Chapter 35 Sloane
Sloane
The silence in my apartment has transformed from the heavy quiet of defeat into something electric—the charged stillness before a storm.
Four hours have passed since we launched our coordinated assault on the Minnesota Mammoths organization.
Four hours since I called Robert Blackwood's personal line and pitched him a partnership that could reshape professional sports.
Four hours since Garrett's agent submitted a formal trade demand that jolted the league office.
Four hours since Brynn armed her media network with carefully crafted information, ready to release on command.
Now we wait for the sky to break.
Garrett stands motionless at my windows, his broad shoulders carved in sharp relief against the late afternoon light filtering through the glass.
His reflection is ghostly against the Minneapolis skyline, but I can read the controlled tension in every line of his body—the way his hands rest flat against the window like he's bracing for impact, the slight tilt of his head as he listens for sounds that haven't come yet.
He's been my silent anchor for the past hour, radiating the calm confidence of someone who knows the play and trusts the strategy completely.
"Traffic on social media is insane," Brynn murmurs from her perch at my kitchen table, fingers dancing across her laptop keyboard with the focused intensity of a concert pianist. Her eyes flick between multiple browser windows—Twitter feeds, industry forums, her network of contacts lighting up with speculation and rumors.
"The Sullivan trade demand story broke twenty minutes ago.
My editor just texted asking if I want to go on record about organizational dysfunction in professional hockey. "
She pauses, glancing up at me with predatory satisfaction. "Henderson's assistant has called me three times in the last hour. They're scrambling."
Easton abandons his restless pacing for the first time since we began our vigil, his massive frame settling against my bookshelf with coiled energy.
His phone hasn't stopped buzzing—a constant stream of updates from teammates, reporters, league contacts feeling the tremors we've set off spreading through the hockey world.
"Locker room's in chaos," he reports, scrolling through another wave of texts. "Half the guys are asking if Tank's really leaving. The other half want to know if there's truth to the rumors about organizational corruption. Coach called an emergency meeting for tomorrow morning."
His green eyes—so much like mine—find my face across the room. "Miller's been locked in his office since two p.m. Won't take calls from anyone except Henderson."
I absorb each piece of intelligence with the cool focus of a general tracking enemy positions.
This is exactly what we wanted—confusion, panic, the carefully ordered hierarchy of power beginning to crack under pressure.
They're reacting instead of acting, responding to our moves instead of making their own.
"What about Northstar?" I ask Brynn, though I already know the answer from the grim satisfaction on her face.
"Blackwood's been in meetings all afternoon.
My source in their communications department says they're 'reassessing their partnership strategy' and 'considering all available options.
'" She grins, sharp enough to cut glass.
"Corporate speak for 'holy shit, we need to figure out what's happening before we get caught in the crossfire. '"
All of us are suspended in this crystalline moment, knowing that everything we've sacrificed, everything we've risked, comes down to the next few hours. The apartment hums with focused energy—the controlled anticipation before a strike.
Garrett turns from the window, his reflection dissolving as he faces the room.
When his eyes meet mine, there's something new there—not the overwhelming intensity that once threatened to consume me, but steady partnership.
Recognition of an equal. A shared glance that says we did this together without needing words.
I nod once, firm and certain. He answers with the slightest upturn of his mouth—not quite a smile, but acknowledgment of what we've built.
My phone erupts from its place on the coffee table.
The sound cuts through the apartment, sharp and immediate. Frank Miller's name blazes across the screen, and the sight sends adrenaline flooding through my veins so fast it makes my fingertips tingle.
This is the moment. The verdict. The culmination of everything we've orchestrated.
I don't hesitate—don't let them wait even a second longer than necessary to understand that the power dynamic has shifted irrevocably. My finger finds the speaker button, the soft electronic beep echoing through our charged silence like a bell tolling.
"This is Sloane."
Miller's voice cuts through the speaker—flat, hollow, stripped of the authority he once wielded. "Henderson wants to see you. Conference Room A. Now."
The line dies with mechanical finality, leaving us staring at the silent phone like witnesses to an execution.
The silence stretches for exactly three heartbeats before Brynn breaks it with a whisper that barely disturbs the air: "Well, I guess the king wants an audience."
I rise from the couch with movements that feel choreographed by destiny itself.
My hands are surgeon-steady as I gather my laptop, my presentation materials, all the ammunition I've been preparing for this exact moment.
The broken woman who crawled into Frank Miller's office five days ago—desperate, begging, willing to accept scraps—has been burned away completely.
What remains is sharp, focused anger tempered by betrayal.
"Time to collect what's ours," I say.
Easton pushes off from the bookshelf, his protective instincts engaging even as he recognizes that I no longer need protection—I need backup. "You want us to wait outside?"
"No." The word comes out sharp, definitive. "You're all coming in. This isn't about me anymore—this is about a revolution."
Garrett moves to my side, not close enough to suggest romantic attachment, but positioned with the deliberate intent of a strategic ally. "Together," he says simply.
Brynn snaps her laptop shut and slides it into her bag with practiced efficiency. "I've got my recorder ready. This is going to make beautiful copy."
We move through my apartment door like a unit—four people united by shared purpose and absolute certainty in our cause. The hallway outside feels different somehow, charged with the electricity of impending victory. We're not retreating from my sanctuary. We're advancing from our stronghold.
The walk through the Mammoth Center's executive suite feels like a victory march. My heels strike the polished marble with metronomic precision, each step echoing through corridors that once felt designed to diminish me. Now they feel like a red carpet rolled out for my return to power.
Behind me, my army moves in perfect formation—Garrett a half-step back and to my right, his presence a wall of silent solidarity; Brynn matching my pace on the left, her journalist's instincts sharp as drawn blades; Easton's imposing frame bringing up the rear like a bodyguard escorting royalty through conquered territory.
The atmosphere shifts as we advance through the corporate battlefield.
Conversations wither mid-sentence as we pass.
Assistants lift their heads from their screens, wary.
Through glass office walls, I catch glimpses of executives freezing in their meetings, their faces painted with expressions I've never seen directed at me before: respect edged with fear.
We pass the junior marketing coordinator who once avoided eye contact in elevators—now she presses herself against the wall as we approach, her eyes wide with something approaching reverence.
"Sloane," she breathes as I pass.
I don't acknowledge her verbally, but something fierce and protective unfurls in my chest. This isn't just about reclaiming my position anymore. This is about proving to every woman in this building that we don't have to accept being collateral damage in powerful men's games.
The glass walls of Conference Room A appear before us. Through the transparent barrier, I can see the group waiting inside—Henderson standing with his back to us, hands clasped tightly behind him; Vivian hunched at the conference table; Miller slumped in his chair.
I don't pause at the threshold. Don't knock or announce our arrival.
Knocking implies asking permission, and I'm done asking for anything.
I push through the door without ceremony, my team flowing behind me. The soft click of the handle echoes through the sudden silence as three heads swivel toward us.
Henderson turns slowly, and when his cold gray eyes lock onto mine, I see exactly what I came here to witness: a powerful man realizing that his power has limits.
The next move is mine.
And everyone in this room is about to discover exactly what happens when they mistake Sloane McKenzie for something they can break.