Chapter 33 Garrett #2
"I don't care what you were trying to do." He leans forward. "I care about what happened. She got fired. Escorted out by security. Had to sign an NDA so she can't even defend herself. And you got, what, a suspension? A fine?"
I don't have an answer for that.
"You know what she's doing right now?" Easton continues. "She's in her apartment, alone, trying to figure out how to rebuild a career that took her fifteen years to build. Fifteen years, Garrett. And you blew it up in thirty seconds because you couldn't keep your mouth shut."
"I know."
"Do you? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you thought you were being some kind of hero. Big man standing up for his woman." The contempt in his voice is worse than if he'd just hit me. "She didn't need you to stand up. She was winning. She had them."
"I know," I say again. "I didn't see that. I should have, but I didn't."
"Why not?"
The question sits there. I turn my whiskey glass in my hands, not drinking.
"Because I was so focused on proving I'd fight for her that I didn't notice she was already fighting for herself." I make myself look at him. "I made it about me. What I needed to prove. And I turned her into... into someone who needed a man to vouch for her."
Easton's expression doesn't change. "Keep going."
"She was right. Everything she said when she kicked me out. I didn't see her—I saw someone to protect. And that's just as bad as not caring at all. Maybe worse."
He's quiet for a long moment. I can't read his face.
"You know what my problem is with you right now?" he finally says. "It's not that you screwed up. People screw up. It's that you screwed up in exactly the way I told Sloane you would."
"What do you mean?"
"I told her this would end with her getting hurt.
I told her guys like us—athletes, guys with big egos and bigger platforms—we don't know how to love someone without making it a performance.
" He shakes his head. "She said you were different.
Said you understood her. And then you stood up in that boardroom and proved me right. "
I absorb that. Don't try to deflect.
"She trusted you," Easton says. "She doesn't trust anyone. Not like that. And you—"
He stops. Looks away. Works his jaw like he's holding back something he'll regret saying.
"I want to make it right," I say.
"How." It's not a question. It's a challenge.
I pull the folded contract from my jacket. Set it on the table.
"What's that?"
"My contract. Eight years, sixty-four million."
Easton looks at it but doesn't touch it. "And?"
"I want to give it to her. To use however she wants. Negotiate her job back, force Henderson's hand, blow the whole thing up—whatever she decides. It's hers."
He stares at me. "You're serious."
"Yeah."
"You'd throw away your career."
"If that's what it takes for her to have options." I push the contract toward him slightly. "But I'm not—I don't want to be her hero. That's not what this is. I just want her to have leverage. Weapons. Whatever she needs to fight this her way."
Easton doesn't respond. The silence stretches long enough that the bartender glances over, probably wondering if we're about to throw down.
"She won't take it," Easton finally says.
"Maybe not. But I want her to know it's there."
"And what do you want in return?"
"Nothing."
He laughs—short, humorless. "Bullshit. You want her to forgive you. Take you back."
"I want her to know I understand what I did. That's it. If she never wants to see me again after that, I'll live with it."
"Will you?"
The question hangs there. I think about Sloane—her laugh, her stubbornness, the way she looked at me like I was the only solid thing in her world.
"No," I admit. "But I'll do it anyway. Because that's her call to make. Not mine."
Easton picks up the contract. Turns it over. Sets it back down.
More silence.
"You know what pisses me off the most?" he says, and his voice is different now. Still hard, but something underneath has shifted. "I gave her an ultimatum. At the gala. Told her she had to choose—you or her career. You or this family."
I wait.
"Told her I'd go to Kowalski myself if she didn't end it." He's not looking at me anymore. "I thought I was protecting her. Thought I knew better."
"And now?"
"Now she lost her career anyway, and all I did was make her feel like she couldn't come to me when it happened." He shakes his head slowly. "I was so worried about her repeating old patterns that I didn't notice I was repeating mine. Ultimatums. Deciding what's best for everyone."
I don't push for more.
"Sloane doesn't need you to save her," he says. "Doesn't need me to save her either. She's been handling her own life since before either of us knew what responsibility meant." He meets my eyes. "What she needs is people who show up and ask what she wants instead of deciding for her."
"I can do that."
"Can you? Because so far your track record isn't great."
"I know." I hold his gaze. "I'm asking for the chance to prove I've learned something."
Easton is quiet for a long time. Long enough that I think he's going to get up and walk out.
Then: "I'll tell her you want to talk. That's all I'm offering. She decides if she wants to see you."
"That's enough."
"And Garrett?" He stands, looks down at me. "If she gives you another chance, and you pull anything like this again—I don't care how long we've been friends. I don't care about the team. I will make your life very difficult."
"Understood."
He nods once. Doesn't say goodbye. Turns to leave.
He's almost to the door when he stops. Doesn't turn around.
"Poker's at Webb's on Thursday. You missed last week."
I look at the back of his head. "Didn't think I'd be welcome."
"You're not." A pause. "But you still owe me sixty bucks, and I intend to collect."
He pushes through the door and disappears into the parking lot.
It's not forgiveness. It's not even close to okay.
But it's poker on Thursday. It's you still owe me sixty bucks. It's fifteen years of friendship saying we'll figure this out even when everything else is broken.
I sit there for a while longer, turning the whiskey glass I still haven't touched.
For the first time since that boardroom, I'm not trying to force my way through a door.
I'm waiting to be invited.