Chapter 7 Sloane
Sloane
The team charter bus idles outside the Mammoth Center’s service entrance like a sleeping beast, its diesel exhaust curling into the frozen air.
I stand on the loading dock, briefcase in hand, watching the fluorescent bay lights glint off the tinted windows.
My breath escapes in sharp white puffs as I mentally tick through my checklist: Northstar proposal draft.
Player media stats. Travel itinerary. Everything I need to prove I deserve to be on this trip.
This Northstar deal wasn't just my career on the line; it was Miller's and Vivian's, too.
After Miller fumbled the last two trade deadlines and Vivian's 'New Era' campaign last season tanked our season ticket renewals, Henderson's patience was wearing dangerously thin.
We all knew Henderson had no patience for owning an unprofitable team.
The Northstar deal wasn't just my big moment; it was their last lifeline.
The engine rumbles through the soles of my boots. This isn’t just transportation. It’s their sanctuary in motion—and I’m an outsider being granted temporary access.
Sarah’s face flashes through my mind. The look on hers that day. The way she packed up in twenty minutes flat—certifications rolled into a tube, reputation shredded by whispers and coffee proximity. Coach Kowalski's message had been crystal clear then. It should be crystal clear to me now.
I cannot afford to become collateral damage.
The driver tips his cap as I board. “Morning, Miss McKenzie.”
“Morning, Frank.”
Inside, the air shifts—thicker, warmer, saturated with old gear, fresh cleaning solution, and something distinctly territorial. Two rows of leather seats stretch before me like a minefield.
I scan the layout automatically, cataloging the unspoken code. The rookies will flood the front, buzzing with first-playoff energy. The middle belongs to staff and trainers. And the back? That’s veteran territory. Unwritten law. Untouchable.
I choose a seat mid-right. Safe. Strategically invisible. Close enough to observe, far enough not to intrude. Career preservation disguised as seating etiquette.
The rookies file in, voices crackling with caffeine and nerves. A few veterans offer polite nods—Easton’s sister, after all. My shoulders loosen slightly.
Then Easton boards.
His goalie bag is slung over one shoulder like a second spine. Our eyes meet. His nod is a silent, complicated language I've known my whole life: pride and warning, all in one. Pure Easton. He continues toward the back, and the breath I didn't realize I was holding escapes in a slow exhale.
The bus fills steadily. I keep my eyes on my screen, tracking social media mentions, until the conversations seem to go quiet around me.
I glance up to see Garrett stepping aboard.
He's one of the last to board—veteran privilege. His hair is damp from the morning skate, clinging to his temples. He moves with that loose, predatory confidence I’ve come to recognize.
He stops at the front. Surveys the cabin.
Plenty of open seats near the back with the other vets. A few with the equipment staff. Safe, expected options that follow the protocol carved by three decades of team culture.
His eyes find mine.
Time lurches.
Don’t. Don’t even think about it. Follow the rules. Pick a seat. Keep your distance. Don’t—
Garrett starts walking. Down the aisle. Toward me.
The air turns to static.
I spot Turner, one of the alternate captains, nudge his seatmate and nod toward us. A rookie cranes his neck to get a better view, mouth slightly open. Even Frank adjusts his rearview mirror.
He stops at my row.
Looks down at me with something unreadable flickering in his expression.
The silence stretches like a wire about to snap.
“Thought the arena rat might need backup in enemy territory.”
He slides in beside me. The leather sighs under his weight.
A jolt—sharp and electric—shoots through me. The callback to our earlier conversation hits with surgical precision. He remembers what I said. He chose to remember. This is not casual.
This is deliberate.
I stare straight ahead, body rigid. “What are you doing?” I whisper through gritted teeth. “Everyone is looking.”
“Let ’em look.” He leans back, exuding calm. Broad shoulders shift into a posture that blocks me from the rest of the bus. Like a shield. Like a dare.
Heat radiates off him. His soap—something clean and subtle—wraps around me, and I fight the dangerous urge to lean in instead of away.
In the window’s reflection, I catch Easton’s stare boring into the back of my skull. His jaw is a slab of granite. His eyes: hard warning.
“This is not appropriate.” My voice is barely audible. My hands shake slightly, so I grip my laptop tighter. “Do you have any idea what this looks like?”
“What? Sitting next to a colleague?” Garrett's voice carries just enough innocence to be infuriating, but his eyes hold mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch. He pulls out his phone and a pair of earbuds. “Besides, you look like you're about to crawl out of your skin. Music helps.”
The observation is too accurate, too perceptive. I hate that he can read me so easily.
He holds up one earbud, the white cord dangling between us like an offering. Or a trap.
My mind races through the implications. Taking it makes this worse. Solidifies whatever statement he just made. Turns us into a unit. A narrative.
But refusing? That’s a statement too. The rookie is still watching. And so are the others. My media training project is no secret. This could be spun. Controlled. Rationalized.
The silence stretches.
And he’s still holding out the earbud.
With trembling fingers, I take it.
Our fingers brush. The contact lights a fuse. I fumble the bud before securing it in my ear.
The music begins—not the aggressive rock I expected, but something indie and thoughtful. The bass line creates a bubble around us, blocking out the rest of the bus and its watchful occupants.
“Better?” His voice is lower now, meant only for me.
Despite myself, I nod. The music gives us cover, makes the conversation feel less exposed. But my pulse is still hammering, and I'm hyperaware of how close he is, how his knee is mere inches from mine.
“This is still a terrible idea,” I whisper.
“What is? Two people sharing music on a bus ride?”
“You know what I mean.” I risk a glance at him. Regret it immediately. He’s turned toward me, close enough that I can see the flecks in his eyes. “The team has rules.”
“About earbuds?” he deadpans.
“About this.” I motion vaguely between us, fingers brushing his jacket in the process. The contact sizzles. “Whatever this is.”
His expression shifts, softens. I catch something unguarded flicker across his face.
“I know exactly what this is, Sloane.”
My name in that low voice nearly undoes me.
Before I can respond, he pivots.
“So—Des Moines. First media trip?”
I grab the lifeline. “Yes. I’m documenting how the team handles high-pressure environments. It’s critical for Northstar.”
“And here I thought it was just about scoring goals.”
There’s no mockery. Just curiosity. And a quiet respect that makes it easier to speak.
“Your interview has been viewed forty-seven thousand times,” I say, pulling up a chart. “The comments... aren’t flattering.”
He leans in to look. His knee brushes mine as the bus takes a curve. Neither of us moves.
“Forty-seven thousand people care what I think?” he murmurs.
“Forty-seven thousand people are forming opinions about the Minnesota Mammoths based on your answers.” I force myself to focus on the data, using work as an anchor against the storm of awareness he's creating. “Sports isn't just about what happens on the ice anymore.”
“You’re really taking this seriously.” He points to a correlation chart I'd built, his arm brushing mine. “Impressive.”
The compliment catches me off guard. “It's my job.”
“No, this is someone who actually understands both sides.” His voice carries respect. “Arena rat, remember?”
“Terminal case,” I admit, the honesty slipping out before I can stop it.
His grin is devastating. “I knew it.”
A loud throat-clear from somewhere behind us snaps the moment like a twig.
The bubble bursts.
I look away from him and out of the window, where the suburbs have turned into fields without me noticing. A couple of playlists later, the bus begins to slow.
I see the hotel rising outside the window—we’re here.
Garrett removes his earbud. The music dies.
Reality rushes in: gear being shuffled, players stretching, voices rising. Everyone stays seated. The hierarchy is clear.
Veterans first.
Which means Garrett and I will walk off this bus together, in full view of everyone.
The realization is a sudden, cold weight in my chest. This isn't just a shared moment—it's a public statement, and we’re about to make it together. Through the window, I can see hotel staff waiting with luggage carts, team officials checking their phones, the normal choreography of a team arrival.
But nothing about this feels normal anymore.
The door hisses open, and Garrett stands, extending his hand to help me up.
Every eye in the bus is on us.