Chapter 37 Garrett #2
Her hand finds mine in the space between us, fingers threading together with the perfect fit of puzzle pieces finally finding their proper place. "I want to try again," she says quietly. "Not hiding. Not pretending we're just colleagues. I want to try being us. Really us."
The elevator slows as we approach the main floor, and through the small window, I can see the expansive lobby of the Mammoth Center opening before us.
In thirty seconds, those doors will part, and we'll step out into the public space where our relationship will be visible to anyone who cares to look.
"Are you ready for that?" I ask, studying her face for any trace of hesitation. "For everyone to know? For all the speculation and gossip and judgment that comes with being public?"
Her smile is radiant, fearless. "I'm ready to stop being afraid of what other people think about my choices. I'm ready to be with the man I love without apology or explanation." She squeezes my hand. "I'm ready to be proud of us."
The elevator chimes softly as we reach the ground floor.
Through the gap in the doors, I can see the soaring space of the lobby beyond—marble floors that reflect the afternoon light streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows, the distant sounds of the arena coming to life for tonight's game, the normal flow of staff and visitors moving through the space that houses our dreams.
As the doors begin to part, something settles in my chest—a deep, abiding certainty that feels like coming home after a long journey through hostile territory.
This woman beside me isn't just my girlfriend or my lover.
She's my partner in every sense of the word.
My equal. My match. The person who makes me better not by completing me, but by challenging me to become the man worthy of standing beside her.
The lobby opens before us like a stage, and without hesitation, without fear, without the slightest trace of shame, our hands remain laced together.
The simple gesture feels like a declaration of war against everyone who ever tried to make us smaller. Let them see. Let them talk. Let them judge. We're done hiding, done apologizing for taking up space in each other's lives.
"Ready?" I ask.
"Ready," she says.
We step out of the elevator together, hand in hand, into the bright expanse of our future. The afternoon sun streams through the massive windows, casting everything in golden light that makes the ordinary lobby feel like a cathedral celebrating new beginnings.
I can feel eyes on us as we cross the marble floor—staff members doing double takes, visitors recognizing the familiar face of the team's alternate captain, the whispered speculation that follows in our wake.
But none of it matters. For the first time since this all began, the judgment of strangers feels irrelevant compared to the weight of her hand in mine.
We push through the main doors together, and Minneapolis opens before us like a promise. The city air carries the scent of possibility and change, and I realize this isn't really an ending at all.
It's a beginning.
The drive to my loft passes in comfortable conversation about everything and nothing—her plans for restructuring the partnerships division, my thoughts on the upcoming road trip, whether Steve will adjust well to a new environment.
Normal couple things. The kind of easy back-and-forth that makes the ordinary feel precious.
The door swings open and she steps inside. I close it behind her, the soft click echoing in the sudden, charged silence, sealing us off from the world.
She drops her briefcase by the door, the sound loud in the quiet room. The work is done.
A soft, familiar smile touches her lips as she looks around. She wanders toward the mantel, her fingers gently tracing the glass of the ridiculous little Zamboni snow globe. "I missed this place," she says, her voice quiet.
Having her here again, not as a storm refugee but as my partner, changes the very air in the room. The loft finally feels complete.
She turns to face me, and the warrior from the boardroom is gone. In her place is just Sloane, her green eyes shining with unshed tears of relief and victory. I don't know what to say, what words could possibly capture the immensity of what she just accomplished, of what I feel for her.
"You were..." is all I manage to get out, my voice thick with emotion.
That's all it takes. She meets me halfway, her hands coming up to frame my face as my own find her waist, pulling her flush against me.
The kiss is everything. The relief, the triumph, the certainty. It's all the pent-up fear and hope and love from the past few weeks crashing together in a moment of pure, unadulterated release. It tastes like victory and promise and coming home.
Her hands are confident now, working at my shirt buttons while I map the familiar territory of her mouth. When she pushes the shirt off my shoulders, I break away just long enough to capture her gaze.
"Are you sure?" I ask, because I need to hear it, need to know this is what she wants and not just adrenaline from the day's victories.
Her answer is to reach for the zipper of her skirt, the sound of it sliding down loud in the quiet of my apartment. The navy fabric pools at her feet, leaving her in the silk blouse that has been driving me crazy all day.
"I've never been more sure of anything," she says, her voice full of a deep and settled certainty.
What follows is a slow unraveling of everything we've held back. We undress each other with reverent hands, each piece of clothing that falls away representing another barrier overcome, another wall torn down between us.
When we come together, it's with the relief of two people finding their way back to each other. The connection is overwhelming—physical, emotional, complete. We move together, bodies and hearts finally aligned.
"I love you," she whispers against my skin, and the words are everything.
"I love you too," I reply, capturing her mouth with mine as we hold nothing back.
Afterwards, we lie tangled together on my couch, her head on my chest, both of us still catching our breath. The late afternoon light streams through the windows, painting everything in gold, and I can't remember ever feeling this complete.
"So," she says after a while, her voice lazy with satisfaction. "About that celebration dinner..."
I laugh, the sound rumbling through my chest. "Give me a few more minutes to remember how my legs work, and I'll make you the best carbonara you've ever had."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
She lifts her head to look at me, her green eyes bright with love and contentment and the kind of deep satisfaction that comes from finally being exactly where you belong.
"I'm proud of us," she says softly.
"Me too," I reply, pulling her up for another kiss. "Me too."
This, right here, is what comes next. And it's everything.