Chapter 4 Sloane #2
“You’re early,” I retort, sliding into the booth and snatching the basket before he can demolish the rest. “Don't you have a game tomorrow? Shouldn't you be eating quinoa and visualizing puck trajectories or whatever weird goalie zen you do?”
“My weird goalie zen includes carb-loading and stealing my sister's breadsticks.” He grins, that easy smile that got him out of trouble our entire childhood. “Besides, I was hungry. You said six-thirty.”
“I said seven.” I check my phone. “It's six forty-five.”
“Potato, po-tah-to.”
The conversation is familiar, comforting. It dissolves the edge I’ve been carrying all day. After a week of corporate landmines and trying to crack the Garrett Sullivan code, this place—with its marinara-stained tablecloths and wax-drenched Chianti bottles—is a needed reprieve.
Our server, Maria, appears with my pinot grigio and Easton’s sparkling water with lemon. She doesn’t even ask anymore.
“The usual?” she says, already writing.
“Please,” we echo, then laugh at ourselves. Some rituals never change.
But when she disappears toward the kitchen, Easton's expression shifts.
The playful mask slips away, replaced by something more serious.
Something that makes me instantly wary, because I know that look.
It's the same expression he gets right before asking if I'm really okay, really happy, really taking care of myself.
“So,” he says, leaning forward and lowering his voice. “How are you settling in? Really settling in, not the corporate-speak version you gave Mom last week.”
I sip my wine. The honest answer is messy.
The job is exactly what I asked for—high stakes, real influence, a chance to prove I belong in the big leagues. But it’s also a daily act of threading needles in rooms where credibility is assumed for everyone except me.
“It’s good,” I say carefully. “Challenging, but good. The Northstar account’s going to be huge if I can land the pitch.”
“That’s not what I asked.” His eyes—same green as mine, but more direct—study my face like he’s tracking a puck in the slot. “You’ve been pulling late nights for three weeks straight. When’s the last time you had a weekend without a spreadsheet?”
“Says the guy who watched game film in his underwear last Sunday.”
“Different. I love my job.”
It lands like a soft challenge. Do I?
“I love my job too,” I say, but even to my own ears it sounds defensive. “I'm just... it's a lot of pressure. New role, new expectations. I have to prove I belong there.”
Easton reaches across the table and covers my hand with his massive one. His fingers are scarred from years of deflecting pucks, warm and solid and completely familiar.
“Slo,” he says gently, using the nickname only he's allowed to use. “You've been in overdrive since you were a kid. Ever since Dad left, you've been trying to build a life so perfect that nothing could ever touch it.”
The words hit like a slap shot to the chest. I pull my hand back, reaching for my wine glass instead. “That's not—I'm not—”
“You were nine years old making five-year plans,” he continues, relentless but soft. “Color-coding your school supplies. Paying Mom’s bills when she couldn’t get out of bed. You’ve been the adult in every room since elementary school.”
“Someone had to be.” Sharper than I meant, but I don’t take it back. “Mom was underwater for two years. You were barely keeping your head above it. I kept the lights on.”
“You shouldn’t have had to—”
“But I did.” I lean forward, meeting his concerned gaze with steel in my own. “And you know what? I was good at it. I am good at it. Taking care of business, managing crises, making sure everything runs smoothly—that's what I do.”
“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 mean managed. 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 handle anything. 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.
But just as the check arrives, Easton’s phone buzzes with a team alert. His expression shifts, subtle but sharp.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he says too quickly. “Just... team stuff. Sullivan had a run-in with a reporter after practice. Daniels said it got heated. Looked like he was ready to drop gloves—with a mic.”
The chicken parm in my stomach turns to lead. “Do we know what happened?”
“Not yet. But it’s probably going to be your problem tomorrow.”
I stare at the melting candle between us, suddenly nauseous. A test, I think. Vivian knew this might happen.
“You sure you’re ready for this?” Easton asks quietly.
No.
“I’m ready,” I say, the lie tasting foreign in my mouth.