Chapter 16 Sloane
Sloane
The familiar warmth of Marcello’s should feel like coming home, but tonight, the checkered tablecloths and Dean Martin crooning from hidden speakers feel like stage dressing for a performance I’m not sure I can pull off.
I slide into our usual corner booth, my phone already buzzing in my hand.
Garrett
Miss you already. How's dinner going?
The smile hits before I can stop it—soft, involuntary, the kind that reshapes your whole face. I catch myself and quickly flip the phone face down on the table. But the warmth lingers in my chest like a secret I’m carrying under my ribs.
Three days.
Three days since the blizzard. Since his apartment. Since everything changed.
Three days of stolen glances across the arena, of professional conversations laced with something else entirely, of text messages that make me feel like I’m seventeen again and reckless with longing.
Three days of walking around with this new, buzzing energy under my skin—like I’ve swallowed sunlight and it doesn’t want to stay still.
“You’re glowing.”
I look up. Easton’s watching me with those sharp green eyes that miss nothing. He’s already claimed the breadstick basket—some things never change—but his usual grin is gone. Replaced by something quieter. Sharper.
“What?” I laugh, but it comes out too bright. Too quick. “I’m not glowing. It’s the lighting.”
“Uh-huh.” He tears into a breadstick with exaggerated slowness, eyes never leaving mine. “You look different.”
My phone buzzes again. Another flutter. Another glance I catch before I can stop myself.
Easton catches it anyway.
“Popular tonight,” he says, mild.
“Just work stuff.” The lie tastes sharp. Unfamiliar. Wrong.
I’ve never lied to Easton about anything important. Not when Dad left. Not when I got my first job. Not when I moved to Minneapolis. We’ve always been each other’s safe harbor.
Until now.
Maria appears with my usual pinot and Easton’s sparkling water, her smile as warm and familiar as the soup specials. “The usual?” she asks, even as her pen is already moving.
“Please,” we say in unison.
But the ritual feels hollow tonight. Forced.
When Maria disappears toward the kitchen, Easton leans back against the booth, his posture deceptively casual. But I know that look. It’s the same intense focus he brings to reading shooters in the slot, analyzing every micro-expression, every tell that might give away the play.
“So,” he says, voice carefully neutral. “How’s the Sullivan project going?”
My wine glass freezes halfway to my lips. The question lands clean, like a wrist shot to the gut. Calm on the surface. Lethal underneath.
“Fine.” It comes out clipped. “He’s been more cooperative lately. The media training’s working.”
“Cooperative.” He says the word like it’s unfamiliar. “That’s an interesting way to describe Tank Sullivan.”
My phone buzzes a third time. I don’t look, but the pull is there. That now-familiar ache just behind my sternum.
“People can change,” I say. “Sometimes they just need the right approach.”
“Mmm.” He drums his fingers against the table, a rhythm that matches his pre-game warm-up routine. Controlled. Calculating. “And what approach would that be?”
The weight of his attention is suffocating. Every word feels like a trap, every pause an opportunity for him to read between the lines I'm desperately trying to blur.
“Professional. Consistent. Building trust.”
Corporate jargon—reliable as Kevlar.
But Easton’s too smart for that.
His skepticism melts into something sharper. More concerned.
“Sloane.” His voice drops to that serious tone he uses when he's about to ask something that matters. “What's really going on?”
The directness of it stills the air between us. My escape routes are closing. My mind races, searching for a plausible out, a piece of the truth big enough to hide the rest. I find one. A lifeline.
I let out a long, weary sigh and drag a hand through my hair. “It’s not… it’s not what you think. It’s work. God, is it ever work.”
Easton leans forward, eyebrows drawing together. “What work? The Northstar thing?”
“I wish.” I lower my voice, like this is confidential intel. “It’s Caleb Jones.”
His expression shifts immediately. “Cal? What’d the kid do now? Post another gym thirst trap with a typo in the caption?”
“Worse. Way worse.”
My phone buzzes again. This time, I glare at it with real, unscripted frustration.
“He was on a livestream last night with some influencer. Thought it ended. It hadn’t. He spent two minutes mocking the away-team jerseys. Called them ‘pajamas for sad clowns.’”
Easton groans, tipping his head back. “Jesus. These kids…”
“Yeah. I’ve been on the phone with legal and our GM all day. The league called. The other team’s PR is salivating. This is what’s been blowing up my phone. This is why I look like I have a fever.”
He shakes his head. “They grow up with phones in their hands but don’t understand how to use them without setting their lives on fire.”
“And I’m the one holding the extinguisher,” I mutter into my wine glass.
“What are you going to do?” he asks, all brotherly concern now. “Take away his phone until the playoffs?”
“It’s in my latest roadmap. A whole digital footprint and brand management onboarding program for rookies. Caleb just became my Exhibit A.”
Easton nods, approving. “Good. Someone needs to teach these guys to be careful. Unfortunately, it matters almost as much as the game now.”
He pauses. Then—
“No wonder you’re so stressed. Just… don’t let it burn you out, Sloane. Guys like Cal are a dime a dozen. You’re special.”
The words, meant for comfort, land like shrapnel.
I offer him a small, grateful smile. I feel like a traitor.
“I won’t,” I say. And I mean it in the way lies are sometimes meant.
Maria returns with our pasta, and the conversation shifts—next road trip, his new trainer, why Mom still can’t FaceTime without tilting the phone at her ceiling fan.
The danger passes.
But as I push pasta around my plate, the buzz of my phone feels different now.
It’s no longer just a sweet, secret thrill.
It’s a risk.
It’s Exhibit A.