Chapter 21 Sloane
Sloane
The press box smells like burnt coffee and nervous energy.
I shouldn't be here. I have a dozen emails waiting, a content calendar that needs updating, and a sponsor deck that won't finalize itself. But when Emily from social media mentioned she had an extra seat for tonight's game against Colorado, I said yes before my brain could catch up with my mouth.
Three rows down, Garrett takes the ice for warm-ups, and my heart does that stupid flutter it's been doing for weeks now. He moves with that effortless grace that makes six-foot-three look elegant instead of hulking, stick handling through cones like the puck is magnetically attached to his blade.
Focus, McKenzie. You're here to observe team dynamics for the Q4 campaign. This is research.
The lie tastes stale even in my own head.
The arena fills around me—eighteen thousand fans in blue and gold, the energy building like static electricity before a storm.
The Jumbotron flashes player stats, and when Garrett's face appears, a group of women three sections over start screaming.
I feel a completely irrational spike of jealousy, which is ridiculous, because they don't know what his laugh sounds like at 2 a.m., or how his voice drops when he says my name, or the way he looks at me like I'm the only person in any room.
Get it together.
The anthem. The roar. The puck drops.
Colorado comes out aggressive, testing our defense with quick transitions and heavy forechecking.
I find myself leaning forward, reading the plays the way I have since I was eight years old, perched on cold bleachers watching Easton's peewee games.
There—the way Garrett positions himself in the neutral zone, already anticipating where the puck is going before the pass is made.
The subtle shift of his weight that tells me he's about to close a gap.
The patience that separates elite defensemen from everyone else.
First period ends scoreless. The Zamboni makes its slow loops while I pretend to check my phone, hyperaware of the women behind me discussing which player has the best "hockey butt." When someone mentions Sullivan, I have to physically stop myself from turning around.
Second period. Colorado strikes first on a power play, their sniper finding the top corner while Easton sprawls desperately across the crease. The arena groans. I watch Garrett tap Easton's pads—a quick, wordless reassurance—before skating back to center ice.
We answer six minutes later. Daniels buries a rebound off a feed from Lucas, and the building shakes with eighteen thousand voices. I'm on my feet before I realize I've moved, clapping with everyone else, anonymous in the crowd.
This is safe. This is fine. I'm just another fan enjoying a Tuesday night game.
Then the third period happens.
Colorado's down by one with eight minutes left, and they're playing desperate. Bodies crash into boards. Sticks get tangled. The refs swallow their whistles as the game gets chippy, physical, mean.
I see it developing before it happens.
Garrett has the puck behind our net, scanning for an outlet pass. Colorado's enforcer—a hulking winger named Marchuk who's been running guys all night—builds speed through the neutral zone. He's not going for the puck. He's going for Garrett.
The hit is textbook illegal. Targeting the numbers, leaving his feet, driving Garrett headfirst into the boards with the kind of violence that ends careers.
The sound reaches me a half-second after the impact—a sickening crack that echoes through the suddenly silent arena. Garrett crumples. His stick clatters away. His helmet bounces once against the ice.
He doesn't move.
I'm standing. When did I stand? My hand is pressed against the glass partition—when did I move?—and I can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything except stare at the motionless figure in blue and gold lying face-down on the ice.
Get up. Get up. Please get up.
The referee's whistle screams. Players converge.
Marchuk is already being escorted to the penalty box while Phil and Lucas shove at Colorado jerseys, but I can't focus on any of it.
All I can see is Garrett, still down, trainers rushing across the ice with that careful urgency that means something is wrong.
Seconds pass. Five. Ten. Fifteen.
The crowd holds its breath. Eighteen thousand people suspended in collective dread.
Then Garrett moves.
It's small—just a shift of his shoulders, a turn of his head—but the relief that floods through me is so violent I have to grab the seat in front of me to stay upright. The trainers help him sit, then stand. He's wobbly, one arm wrapped around his ribs, but he's conscious. He's skating.
The arena erupts in applause as he moves slowly toward the bench, waving off assistance with that stubborn pride I've come to know so well. He disappears down the tunnel, and I finally remember how to breathe.
I sink back into my seat, pressing my palms flat against my thighs to hide the tremors. The game continues around me—we score again, the crowd roars—but I'm underwater, watching the clock bleed down until the final horn.
Emily says something. I nod without hearing it. Smile without feeling it.
The professional mask holds. It has to.
But underneath, my hands won't stop shaking.
The electric-blue fur of Steve the sloth catches the morning light streaming through my apartment windows, and I can't help but smile. He's propped in my favorite armchair like he owns the place—this ridiculous trophy from our perfect night at the arcade.
The past few days have felt like a dream.
A warm, safe, intoxicating dream—punctuated by one heart-stopping moment at the arena that I'm still trying not to think about.
Garrett texted me after the game: Bruised ribs, bruised ego, nothing serious.
Stop worrying. I'd laughed through the remnants of my panic, typed back something teasing about his dramatics, and told myself it was fine. Everything was fine.
I pad to the kitchen in my bare feet, humming under my breath as I pour coffee into my favorite mug—the one with the little cartoon kitten. The steam rises like incense, and I inhale deeply, savoring this perfect moment of contentment.
This is my new normal. Secret happiness tucked into quiet morning moments. The afterglow of falling for a man I never imagined I could have.
My phone erupts on the counter, the ringtone sharp and jarring in the peaceful quiet. Brynn's name flashes on the screen, but something's wrong. She's facetiming me, not texting. And it's barely seven in the morning.
I swipe to answer. "Brynn? What's—"
"Hey, sorry it's so early, but the most bizarre thing just dropped on The Sin Bin Scoop, and you're the only person who will appreciate how dumb it is." Her voice bubbles with the energy of someone who's already had too much caffeine and found something deliciously ridiculous to dissect.
My shoulders relax. This is normal Brynn—the Sports National reporter whose cult-favorite podcast is where she really lives for the industry gossip and dismantling the team-approved PR spin she has to tolerate all day.
"What kind of dumb?" I ask, settling against the counter. "Scale of one to 'Torres tried to trademark his own celebration dance.'"
"Oh, this is peak Torres-level stupidity.
Get this—they're running a blind item about 'a certain alternate captain' on the Mammoths getting cozy with an 'ambitious, petite redhead in the marketing department.
'" Her laugh crackles through the speaker.
"I mean, how ridiculously specific and obviously fake is that?
They're not even trying to hide that they're just making shit up to stir the pot.
The word 'ambitious' alone—like, could they be more transparent about their misogyny? "
The coffee mug freezes halfway to my lips.
Alternate captain. Petite redhead. Marketing department. Ambitious.
The words slice through my contentment like razor blades through silk. Each detail lands with surgical precision, describing me so perfectly it's like they had a photograph.
I can't speak. Can't breathe. Can't do anything but stand there in my kitchen, holding a mug of coffee with trembling hands while the world shifts beneath my feet.
"They've obviously got some grudge against the organization," Brynn continues, oblivious to my silence.
"Probably trying to get back at someone.
The whole thing reads like fan fiction written by someone who's never actually stepped foot in an arena.
I swear, these gossip vultures get more desperate every—"
She stops. The silence stretches between us, thick with unspoken realization.
"Sloane?" Her voice changes, the amusement bleeding out of it. "That's... funny, right? Just some weird coincidence they happened to describe someone who sounds vaguely like you?"
I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. The kitchen tilts around me.
"Sloane, why aren't you saying anything?"
The question hangs in the air like an accusation. I can hear her breathing on the other end, can practically feel her mind working, connecting dots I've been so careful to keep scattered.
"Wait." Her voice drops to a whisper. "Wait, wait, wait. Sloane. Tell me this isn't... tell me you're not..."
"Brynn—"
"Oh my god." The words explode out of her with devastating certainty. "Oh my god, Sloane. It's not a coincidence, is it? It's you. It's you and Sullivan."
My throat closes completely.
"How long?" Her voice cracks, but there's something softer underneath the shock. "How long have you been carrying this alone?"
"I wasn't—I didn't—"
"Sloane." The word comes out gentler now, though I can hear her struggling to process. "I'm your best friend. I tell you everything. Every stupid date, every professional crisis, every thought in my head, and you've been—God, you must have been dying keeping this to yourself. With Sullivan?"