Chapter 19 Garrett
Garrett
The tape comes off my stick in long strips, adhesive clinging to my fingers. I'm taking too long with this. Everyone else cleared out ten minutes ago, but I keep finding reasons to stay—retaping the blade, adjusting the curve, checking for splinters that aren't there.
Anything to avoid walking out into the hallway where someone might want to talk.
"You got a minute?"
Phil's voice cuts through the humid quiet of the equipment room. He's leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, still in his practice gear minus the shoulder pads.
I don't look up. "Kind of busy."
"Yeah. I can see that." He moves into the room, settling against the equipment rack like he's got all day. "You've been off lately."
Not a question. A statement.
My hands still on the tape. "I'm fine."
"You blew two coverages last game." Phil's tone stays even, matter-of-fact. "Showed up late to three practices this week. And you're checking your phone between drills, which you never do."
The observation lands heavy in my chest. I force myself to keep working the tape, unwinding it from the blade. "Just tired."
"Bullshit." He shifts his weight. "I've seen you play tired. This is different."
I look up, meeting his eyes. Phil's face shows concern, not accusation. Teammate checking on teammate. Friend checking on friend.
"Whatever's in your head," he continues, "it's showing up on the ice."
Heat crawls up my neck. I try for humor, deflection. "Didn't know you were tracking my stats."
"Your stats are fine." Phil doesn't smile. "You aren't."
The words hit harder than they should. I set down my stick, lean back against the wall. The concrete's cold through my compression shirt.
"It's nothing. Personal stuff." My voice comes out rougher than I intend. "I'll handle it."
Phil nods slowly. Doesn't push for details, doesn't demand explanations. Just accepts the boundary I'm setting. "Okay. You don't gotta tell me what it is."
Relief floods through me. He's going to let it go.
Then he moves closer, sits on the equipment trunk across from me. His knees almost touch mine in the narrow space.
"But I need you to hear something."
I wait.
"Whatever you're dealing with?" Phil's voice drops lower, more serious. "You don't have to do it alone."
"Phil—"
"I'm not asking for details." He cuts me off, not unkind.
"I'm telling you how this works. We notice when one of us is struggling.
Could be hockey shit, could be life shit—doesn't matter.
You carried us through that Calgary series, remember?
Four games, you were playing injured and never said a word. "
I remember. Separated shoulder, couldn't lift my arm above my head for two weeks after.
"Now it's our turn." Phil's eyes hold mine. "We got your back. When you're ready to talk, we're ready to listen. Until then, we're here."
Something cracks in my chest. The weight I've been carrying alone—the secrecy, the constant vigilance, the fear of what happens if anyone finds out about Sloane—it all presses down harder knowing I can't tell him. Can't tell any of them.
But knowing they'd be there if I could? That matters.
"Thanks, man." The words come out rough.
Phil stands, claps my shoulder once. The contact is brief, solid. "Mean it. Whatever it is, whenever you need it."
I nod. Can't speak past the tightness in my throat.
He reads it, doesn't make me. Heads toward the door, then turns back.
"And Tank? Take care of yourself." His expression softens slightly. "We need you right."
Not just for hockey. He means me.
Then he's gone, footsteps echoing down the hallway.
The ice pack on my knee has gone warm, but I can’t stop replaying yesterday’s conversation with Sloane.
Her shoulders were too rigid, even when she laughed. Her smile too bright when she said she was “fine, just busy.”
She’s not fine.
She’s carrying too much, and it shows—in the dark circles under her eyes, in the way she checks her phone every thirty seconds like she’s bracing for impact.
I close my laptop, stats forgotten. Hockey problems I can fix with better positioning and smarter plays. This? This needs a different kind of strategy.
The thing about pressure is, it builds until something cracks. And Sloane’s under more pressure than most people could survive.
Vivian breathing down her neck. The Northstar account riding on her shoulders. An entire corporate ecosystem judging her for doing her job too well.
And all the while, we’re pretending like we don’t matter to each other. Like she’s not the first thing I think about every morning.
Last week, when Davies made a crack about me being “too focused on the marketing department,” I wanted to shove him into the glass and explain exactly why Sloane McKenzie matters.
Instead, I laughed it off.
The secrecy is supposed to protect us. But watching her shrink herself to protect me? That’s killing me.
I grab my phone and open Google Maps.
“Arcades near Minneapolis.” Too close. Too risky.
I expand the radius.
The Pixel Palace. Forty minutes out. Family-owned. Looks like it hasn’t been updated since 1985.
Perfect.
I open her contact, thumb hovering.
She’ll want details. She’ll want to plan, to know every variable. That’s exactly what she needs a break from.
Be ready at 7. Wear jeans. No questions.
The dots appear immediately. Disappear. Reappear.
I can picture her staring at her screen, analyzing every angle.
Sloane
Where are we going? I have that Northstar brief to review.
The brief can wait. Trust me.
That’s the real ask. Not the destination. Not the dress code. I’m asking her to let go—just for one night.
Sloane
Fine. But if I get murdered, I’m telling my brother it was your fault.
Deal.
I’m smiling for the first time all day.
She said yes.
She’s going to let me take the lead—even if she’s probably already googling “mysterious date locations Minneapolis area” and cross-referencing them with crime statistics.
“An arcade? Seriously, Sullivan?”
Sloane stares at the buzzing neon sign of The Pixel Palace through my windshield.
The parking lot’s mostly empty—beat-up sedans, a minivan with faded stick-figure decals.
“No questions, McKenzie. That was the deal.”
She glances back through the window, eyes scanning the blinking facade. Classic Games! Duckpin Bowling!
Her brow furrows. Analytical. Appraising.
She turns to me, one eyebrow lifted. “This is your big plan?”
“When’s the last time you played Skee-Ball?”
“I…” She blinks. “I don’t think I ever have.”
“Well, that’s about to change.”
Inside, it’s sensory overload.
Neon lights flash in every color. 8-bit soundtracks crash over each other in chaotic harmony. The air smells like buttered popcorn and nostalgia.
“This is…” Sloane trails off, watching a kid no older than ten destroy a pinball machine.
“Loud?”
“Perfect,” she says, surprised.
We exchange twenty bucks for an obscene number of tokens. She pockets hers with the same careful precision she probably uses to organize media analytics.
Our fingers brush when I hand her the plastic cup. She doesn’t pull away right away.
“Okay,” she says, scanning the maze of games. “Where do we start?”
“Air hockey. Hope you’re ready to lose.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Fighting words, Sullivan.”
“Just setting expectations.”
Three minutes later, I’m down 3–0.
Everything I thought I knew about Sloane McKenzie? Up for review.
“What the hell was that?” I point to the goal she just slotted in with a trick shot I swear defies physics.
“Hand-eye coordination,” she says, twirling her paddle like a gunslinger. “Plus, you’re telegraphing your shots. Your tells are terrible.”
“My tells?”
“You bite your bottom lip before you shoot left. And you do this thing with your shoulder—”She mimics a subtle twitch I didn’t even know I had.
I lean across the table, close enough to see the flecks of gold in her eyes. “You’ve been watching me that closely?”
A flush creeps up her neck. “I’m observant.”
“Uh-huh.”
I score while she’s distracted. Even the odds a little.
“Cheap shot.”
But she’s laughing—and it’s not the polite work-laugh or the nervous giggle. This one’s pure joy.
“All’s fair in love and air hockey.”
The words slip out.
Her paddle stutters, the puck bouncing off the wall.
“Did you just—”
“Nope.” I clear my throat. “Completely normal hockey phrase. Very common.”
“Uhuh—”
I score again. “Focus, McKenzie. I’m mounting a comeback.”
She narrows her eyes—but the softness behind them makes my chest ache.
“We’ll see about that. Time for a line change, Sullivan.”
“Did you just use hockey terminology to trash-talk me?”
“Maybe I did.” She fires a backhand shot. It lands. Clean. “What are you going to do about it?”
“Remind you that I invented trash talk.”
“Prove it.”
Next, we hit the Skee-Ball lanes. Sloane studies the target rings like she’s developing a strategic blueprint. She tests the weight of the ball, adjusts her grip. Then destroys me.
“This is embarrassing,” I mutter, watching her land another perfect 50-point shot.
“This is fun,” she says, grinning wide enough to unspool me. She does a little hip-shimmy victory dance that should be illegal in public.
When she bumps her hip against mine, the heat is instant.
“When’s the last time you lost at something?” she asks.
“Practice this morning. Daniels hit me into next week.”
“That’s work,” she says. “This is…”
“Play?”
“Yeah.” The word lands quiet. Soft. Like she’s remembering what that feels like.
“Your turn to pick,” I say.
She points to the far corner. “Duckpin bowling. I want to see if you’re as bad at that as you are at Skee-Ball.”
“Hey. I won two rounds.”
“By cheating.”
“Strategic distraction is not cheating.”
“Kissing my neck while I’m trying to concentrate is definitely cheating.”
The memory of her sharp inhale when I brushed her skin flashes hot. I smirk. “Seemed to work.”
She bumps my shoulder. Another quick, charged contact. “Shut up and bowl.”