Chapter 17 Garrett
Garrett
The supply closet smells like industrial cleaner and forgotten equipment, but all I can focus on is the taste of Sloane’s lip gloss and the way her fingers are twisted in my shirt.
She’s pressed against the metal shelving, her green eyes dark in the dim light filtering under the door, and for thirty perfect seconds, nothing else exists.
“We have to stop meeting like this,” she whispers against my mouth, but she’s smiling when she says it, her thumb tracing the line of my jaw.
“Probably,” I murmur back, but I don’t move away.
Can’t. The scent of her perfume—clean and sharp, like winter mornings—fills the small space, and I want to memorize everything.
The way her breath catches when I kiss just beneath her ear.
The soft sound she makes when my hand finds the curve of her waist.
“Garrett.” My name is half-warning, half-surrender. “Someone could—”
The sharp sound of voices in the hallway slices through our bubble. Sloane freezes. Her eyes go wide with panic that twists something ugly in my chest.
This is what we’ve been reduced to—supply closets, thirty-second kisses, constant fear.
Like we’re doing something wrong, instead of something right.
I step back immediately, giving her space. She smooths her blazer, checks her reflection in the dark screen of her phone. Her expression smooths out, going neutral—that same look she wears in meetings—but I catch the tremble in her hands as she fixes her hair.
“Coast is clear,” she whispers after cracking the door.
We slip out separately. Her first. Me, thirty seconds later, like we’re coordinating a covert op. I watch her walk away, heels clicking, posture straight. To anyone else, she’s the marketing director en route to her next meeting.
They don’t see the slight flush in her cheeks. Or the way her lips are still swollen from my kisses.
They don’t know she’s mine.
The thought hits like a body check to the chest.
Mine. But only in secret. Only in the quiet gaps between her real life, her visible life, the career she’s spent years building.
I lean against the wall and watch her disappear around the corner. The pride that surged a moment ago curdles into something cold and sour. This isn't protection. This is erasure.
The team meeting drags on forever. Coach is breaking down power play adjustments, diagramming formations on the whiteboard with the kind of detail that usually holds my focus.
But I’m not locked on Xs and Os. I’m three rows ahead and two seats to the right—where Sloane sits with her tablet, taking notes. Focused.
She’s in that navy blazer that makes her look like she could run a Fortune 500 company. Her auburn hair is pulled back in a sleek ponytail, baring the line of her neck.
Twenty minutes ago, I was kissing that neck in a supply closet.
Now, I’m pretending she’s just another staff member.
“Sullivan.” Coach’s voice snaps across the room.
Heat climbs my neck. “Yes, sir.”
“Need you to coordinate with Sloane on playoff coverage. Player interviews, behind-the-scenes stuff. Make sure we’re projecting the right image.”
Sloane glances back. Her expression is perfectly professional. But her lips curve just slightly.
“No problem,” I say, holding her gaze for three seconds. Then I look away.
Any longer, and someone might notice the way we look at each other like we share secrets. Which we do.
The meeting ends twenty minutes later, players filing out in small groups, complaining about ice time and discussing weekend plans. I linger, organizing my notes with deliberate slowness, waiting for the room to clear.
“Garrett.” Her voice is neutral. Controlled. “Coach wants us to align on the playoff media strategy.”
“Right.” I stand, hyper-aware of her proximity. Of everything I can’t do.
“Your office?”
“Conference room down the hall,” she says, already moving. “More professional.”
Professional. Each word felt like swallowing dust.
We walk the hallway with practiced distance. Not quite together. Not obviously apart.
A choreography we’ve perfected. But tonight, it feels forced.
In the conference room, she immediately crosses to the windows, putting the length of the table between us.
The message is clear.
This is business.
“Coach wants regular player availability,” she says, pulling up her calendar. “Short interviews, practice footage, community documentation. Enough content to shape a strong playoff narrative.”
I watch her speak. Watch the way she avoids looking at me for more than a second at a time. Even here—alone—she won’t let her guard down.
The weight of what we’re hiding thickens the air between us.
“Sounds reasonable,” I say. “What do you need from me?”
“Your cooperation.” She finally meets my eyes. And I see it—the exhaustion, the strain. “I know media isn’t your thing. But if we control the narrative—”
“Sloane.” Her name escapes rougher than I intend. “We don’t have to do this.”
She stiffens. “Do what?”
“Pretend. In here—with just us—we don’t have to pretend we’re nothing to each other.”
Her expression falters. I catch it. The flicker of something real.
Then the vulnerability vanishes, and her expression goes cool and unreadable.
“We have to pretend everywhere,” she says quietly. “That’s what we agreed.”
“And what if I don’t want to pretend anymore?”
The question hangs in the air like a live wire. She looks at me. Really looks. And I see the war happening behind her eyes.
“Garrett…” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “You know why we can’t.”
I do. Vivian. Easton. The team’s rules. Her whole career.
I know. I understand.
But understanding doesn’t make it hurt less.
“Right,” I say. “Professional.”
She nods—but her fingers shake as she reaches for her tablet. “I’ll send the content calendar. We should schedule weekly check-ins.”
“Sure.”
The meeting ends ten minutes later with bullet points and deadlines.
She gathers her things. I want to say something—anything—that breaks the pattern. But I can’t.
She pauses at the door.
“Garrett?”
“Yeah?”
“This is worth it.” Her voice is soft. Certain. “What we have. It’s worth protecting.”
Then she’s gone.
And I’m left alone in a room full of silence and the crushing realization that protecting something shouldn’t feel this much like losing it.
That night, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling.
My phone buzzes now and then—team updates, social pings. None of them are the one I want.
The loft feels too big. Too quiet. The absence of her is everywhere.
Three floors below, traffic moves through downtown Minneapolis. Headlights sketch brief patterns across my walls before disappearing again. People out there are living normal lives. Laughing in restaurants. Holding hands without consequence. Loving without fear.
My mind drifts—Emma. And I taste the bitterness rising in my throat.
It’s not a fair comparison. What I have with Sloane is real.
But the shadows are familiar.
“You never talk about us,” Emma had said during one of our final arguments. “It’s like you’re ashamed of me. Of this.”
She wasn’t wrong. I was ashamed—not of her. But of what we’d become. The public show. The scrutiny. The performative affection. She fed off the spotlight. I withered.
When the rumors started—her and Derek —I said nothing. I thought silence was dignity. Turned out, silence was complicity.
“He never fought for me,” she told the reporter who broke the story. “When things got difficult, he just shut down. Made me feel like I was bothering him by existing.”
The words had gutted me because underneath the manipulation and the lies, there was a grain of truth. I hadn't fought for her. Not publicly. Not when it mattered.
And now here I am, making the same mistake with a woman who actually deserves fighting for.
I open our thread.
Sloane
Good meeting today. Sleep well.
Clean. Safe. Sanitized.
I type:
I miss you.
Delete. This is killing me. Delete.
Finally, I settle on:
You too.
The dots appear. Vanish. Appear again.
She’s typing. Deleting. Typing again.
Sloane
Sweet dreams, Tank.
The nickname cuts through me. Private. Tender. But distant.
It feels like a breadcrumb. Just enough to keep me going.
I set the phone aside and stare at the ceiling.
The memory of her face in that conference room returns—when I asked what if I didn’t want to pretend anymore. That flicker of hope. That moment where maybe…
Then reality returned.
She’s protecting her career. I respect it.
But every day we spend hiding feels like a slow erasure. Like I’m asking her to be ashamed of the best thing we’ve built.
Emma’s words echo in the dark.
He never fought for me.
I push them away.
But I don’t sleep.