Chapter 11 Garrett
Garrett
Two weeks.
It’s been two weeks since the kiss that changed the rules. Two weeks since Sloane and I made a pact to be ghosts.
Our lives have become a high-stakes game of inches and stolen glances, of living with a constant, humming wire of tension under the surface of every single day. We’re both so busy it feels like we live at the rink.
Most of our connection lives on our phones—a private, ongoing conversation that never sleeps. A GIF of a cartoon spy when she sees Kowalski coming down the hall. Me sending a picture of my morning coffee and her replying with a single eyeball emoji. Watching.
The real torture—the good kind—happens in person.
It’s passing her in a crowded arena hallway, the sleeve of her coat brushing my arm for a fraction of a second, sending a jolt through my entire body. It’s standing on opposite sides of a packed elevator, our eyes meeting only in the polished reflection of the doors.
And then there’s today.
I see her rounding the corner by the training rooms, tablet clutched to her chest, her expression carefully neutral, giving nothing away. She’s heading for the media scrum, and every rational part of my brain tells me to keep walking. Give her a nod. Play by the rules we established.
But I’m not feeling rational. I’m feeling the ache of two weeks of near-misses and stolen glances.
I don’t even think. I just act.
As she passes the equipment closet, I reach out, my hand closing around her arm. Her head whips around, eyes wide with shock, but I don’t give her time to protest. I pull her into the darkness with me, the heavy door clicking shut behind us with soft finality.
The darkness is immediate, broken only by a thin sliver of light under the door. It smells like industrial cleaner, worn leather, and equipment tape, but all I can smell is her—that clean, sharp scent of citrus that’s been haunting my dreams.
Her surprised gasp turns into a soft laugh against my mouth. “Are you insane?” she whispers, but her arms are already winding around my neck.
“Completely,” I murmur, backing her against a rack of spare helmets that rattle softly with the movement.
This isn't the questioning, hesitant kiss from the arena corridor. This is frantic. Desperate. A thirty-second pressure release valve for weeks of pent-up need. My mouth is hungry on hers, and she meets me with equal force, her fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of my neck.
My hands slide under her blazer, gripping her waist, pulling her flush against me.
The wall of her professionalism is gone, replaced by the woman who looks at me like I’m the only thing in her universe.
I slide one hand up her back, feeling the delicate shape of her spine through the thin silk of her blouse.
She arches into me with a soft sound, and I swallow it, deepening the kiss.
For thirty perfect, uninterrupted seconds, there are no rules, no risks—just the feel of her lips and her hands tangled in my shirt, and the sound of my own blood roaring in my ears.
Then, the sound of voices in the hallway—sharp and close. We freeze. Her eyes go wide in the dim light, the reality of what we’re risking crashing back in. The footsteps pass, but the spell is broken. She pulls back, breathless and flushed, her lipstick delightfully smeared.
“We have to stop doing this,” she whispers, but she’s smiling.
“No, we don’t,” I say, stealing one last, quick kiss before I open the door just a crack. “Coast is clear. Go.”
She slips out, smoothing her blazer, and is gone. I wait a full minute, leaning against the door, my pulse finally starting to slow. This is torture. The best damn torture of my life.
The memory of her lipstick, delightfully smeared, is still burned into my mind as the engines of the team jet whine to life outside the window.
It’s a familiar feeling, but the energy buzzing under my skin is all new.
It’s all about the pact. All about the fact that Sloane McKenzie sits four rows behind me, looking like the picture of professional focus with her tablet balanced on her knees, when less than an hour ago she was pressed against a wall with my hands tangled in her hair.
I do the usual scan of the cabin—habit from years of reading the ice. Vets and coaching staff in the plush seats up front. Rookies scattered throughout the main cabin. Everything in its place.
My eyes land on Sloane. Window seat. Mid-cabin, a safe, professional distance.
The urge to walk back there is physical. But I force myself to stay put, in my assigned seat up front next to Easton.
Playing by the rules. For now.
I pull out my phone and hover my thumb over her name.
Worth it.
Four rows back, her screen lights up. I see it happen. See her shoulders tense slightly. She doesn’t move right away. Then her head tilts down. From here, I can’t see her face. Just the quiet precision of her posture
My phone buzzes.
Sloane
God, yes.
Okay done, back to work.
For now.
The corner of my mouth twitches.
A flight attendant passes down the aisle, and for a brief moment, the path between us is clear. She glances up, and our gazes meet directly over the top of the seats. A spark of live-wire connection across the distance. Then she’s looking back at her tablet.
Game on.
The ninety-minute flight becomes a silent, charged game. Her phone buzzes with work calls, and I listen to the clipped, professional cadence of her voice as she handles sponsors, metrics, logistics. There’s a sharpness in her tone that cuts through the dull rhythm of travel.
She’s all steel and polish.
It makes something in my chest tighten.
My phone buzzes again.
Sloane
MINNESOTA MAMMOTHS CODE OF CONDUCT. Required reading. Section 4, subsection B is particularly relevant to your interests.
Already read it. Pretty sure I’m violating at least three of those just by looking at you from four rows away.
You’re a walking HR violation, Sullivan.
Just wait until we land.
By the time the jet touches down and we shuttle to the hotel, I’ve memorized her little tells. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s focused. The tilt of her head when she’s listening.
At check-in, we keep perfect distance. But when we’re both waiting for key cards, I let myself drift just close enough for our shoulders to nearly touch.
We both reach for the counter at the same time. Almost.
The jolt from that almost shoots straight through me.
“Ice machine’s at the end of the hall,” I say, voice normal volume, like I'm making casual conversation. “Left of the elevator.”
She nods once, studying her key card like it holds state secrets.
Room 412. I'm in 408.
Four doors. Might as well be four hundred miles.
We navigate the lobby separately, but I'm hyper-aware of her every movement—the click of her heels on marble, the way she adjusts her laptop bag, how she holds herself with that perfect professional posture even when she thinks no one's watching.
In the elevator, I catch a hint of her perfume, something warm and subtle that makes me want to lean closer.
Night passes with the knowledge that she's just down the hall. I lie in the too-soft hotel bed, staring at the wall that separates us, calculating the exact number of steps it would take to reach her door. Twenty-three. I counted twice.
The morning skate is where I test our new normal. I glide through warm-ups, but my focus keeps drifting to the stands. She’s already there when we hit the ice, tablet in hand, perfectly positioned to observe team dynamics.
Halfway through drills, she moves—three seats to the left. Now she’s directly in my line.
Smart woman.
I skate past her section. No wave. No smile. Just three full seconds of eye contact as I coast by.
I see you.
She barely nods. Looks down at her tablet like she’s studying zone entries. But I catch the slight curve of her lips.
It's enough.
During a water break, I spot her watching me with the same intensity I've been watching her, the composure she wears like armor faltering just enough to reveal the heat underneath.
When she realizes I've caught her staring, she doesn't look away immediately like she should.
Instead, she holds my gaze for a beat too long, her chin lifting slightly in challenge.
The arena suddenly feels ten degrees warmer.
“Sullivan!” Coach’s voice snaps me out of it. “You here to put on a show or play hockey?”
“Hockey, Coach.” But my pulse is still hammering from that look.
The afternoon game goes well—we take St. Louis 4-2—but I'm distracted. Every time I spot Sloane during media timeouts, I want to skate over and... what? Kiss her in front of fifteen thousand people? Real smart, Sullivan.
Get it together.
The mandatory team dinner at some upscale steakhouse downtown should be routine. Good food, team bonding, everyone on their best behavior. It should be easy enough to keep my distance.
I'm at a table with a few of the other veterans—safe zone. But not far enough. Sloane is at the next table over, seated with Vivian.
The restaurant lighting makes her hair glow. I’m trying not to stare when the voice hits me sideways.
“Well, well. Tank Sullivan.”
I look up. Danny O’Malley. Blues forward. Smug. Uninvited.
He slides into the open seat beside Sloane. My jaw locks.
“O’Malley.”
“Great game tonight,” he says—but his eyes are already on her. One arm draped over the back of her chair. Smiling like he’s doing her a favor by showing up.
“You must be the one making these guys look good on Instagram.”
The casual condescension punches me in the gut.
You’re just there to look pretty, Tank. Don’t take it so seriously.
Derek's voice from three years ago. Right before I found him in my apartment. With Emma.
I grip my steak knife until my knuckles go white.
The urge to stand up, to put myself between them, claws at my chest. My jaw clenches so hard it aches, and I force myself to stay seated, to appear normal while my pulse pounds in my ears.
But something makes me wait. Watch. Trust.
Sloane angles her body slightly away from O'Malley, and suddenly I can see the difference between her and Emma so clearly it takes my breath away. Where Emma would have giggled and played up the attention, Sloane's spine straightens with quiet steel.
“We handle multi-platform brand strategy and partner activations,” she says. “Instagram content is a small fraction of our data-driven fan engagement funnel. But I’m sure you have more important things to focus on—like tomorrow’s game.”
It’s a masterclass in polite demolition. O’Malley flushes, mumbles something, and slinks away.
I exhale a breath I hadn’t even realized I was holding, my death grip on the knife finally loosening.
She didn't need me to ride to her rescue. Didn't want it, either. She handled herself like the competent professional she is, shutting down a threat with nothing but words and absolute confidence in her own worth.
The realization hits me with startling clarity: I'm not just attracted to Sloane McKenzie. I'm not just breaking rules for the thrill of it. That spike of jealousy, that terror at the thought of losing her—not to O'Malley, not to anyone—it's real. Terrifyingly real.
The jet cruises through the dark at thirty thousand feet, the win behind us, the world a quiet blanket of clouds below.
Four rows behind me, I see her silhouette against the small porthole window.
My phone buzzes.
Sloane
I saw you about to jump in with O'Malley.
You didn’t need my help.
Never do. That’s the point.
I read it twice. Then lean back, eyes closed. That’s the point.
But something shifts in me. It’s not enough anymore. The glances. The hidden threads. I need her.
I open the keyboard. Type. Delete. Type again.
I need to see you. Away from the rink. Just us.
My finger hovers over the send button. This is the move that breaks the game we made. This is the one that asks for everything. I hit send.
The little “Delivered” lights up. I watch. Nothing. Five seconds. Ten. Then—the dots. Typing. Gone. Shit. Back again. One minute passes. Then two.
My phone buzzes.
Sloane
Yes.