Chapter 5 Garrett #2
She hadn’t just twisted my silence; she’d given them the weapon and the narrative to destroy me with.
A narrative of cold indifference that the world eagerly believed.
I’d stood by and said nothing, thinking it was the honorable path.
Instead, that silence had cost me the captaincy on my last team.
It had cost me a multi-million dollar endorsement with a family-focused brand that said I no longer fit their “core values.” It had cost me everything.
And now, years too late, this woman across the table was here to teach me how to talk.
“She twisted my silence into admission of guilt,” I hear myself say, the words a hollow echo of the real damage.
“Made me out to be this cold bastard who couldn't love anyone. She fed quotes to reporters, painted herself as the victim who tried so hard to reach me, but couldn’t break through the ice.”
Sloane’s fingers still on her glass. Her gaze sharpens. “Jesus.”
“She sold it. That whole 'poor-girl', heartless hockey player angle. They ran with her story because it was better copy.” I drain half my beer. “I learned my lesson. Don't give them anything to work with.”
She's quiet for a long moment, and I find myself studying the way she processes information—like she's cataloging every piece, building a complete picture before she responds.
“If I can't fix this Northstar deal, I'm probably out of a job,” she says suddenly.
Her voice is steady, but there's vulnerability underneath.
“Vivian's looking for any excuse to cut me loose, and failing with their biggest sponsorship would definitely qualify.
I've been fighting to be taken seriously since my first day in sports marketing, and this...” She gestures between us.
“This could end everything I've worked for.”
The honesty levels the playing field somehow. Makes this feel less like an interrogation and more like a conversation between two people who both have something to lose.
I lean back in the booth, studying her face. “Why sports?”
“Easton was always on the ice. The rink raised me.” Her whole face lights up when she talks about the game, professional mask slipping away to reveal genuine passion.
“I know hockey from the inside out—the business, the players, the fans.
But half the executives I deal with think I'm just some arena rat who got lucky.”
“Are you?”
She grins, and it transforms her entire face. “Absolutely. And I’m damn good at my job.”
The air shifts.
The professional wall between us crumbles into comfortable rubble. I find myself leaning in, catching every word as she tells me about hiding in the bleachers to eavesdrop on coaches as a kid.
"And then my last boss," she says, puffing out her chest and dropping her voice into a deep, patronizing tone, "told me to 'circle back with a more synergistic approach.' I think my soul left my body."
A real laugh escapes me—the kind that starts in my gut and feels like a release. She's laughing too, her eyes bright in the dim bar light. She leans closer to be heard over the crowd, her knee brushing mine under the table.
My breath hitches.
"He was the worst," she continues, gesticulating as she speaks, and the back of her hand brushes against my knuckles on the table. The contact is a spark on a dry fuse. She stops talking. Her gaze drops to where our hands are almost touching, then flits back to my eyes. The air crackles.
Neither of us moves away.
By the time we leave, the air outside is a slap. Cold and raw under the orange wash of streetlights.
We stop by her car. Frost clings to the windshield, breath visible in puffs between us.
“Thank you,” she says quietly. “For telling me. About the article. About... everything.”
“I don’t hate media,” I say, the confession surprising me as much as her. “I just don’t trust it.”
She looks up, and the city noise, the cold, everything just…
stops. Her eyes are bright under the streetlight, her cheeks flushed with a color that has nothing to do with the wind.
The carefully constructed professional wall she wears like armor doesn't just waver; it evaporates into the steam of our shared breath.
Every instinct for self-preservation I’ve honed over the last decade screams at me: Step back. Say goodnight. Walk away. This is the line. Crossing it means trusting someone again, and I know how that story ends.
But then she just looks at me, and I realize I don't give a damn about the smart thing anymore.
I take a half-step closer, the crunch of frost under my boot the only sound in the sudden quiet.
“This is a terrible idea,” I murmur, the words a final, flimsy defense against what’s already happening.
My hand lifts, hesitant for a fraction of a second before I commit, my fingers brushing the rough wool of her coat before finding the impossible softness of her cheek.
Her skin is warm despite the cold, a small, shocking miracle.
Her breath catches, a tiny, audible gasp in the frozen air. “Terrible.”
But she doesn’t pull away. She leans into my touch, just slightly, and that’s it. My last thread of control snaps.
Just as I lean in, a phone rings—sharp and jarring in the frozen air.
We spring apart like we've been electrocuted, the spell shattering instantly.
Sloane fumbles in her coat pocket, her eyes wide with panic as she glances at the screen.
"It's Easton," she whispers, before swiping to answer and putting the phone to her ear.
I can hear his voice clearly in the cold air, suspicious and sharp. “I thought I was giving you a ride home but then I saw your text. You're at The Penalty Box? Who are you with?”
She glances at me, panic flickering across her face. “Just... finishing up some work stuff.”
“Sloane, seriously. I heard you're doing media training with Sullivan tonight.” Easton's tone gets harder, more urgent. “You remember what happened with Sarah.”
I watch the color drain from her face, watch her whole body go rigid. She gives a jerky nod into the phone, then turns and walks away without another glance at me, her professional mask slammed back into place.
The name—Sarah—and the sheer terror on Sloane's face are a combination I don't understand.
But I know a warning shot when I hear one.