Chapter 12 Sloane
Sloane
The Mammoth Center after hours feels like a different building entirely.
I push through the glass doors of the executive wing, my heels clicking against polished floors that reflect the emergency lighting strips running along the baseboards.
Most of the offices are dark—ghosts of ambition and fluorescent headaches left behind by people with dinner plans and families and lives that don’t revolve around proving they belong.
But not me. Never me.
I settle back into my desk chair, the leather still warm from my earlier twelve-hour marathon. The Northstar presentation spreads across my monitors like a digital war room—demographic breakdowns, engagement metrics, competitive analysis reports painting a picture I’m still not satisfied with.
Close. But not transcendent.
Not the kind of pitch that makes executives forget they’re looking at numbers and start seeing possibility.
My marketing brain churns. Traditional sponsorship integrations—predictable ROI.
Digital campaigns—solid engagement. CSR initiatives—on brand.
But nothing that captures the visceral excitement of eighteen thousand people on their feet, screaming for their team.
The raw emotion that makes fans drive six hours to away games, that makes grown men cry when their team hoists a championship cup.
I lean back in my chair, rubbing my eyes.
The building hums around me with the white noise of ventilation systems and distant ice-making machinery.
Through my office windows, downtown Minneapolis twinkles like scattered diamonds, the city going about its evening routine while I chase perfection in spreadsheets and slide decks.
What I need is the intangible factor. The human element that separates data from storytelling, metrics from magic. And suddenly, I know exactly where to find it.
Game footage. Raw, unedited moments—the kind of split-second decisions that reveal everything stats can’t. The chemistry. The grit. The belief.
The team film room is three floors down. By now, it should be empty – coaching staff gone, players home or in bed.
Perfect.
I grab my laptop and head for the elevator, mentally reviewing which games might deliver: The November 15 comeback against Detroit.
The OT win over Nashville where the team looked genuinely surprised by their own resilience.
Moments where you could see something clicking, chemistry developing, the intangible team culture that makes fans invest emotionally in outcomes they can't control.
The service elevator descends with mechanical precision, carrying me deeper into the building's working heart.
The corridors down here smell different—less like corporate cleaner and more like honest work.
Ice and rubber and the lingering ghost of equipment tape.
The film room sits at the end of a hallway lined with storage closets and maintenance equipment, its door marked with a simple placard that probably intimidates visiting teams more than it should.
I push the door open, expecting darkness and the antiseptic glow of dormant monitors.
Instead, I find light.
A single workstation glows in the corner. One screen plays slow-motion footage. A figure hunched in focus.
Garrett.
He’s traded his jersey for jeans and a Mammoths pullover, hair tousled like he’s been running his hands through it for hours. The moment catches me off guard. Just a man lost in the game he loves.
My chest tightens.
“Working late?” I ask, voice neutral.
He glances up. His concentration fades into something softer, warmer. “Could ask you the same. Though I guess rising stars don’t get to clock out with everyone else.”
“Neither do alternate captains, apparently.” I step inside, letting the door click shut behind me. The room feels smaller now. Intimate.
“What’s the occasion?”
He gestures at the monitor, where Chicago’s power play flickers. “They’ve been shutting us down all season. I figured if I’m gonna complain about our PP coordinator’s system, I should at least understand theirs.”
I move closer, curiosity overriding caution.
“What am I looking at?”
“See their D-man? He’s cheating center—reading our guy’s eyes. It’s not textbook. It’s instinct. He’s baiting the pass, sliding over just enough to kill the lane.”
The way he sees the game makes something inside me stir. Not attraction, though it’s there too—but admiration.
The metrics would never show that. That's a level of detail the stats completely miss.
"How did you catch that?"
“Years of pattern recognition. Same way you see trends in numbers that would give most people a migraine.” He pauses the footage and looks at me directly. “What brings you down to the dungeon? Don't tell me you're suddenly interested in penalty kill systems.”
"Game footage for the Northstar presentation," I say, but my voice is tight.
"Vivian wants a standard pitch—all metrics and market share.
But I'm trying to build a case for something bigger.
" I hesitate, the quiet intimacy of the room making me feel bold.
I decide to trust him. "I have this whole framework I've developed, the Mammoth Community Champions Program. It’s about using our platform for scholarships, youth mentorships.
..creating real, generational loyalty. But Vivian keeps shooting it down.
She says Northstar won't care and that I need to focus on what's 'commercially viable.
' So I'm trying to find game footage that proves my point—that these human moments are what create the emotional investment that drives real, long-term value. "
His eyebrows rise with genuine interest. “You want to show them what we are. Not just what we generate.”
“Exactly.” I sit beside him, aware of the space between us. Aware of everything we’re not supposed to feel right now. “Any company can slap a logo on a jersey. But if I can get them to believe they’re investing in belonging... that’s how I win the room.”
He studies my screen. "That's the stuff that actually matters in the locker room. The part no one ever sees."
His comment shouldn’t matter. But it does. Coming from him, it lands differently. Maybe because he understands both sides—the business and the passion that drives it.
“The challenge is finding the right moments,” I continue, pulling up my presentation files on the adjacent monitor. “I need plays that showcase individual excellence within team success. Moments where viewers can see both skill and heart.”
He's quiet for a moment, studying my rough outline. When he speaks, his voice carries the authority of someone who's lived these moments instead of just analyzed them.
“March eighteenth,” he says finally. “Away game in Vancouver. Third period, we're down by two with eight minutes left. Phil takes a brutal hit—separated shoulder, everyone can see he's hurt. But instead of coming off the ice, he sets up our next goal with a pass he had no business making.”
I'm already pulling up the game footage. “What makes it special?”
“Watch his face when he makes the pass. You can see the exact moment he decides the team matters more than his own pain. That's not skill—that's character. That's what turns fans into believers.”
The footage loads, and he guides me to the specific sequence.
As the play unfolds, I see exactly what he means.
The hit is brutal enough to make me wince.
But Phil’s expression afterward—the grim determination, the way he positions himself despite obvious agony—it's the kind of authentic human moment that turns data into storytelling.
“Perfect,” I breathe, already imagining how this fits into my narrative framework. “This is exactly what I needed.”
“There's more.” Garrett's enthusiasm for the project is infectious, his usual media wariness replaced by genuine excitement about showcasing his teammates' character.
“November twenty-third, when Daniels scored his first career goal.
Not just the goal itself, but the celebration.
Watch how the veteran guys react—pure joy for a kid they've been mentoring all season.”
He's leaning closer now, pointing out details on the screen, and I'm acutely aware of his proximity. The warmth radiating from his body. The way his voice drops when he's explaining something he cares about.
“Show me the Daniels goal,” I say, my voice slightly rougher than professional discourse requires.
He navigates to the footage with practiced efficiency, his fingers quick and confident on the keyboard.
The goal itself is nothing spectacular—a deflection from the slot that trickles past the goalie.
But the aftermath is pure magic. Daniels drops his stick and gloves, pure disbelief and joy on his young face, while veteran players converge on him like proud family members.
“See Walker there?” Garrett points to a player I barely recognize. “Guy's been in the league fifteen years, seen everything. But watch his face—he's as excited as if he scored it himself. That's what team chemistry actually looks like.”
I'm taking notes, but I'm also fighting the growing awareness of Garrett's presence in this small room.
The way he explains each play with genuine pride in his teammates.
The thoughtful way he considers which moments will translate to my civilian audience.
The unconscious way he moves closer when pointing out details on the screen.
“This is invaluable,” I say, and I mean it.
“Because you’re asking the right questions.” He turns to me fully now. “Most people want highlight reels—the prettiest goals, the biggest hits. You want the human moments.”
“The human moments are what create lasting relationships. Between fans and teams, between brands and consumers.” I'm speaking to fill the silence that's growing too comfortable, too intimate.
“Anyone can sell a product. But if you can make people feel understood, valued, part of something meaningful...”
“You create loyalty that transcends results.” His voice is quiet, thoughtful. “Even when we're losing, even when the season goes sideways, they still show up because they believe in what we represent.”
“Garrett...” I start, not sure what I'm planning to say.
He stands up, ostensibly to adjust something on the monitor, but the movement brings him directly behind my chair.
I can feel his presence like a physical force—the heat radiating from his body, the careful way he's maintaining just enough distance to be professional while creating an intimacy that makes my pulse skip.
“There's one more sequence you need to see,” he says, his voice lower now, more personal. “January ninth. The game-winner against Pittsburgh.”
He leans down. Points something out. His breath stirs my skin.
I stop breathing.
“Sloane.”
My name in that voice. A whisper. Rough and reverent.
I turn. We’re inches apart. The tension between us crackles like static. His hand comes up, fingertips grazing my cheek.
“We shouldn’t—”
“I know.”
But I don’t pull away.
And that’s all he needs.
He leans in—
The sound of a door closing echoes through the hallway.
We freeze, reality crashing back like ice water. Heavy footsteps approach, accompanied by the distinctive jingle of security keys. My blood turns to arctic slush as recognition hits—those are Easton's footsteps. I'd know my brother's stride anywhere.
I jerk away from Garrett so violently that my chair spins, breaking the spell completely. Professional panic floods my system, drowning the desire in pure survival instinct. If Easton walks in here and finds us like this...
“The penalty kill rotation,” I say loudly, my voice artificially bright as I spin back to face the monitor. “That's fascinating how they disguise their intentions.”
Garrett recovers instantly, stepping back to a professionally appropriate distance. “Right. Chicago's been running this system all season. Very effective against traditional entries.”
The footsteps pause outside the door.
My pulse is deafening.
Then... they pass.
Just a guard on his phone.
Relief crashes through me—but I’m shaking.
“I should go.” I’m already saving files. “Early meeting.”
“Sloane—”
“Thank you for the footage recommendations,” I interrupt, gathering my laptop with practiced efficiency. “This will really strengthen the presentation.”
The formality is a shield, protecting both of us from the implications of what almost happened. But as I head for the door, I catch his reflection in one of the dark monitors. He’s watching me go, his expression a raw mix of frustration and longing.