Chapter 8 Sloane
Sloane
The lemon scent of Vivian’s office cleaner makes my nose itch as I stand in front of her pristine glass desk, waiting. She doesn’t look up from her monitor for what feels like an eternity—but is probably ten seconds. Classic power move. Classic Vivian.
Since returning from Iowa, Garrett has been—shockingly—cooperative in our media prep sessions. Cooperative for Garrett, at least. And it’s showing. His interviews are crisper, less combative. Even Vivian has noticed, which says everything.
And I’ve kept it professional. No late-night debriefs. No bars. No heat.
Just business.
“Sloane. Glad you could make it.” Vivian’s voice is crisp, her posture regal against the city skyline. It frames her like a throne through the floor-to-ceiling glass.
I clutch my portfolio tighter. “You said it was urgent.”
“The Northstar Bank dinner.” She finally looks up. “Tonight. Summit Club. You’ll be our marketing point.”
My mind clicks into motion—Q3 analytics, fan engagement metrics, renewal timeline. This isn’t just dinner. It’s negotiation.
“Who’s the player rep?”
“Garrett Sullivan. They requested him specifically.”
My pulse trips over his name. Not a flip. Just... a pause. “Tank?”
Vivian’s smile is razor-thin. “You’ll be his handler. Keep him on message. Northstar’s team is data-obsessed.”
Handler. Like he’s a prizefighter about to punch the wrong executive.
“I can have demographic breakdowns ready in an hour. Cross-market analysis by—”
“Perfect.” She turns back to her screen. “That’s exactly the kind of initiative that gets noticed around here.”
I’m halfway to the door when the knife lands.
“Oh, and Sloane?” Her voice softens—honey poured over glass shards. “David Kellerman from the executive board requested a comprehensive proposal deck. They’ll want insights you don’t have yet. Data that wasn’t in the brief.”
She leans back, her expression softening into the cool, appraising look of a seasoned mentor sizing up her protégé to see if she has what it takes.
"Senior executives anticipate the board's needs and deliver solutions before they're asked.
Coordinators deliver what's in the brief.
This is your moment to decide which one you are. "
I nod, the weight of her challenge settling over me like a physical thing. My mind is already racing, calculating timelines and data points as I turn to leave.
"Oh, and one last thing," Vivian calls out just as I reach the door, her tone breezy, almost an afterthought.
"I just got the finalized Q3 numbers from analytics.
They're slightly different than the preliminary data I sent last week.
Nothing major, but you know Kellerman. I'll shoot them over in an email shortly. "
Slightly different. The casual words send a jolt of ice through my veins, but I force my expression to remain neutral. "Thank you, Vivian. I'll look for it."
The walk back to my office is the longest of my life.
Every step is a countdown to the moment that email lands, the moment I find out exactly how deep the water is that she just threw me into.
Back at my desk, the email arrives with an almost cheerful chime.
The subject line: "Updated Numbers!" The exclamation point feels like a taunt.
I open the attachment, and my stomach drops as I scan the spreadsheet.
Slightly different? The demographic breakdowns are off by fifteen percent.
The engagement metrics I'd built my entire value proposition around have shifted enough to invalidate two of my key slides.
My mind races through the implications—I have exactly four hours before dinner to verify these numbers, rebuild my projections, and rehearse new talking points.
Deep breath. I've got this.
The Summit Club smells like expensive champagne and quiet power.
Fifty floors up, the city sprawls below us in a glittering grid, and I'm nursing a club soda while reviewing talking points on my phone.
The crystal glass is heavy in my hand, the kind of weight that screams money.
Around me, conversations happen in hushed, confident tones—deals being made over thirty-year Macallan and handshake agreements worth millions.
Demographics. Engagement metrics. The Northstar renewal projections I've memorized down to the decimal point. Anything to keep my brain focused on work instead of—
“Ready to knock 'em dead, McKenzie?”
I don’t need to turn around. The voice—low, amused, devastating—is unmistakable.
I glance up. Garrett’s in a charcoal suit tailored within an inch of sin. He doesn’t look like a hockey player. He looks like the man who owns the team.
“You clean up nice, Sullivan,” I say, tucking my phone into my clutch. My voice sounds casual. My pulse does not.
He grins. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
That’s when I notice the tie. Silk. Navy with thin silver stripes—corporate trust colors. Probably Hermès, if my marketing-trained eye is right. And crooked enough to make my perfectionist brain twitch.
“Hold still,” I say before I can stop myself.
I step into his space.
The tie is warm with his body heat. He smells like sandalwood and something clean and sharp. Ice, maybe. My fingers shake as I slide the silk through the knot.
Don't let them shake. His shirt is ridiculously expensive—custom tailored, Egyptian cotton. This is one inch away from being an HR violation. Step back. Now.
But I don't step back. I smooth the tie down his chest, fighting every instinct in my body. His gaze drops to my hands. Then lifts.
“Thanks, Sloane.” His voice is rough, low enough that it hits something deep in my chest. “You always notice the details others miss.”
I finally look up and find his eyes dark, focused entirely on my face. Not on the room full of powerful people, not scanning for networking opportunities. Just me. The intensity steals whatever smart comeback I had ready.
“I—” A laugh bubbles from the main dining room, breaking the spell. “We should probably...”
“Yeah.” He doesn't move, and for a heartbeat, neither do I. “Probably.”
I flee to the bathroom.
The marble countertop is ice under my palms. I stare at my reflection—eyes too wide, pupils blown. My lipstick is flawless. My control is not.
This is how it starts.
A tie. A glance. A man in a suit who knows exactly how to look at you like you’re not invisible.
Sarah flashes in my memory—brilliant, confident Sarah. Right up until the day security escorted her out of the building, career destroyed, all because she let a beautiful man distract her for a split second.
You are not her. You will not lose everything for a man in a great suit.
I reapply lipstick with steady hands and go back to work.
Dinner is a masterclass in professional chemistry.
The Northstar execs are exactly what I expected—sharp suits, sharper questions, the kind of people who see dollar signs instead of game scores.
Robert Blackwood, the senior VP, has the predatory smile of someone who's made his fortune turning sentiment into spreadsheets.
Jennifer Walsh, their marketing director, dissects every proposal with surgical precision.
But Garrett and I? We're not just good together—we're devastating.
“The team chemistry this season has been exceptional,” Blackwood says, cutting into his dry-aged ribeye. “What's your take on the leadership dynamic, Sullivan?”
Garrett sets down his fork. Gives Blackwood his full attention.
“Leadership’s about trust,” he says, voice calm, measured. “About building systems where everyone knows their role. But real strategy comes from people like Sloane.”
The pivot is so smooth, I almost miss it.
He nods toward me. “She identified a twelve percent crossover between our season ticket holders and Northstar’s premium credit card users.”
He turns, that same intensity now focused on me. “Sloane, walk them through the conversion model?”
The handoff is perfect. I launch into the numbers, riding the adrenaline high of being in my element.
“The demographic overlap targets high-income professionals, ages twenty-eight to forty-five. We’re projecting a fifteen percent increase in premium card applications during game weeks—direct revenue correlation tied to emotional investment in the team.”
I swipe to the interactive model on my tablet. “If we time campaigns around playoff runs, we can spike conversion even higher. Sports loyalty becomes brand loyalty when the messaging aligns with emotional peaks.”
Jennifer leans forward. Her expression shifts—skepticism giving way to something closer to respect. “You’re talking about leveraging parasocial relationships for financial products.”
“Exactly,” I say, pulse steady. “The trust fans place in their team becomes trust in Northstar’s brand. We’re not just sponsoring hockey—we’re sponsoring belonging.”
Blackwood smiles for the first time all night. “You two make an interesting point. I think this is the start of something bigger—if you keep bringing this level of insight.”
His words hang in the air—professional praise threaded with something more complicated. Under the table, Garrett’s foot brushes mine, a brief contact that zips up my spine like static. I glance over and find his gaze already on me.
There’s pride in his eyes. But there’s also heat. Unmistakable.
“But enough business,” Jennifer says, signaling the server. “Robert, didn't you want another bottle of wine to have with desert?”
“Absolutely. Garrett, why don’t you two pick something special? I heard you have an eye for wine. The private collection's in the wine room.”
Of course it is.
The wine room door shuts behind us with a soft click, muffling the restaurant's hum to nothing.
Rows of bottles stretch from floor to ceiling in temperature-controlled glass cases, and the air smells like oak and earth and aging paper—rich, intoxicating scents that make me feel drunk on more than wine.
Everything in this room has been waiting, aging, building toward something.
Like us.