Chapter 33 Garrett
Garrett
The silence in my loft is a living thing, pressing against my skull like the weight of forty feet of lake water.
I've been suspended for four days now, and the stillness is driving me insane.
No morning skate. No practice. No outlet for the restless energy that courses through my veins, sharp and volatile.
I pace from the kitchen to the windows overlooking the Mississippi, the same path I've worn into the hardwood for the past forty-eight hours.
Outside, the world continues without me while I'm trapped in this glass box with nothing but my thoughts and the echoing memory of Sloane's voice, raw with fury:
"You took my moment and made it about you."
I stop at the window, pressing my forehead against the cool glass.
The contact is grounding, real, but it doesn't quiet the chaos in my head.
I keep replaying our fight, dissecting every word with the same focus I use on game film, searching for the moment where I could have said something different. Made her understand.
But the more I replay it, the more confused I become. I was trying to support her. Trying to show them how brilliant she was. How could that be wrong? How could fighting for someone you love be the thing that destroys everything? I shake my head, trying to clear it.
My phone sits silent on the coffee table, a black mirror reflecting my failures. I've drafted a dozen texts to her over the past four days. Deleted them all. What's left to say when every word that comes out of your mouth apparently makes things worse?
"You don't see the problem," she'd screamed at me. "Even now, after everything, you're trying to fix me instead of understanding that you broke something that can't be repaired."
The accusation lodges sharp beneath my ribs. I wasn't trying to fix her. I was trying to protect her. There's a difference, isn't there?
Isn't there?
My phone buzzes, cutting through the silence like a salvation. Marcus's name appears on the screen, and I grab it before the second ring.
"Tank, buddy—how're you holding up?"
Marcus Rodriguez. My agent for the past six years. His voice carries that practiced calm that agents use to manage crises, the tone that says everything's under control when nothing is.
"Not great, Marcus." I collapse onto the leather couch, suddenly exhausted. "Not great at all."
"Hey, I get it. This whole thing's a nightmare. But I've got good news—I've been making calls all morning, and I think we can shut this down quickly."
Shut this down quickly. Treating this like just another PR crisis to be managed. Just another speed bump in a long, lucrative career.
"The suspension?" Marcus continues, his voice warming with professional optimism.
"I've already reached out to the league office.
They're open to negotiation. We're probably looking at five games, ten at the most. And the fine?
" He makes a dismissive sound. "Steep, sure, but hey—it's a business expense. Part of the job."
Business expense. The casualness in his voice makes my stomach clench.
"We'll schedule a soft interview," he continues, building momentum. "Something local, friendly. You'll express regret, talk about lessons learned, emphasize your commitment to the team. Classic crisis management. You'll be back on the ice in a week, two max."
I close my eyes, letting his words wash over me. Standard playbook. Manageable problem. Career barely bruised.
"Marcus," I interrupt, my voice lower than intended. "What about Sloane?"
The pause tells me everything I need to know. It stretches for three agonizingly long seconds.
"Tank, I know you care about her, but that's not really our concern right now. My job is protecting your career. Her situation is... unfortunate, but it's separate."
Separate.
The word hits me like a blindside check.
Separate. Like we live in different worlds. Like we weren't destroyed by the same moment, the same words, the same catastrophic miscalculation.
"She got fired, Marcus." I can barely get the words out. "Forced to sign an NDA. Career destroyed. And you're telling me I'll be back next week with a slap on the wrist."
"That's..." Marcus sounds genuinely surprised, like he's hearing this for the first time. "That's harsh. I'm sorry to hear that. But Tank, you can't take responsibility for decisions above your pay grade. You've got to focus on what you can control."
What I can control.
I hang up without saying goodbye.
The silence that follows is different now. Heavier. Charged with something that makes the hair on my arms stand up.
Separate.
I stand from the couch, moving to the window on unsteady legs. The city spreads below me, indifferent to the earthquake happening in my chest.
Sloane lost everything. Her job. Her reputation. Her career. The life she'd spent fifteen years building, demolished in one afternoon because of what I said. How I said it.
And me?
A fine I can pay without thinking. A suspension that's already being negotiated down to nothing. Marcus planning soft interviews and image rehabilitation while she's... what? Updating her résumé? Explaining to potential employers why her last position ended with a security escort?
The whole thing plays in my mind again, but this time it's different. This time I'm not watching it through the lens of wounded pride or righteous confusion. I'm watching it through Sloane's eyes.
I see myself standing up, commandeering her moment. Her presentation—the one she'd worked on for months, the deal that was supposed to secure her future—and I made myself the main character.
"I trust Sloane McKenzie with the future of this team... and with mine."
Jesus Christ.
The realization crashes over me like a freight train, stealing every molecule of air from my lungs.
I didn't support her. I claimed her. In front of a room full of executives, I made her professional triumph about our personal relationship. I took the most important moment of her career and turned it into a public declaration of ownership.
I painted her as my girlfriend instead of their colleague.
I confirmed every bias in that room. Every assumption they'd ever made about women in sports marketing. Every whispered suspicion that she was sleeping her way to success instead of earning it.
My legs give out. I sink onto the couch, head in my hands, as the full scope of my betrayal becomes clear.
She didn't need defending. She was winning. She had them convinced, ready to sign, ready to see her as the brilliant strategist she is. And I stood up and reduced her to someone's girlfriend who needed a man to vouch for her competence.
"You still think this is about the presentation failing," she'd said to me. "It's about what you said. How you said it. You stood up in that room and made my professional competence about your personal feelings."
She was right. God, she was so right it makes my chest ache.
"You turned me into someone who needed defending instead of someone who earned respect."
The words echo in my skull like a puck ricocheting off the glass. Over and over until I want to put my fist through something just to make it stop.
I think about Emma. About the accusations that haunted our final fights.
"You never fight for me. When things get difficult, you just shut down. Made me feel like I was bothering you by existing."
So when it mattered—when Sloane needed me to trust her competence—I overcorrected. I fought. But I fought wrong. Loud. Public. Possessive. I made her achievement about my pride instead of her brilliance.
I let Emma walk away because I was afraid to be seen fighting for her.
And I destroyed Sloane because I needed to be seen fighting for her.
I'm still a coward. Just a different kind than I was three years ago.
The truth is a blade in my chest, sharp and unforgiving. I didn't lose Sloane because I failed to protect her. I lost her because I failed to see her. Really see her. As the competent, brilliant, fierce woman who didn't need protection—she needed partnership.
I stand, moving toward my office with sudden purpose. On the wall hangs my contract, framed like a trophy. Eight years, sixty-four million dollars. My leverage. My value to this organization.
I take it down, heavy in my hands. The weight of it feels different now. Not like an achievement, but like a weapon.
I remove the document, fold it carefully, and place it in my briefcase next to my laptop. The gesture feels ceremonial. A declaration.
But not the kind I would have made a week ago. Not a grand gesture to save the day. Something else. Something that requires me to swallow every instinct that's led me wrong so far.
I pull out my phone and text the last person who wants to hear from me.
Need to talk. About Sloane. Name the place.
Nothing for ten minutes. Then:
Easton
Why.
I stare at the screen. Type. Delete. Type again.
Because I need to fix this and I can't do it without you.
Another long pause.
Moose Tavern. 9pm.
Not one of our usual spots. A dive on the south side where nobody gives a shit who you are. Message received.
I get there early. Order a whiskey. Take a corner booth.
Easton shows up at 9:15. The fifteen minutes is deliberate—I've known him long enough to recognize a power move. He slides into the booth, doesn't order anything, and just looks at me.
I wait for him to say something. He doesn't.
"Thanks for—"
"Don't." He cuts me off. "Don't thank me. I'm here because you mentioned my sister. That's it."
"Okay."
Silence. He's going to make me do the work. Fair enough.
"I fucked up," I say.
"Yeah."
"In the boardroom. What I said—"
"I know what you said. I was there." His voice is flat. "Watched you stand up and tell a room full of executives that you trust Sloane McKenzie with your future. Real romantic. Great timing."
"I was trying to—"