vertebra by vertebra. I catch another hint of his scent, something that makes my pulse stutter.
"Looking forward to it," he tosses over his shoulder, leaving me standing alone in the narrow aisle.