Chapter 34 Sloane
Sloane
The numbers on my laptop screen blur, but I keep typing anyway.
Revenue projections. Market penetration analysis.
The comprehensive framework that will either resurrect my career or confirm its burial.
The coffee beside me has gone cold hours ago, but I don't notice.
I don't notice anything except the audacious plan taking shape beneath my fingertips.
The Mammoth Community Champions Program.
Not the watered-down version I'd pitched to Vivian in fragments over the past year, but the full vision.
Thirty-seven million in projected first-year revenue.
A sustainable model that transforms sports franchises from entertainment into community institutions.
Maya's gap-toothed grin flashes in my peripheral vision from where I've propped her photo against my monitor. Thank you for believing in her. The words that pulled me from the wreckage of self-pity and reminded me who I used to be before Frank Miller's corporate execution.
I'm not that broken woman anymore. The one who wallowed in blankets and self-recrimination. I'm Sloane McKenzie, and I build solutions from rubble.
The sharp knock on my door cuts through my focus instantly.
I freeze, hands suspended above the keyboard. The sound echoes through my apartment with an urgency that makes my heart jump. No one should be here. Easton and Brynn know better than to interrupt when I'm in this state. The building manager would call first.
Unless—
"No," I whisper to the empty apartment. He wouldn't. Not after our last conversation. Not after the things I said that can't be unsaid.
The knock comes again. Three sharp raps that carry a desperation I recognize even through reinforced steel and my own denial.
I close my laptop with deliberate quiet, and the screen's glow dies abruptly. My bare feet are silent against the hardwood as I cross to the door, each step measured, controlled. My hand hovers over the deadbolt for a moment—one final chance to pretend this isn't happening.
I open the door.
Garrett Sullivan stands in my hallway, and he looks like hell.
His dark hair is disheveled, falling across his forehead in a way that suggests he's been running his hands through it for hours.
He's wearing a simple gray Henley, but it's rumpled, and he looks utterly drained.
There are shadows under his eyes that speak of sleepless nights and something that looks suspiciously like tears.
But his eyes—those hazel eyes that once made me believe in fairy tales—are clear. Determined. Burning with a purpose that sends an unwelcome jolt through my carefully constructed armor.
"Sloane." My name falls from his lips, rough with emotion I don't want to hear.
The old pain flashes through me, sharp and immediate—the memory of our fight, the sound of ceramic shattering against my wall, the look on his face when I told him to leave. But I push it down, beneath the careful composure that has kept me functional for the past four days.
"What do you want, Garrett?" My voice is arctic, professional. The tone I reserve for difficult clients.
He doesn't try to push past me, doesn't use his considerable size to intimidate or cajole. Instead, he takes a small step back, giving me space I didn't ask for but somehow needed.
"Could I talk to you for a moment?" The request is careful, respectful. A man asking permission instead of assuming access. "Please?"
The please almost undoes me. Almost. But I've had four days to perfect this armor, and I wear it like a second skin now.
I step aside just enough to let him enter, but I don't move far. Let him feel cornered in my space the way he cornered me in that boardroom with his grand gesture. Let him understand what it feels like to be trapped by someone else's definition of help.
He steps inside and stops, his presence immediately making my apartment feel smaller. But he doesn't prowl or pace or command the room the way he did before. He stands very still, hands loose at his sides, watching me with an expression I've never seen before.
Uncertainty. Humility. The confidence that once drew me in completely.
"I need to apologize to you," he says, and something in his tone makes me go very still. "And I need to do it right this time."
"I'm listening." The words come out clipped, businesslike. I cross my arms over my chest, a barrier that feels inadequate against whatever's coming.
He takes a sharp breath, then meets my eyes with an intensity that makes my pulse stutter.
"I didn't see you in that boardroom," he says, each word deliberate and weighted with self-recrimination. "I saw someone I needed to save. Someone whose victory belonged to me because I cared about it. Because I loved you."
My composure cracks, just slightly. This isn't the defensive justification I expected. This is something else entirely.
"My 'help' wasn't about supporting you," he continues, voice gains strength even as emotion roughens the edges. "It was about me. About my need to matter in your success. I erased your competence because I needed to be the hero of your story."
The crack widens. I can feel the careful distance I've maintained starting to erode, and I fight to hold it in place.
"I didn't respect you as an equal in that moment," he says, and now his voice is barely above a whisper. "I respected you as someone I loved. Someone I was proud of. Someone who reflected well on me. And that was my failure, Sloane. Not the outcome—the perspective."
The words land precisely, each one striking at the core of my anger. Because this—this acknowledgment of the real betrayal—is what I never expected to hear. Not from him. Not from anyone.
"I understand now," he continues, and I can see the cost of this honesty in the tension around his eyes.
"You didn't need defending. You were magnificent.
You had them convinced, ready to sign, ready to see you as the brilliant strategist you are.
And I stood up and reduced you to someone's girlfriend who needed a man to vouch for her competence. "
My throat constricts. The analytical part of my brain—the part that's kept me functional through crisis after crisis—recognizes truth when it hears it. This isn't manipulation or practiced contrition. This is genuine understanding of a mistake he didn't even know he was making.
"You turned me into exactly what I've spent my life proving I'm not," I manage, my voice rougher than I intended.
"Yes." The admission is immediate, unflinching. "And I'm sorry doesn't begin to cover what I took from you. Your moment. Your victory. Your professional identity."
He takes a step closer, then stops himself, hands clenching at his sides like he's fighting every instinct he has.
"But I'm not here to ask for forgiveness," he says, and something in his tone makes my pulse spike. "I'm here to offer you something."
"What?"
"My leverage." He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a document I recognize—his contract, the one worth sixty-four million dollars over eight years.
The one that makes him untouchable in this organization.
"My contract. My name. My position as their golden boy.
" He holds it out between us like an offering.
"It's a weapon, Sloane. And I'm not here to use it for you. "
He pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice carries a certainty that cuts through every defense I have.
"I'm here to offer it to you, for you to use however you see fit. Tell me what to do. I will follow your lead."
The words hit me like a physical blow. This isn't the grand gesture I'm used to from him. This isn't him riding to the rescue or taking control of the situation. This is him making himself my strategic asset. My weapon to wield.
My mind—my brilliant, calculating, strategic mind—immediately begins running the numbers. With his leverage, my plan transforms from ambitious to unstoppable. The carrot I'm offering Blackwood becomes infinitely sweeter when paired with the stick of potential franchise instability.
"You're serious," I say, and it's not a question.
"Dead serious." His gaze never wavers. "I can't undo what I did in that boardroom. I can't give you back what I stole. But I can give you what I have left—and let you decide how to use it."
I stare at him, this man who just offered to make himself my weapon instead of my savior. The possibilities unfold in my mind like a complex play diagram, each element clicking into place before me.
"You understand what you're offering?" My voice is steady. The voice of someone calculating advantages and probabilities. "You're talking about potentially destroying your own career to fix mine."
"I'm talking about finally putting my money where my mouth should have been four days ago." His voice is quiet but firm. "You're the most brilliant person I know. If anyone can weaponize what I'm offering, it's you."
The silence stretches between us, thick with possibility and the weight of everything that's broken. I study his face, looking for flaws in this newfound humility, for signs that this is another version of his hero complex disguised.
But all I see is truth. Raw, unfiltered acknowledgment of exactly what he took from me and exactly what he's prepared to give back.
My laptop sits closed on the dining table, containing the plan that could change everything. With his contract backing it, that plan becomes something else entirely. Not just rehabilitation, but reformation.
"Alright, Sullivan." I step back, opening space between us that feels like the beginning of negotiation rather than rejection. "If you're serious about this, then here's the play."
Something shifts in his posture—relief mixed with wariness, like a man who's been granted an audience with a judge he's not sure will be merciful.
"I'm listening."
"I don't just want my job back," I say, moving toward the dining table where my real work waits. "I want to remake this entire organization. Turn it into something that matters beyond wins and losses."
I open my laptop, and the screen floods with numbers and projections that represent months of secret work.
"I've been building something. A comprehensive community engagement platform that could generate thirty-seven million in first-year revenue.
It's audacious. It's risky. And it requires the kind of leverage only a franchise player possesses. "
He moves closer, studying the screen with the same intensity he brings to analyzing game film. "What do you need from me?"
"Your contract gives us leverage with ownership. Your reputation gives us credibility with sponsors." I pull up another screen, showing partnership projections and market analysis. "But I need more than your name. I need your complete, public support for something that goes far beyond hockey."
"You have it."
The response is immediate, unqualified. No questions about details or implications. Just absolute trust in my vision.
"You don't even know what you're agreeing to."
"I know you." His voice is quiet but certain. "I know your mind. I know your heart. Whatever you're building, it's going to be extraordinary."
The words settle into my chest like a key turning in a lock. Not the overwhelming declarations of his previous mistakes, but simple recognition of who I am and what I'm capable of.
"This isn't forgiveness," I say, needing the boundary clear between us. "This is strategy. You're not my boyfriend in this scenario. You're my partner. My equal. Nothing more, nothing less."
"Understood." He nods once, definitive. "What's the timeline?"
I smile at him for the first time in four days, and it's sharp enough to cut glass. "We move fast. Before they have time to regroup or spin the narrative. I've already reached out to Blackwood directly. He's agreed to a meeting."
"When?"
"Tomorrow afternoon." I close the laptop and turn to face him fully. "We're going to walk into that room with an offer he can't refuse and consequences he can't ignore. You're going to be the stick to my carrot."
"What do you need me to do?"
The question hangs between us, loaded with possibility and the promise of partnership rather than rescue. For the first time since our fight, I see the man I fell for—not the hero who needed to save me, but the strategist who trusts me to lead.
"Help me prepare." I gesture toward the couch where we used to plan our secret meetings, back when we thought love was enough to overcome any obstacle. "We have twenty-four hours to build something they've never seen before."
He moves toward the couch, but stops at the edge of my workspace. "Sloane?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you." The words are simple, but they carry the weight of everything he understands he almost lost. "For letting me try to do this right."
I don't respond immediately. Can't, with the way my throat has suddenly constricted around emotions I'm not ready to feel. Instead, I focus on the work ahead, on the war we're about to wage together.
But as I settle beside him—careful to maintain professional distance—I allow myself a moment of cautious hope. Not for us, not yet. But for the possibility that from the ruins of our destruction, we might build something stronger.
Something that honors both our brilliance instead of diminishing either.
The apartment settles around us as we begin to plan, two strategists preparing for battle. Outside, Minneapolis moves on, unaware that in this small corner of the city, a revolution is taking shape.
And I can barely admit it to myself, but I like that I’m not alone.