Chapter 3 Sloane Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

SLOANE

By eleven-thirty on my first morning, I have learned three things about my new job. Grant Callahan considers calendar invitations legally binding, the coffee in the executive break room is considerably better than whatever they serve downstairs, and Beckett Hayes apparently exists everywhere.

After our encounter outside my office, I haven't seen him again, but avoiding Beck doesn't mean avoiding his face. He appears in photographs outside the media suite, on posters advertising upcoming games, and beside an expensive watch in an enormous sponsor image opposite the elevators. Even my laptop betrayed me when I logged into the internal system and found a photograph of the team celebrating last season's playoff qualification, with Beck standing at the center.

Captain Hayes. Chicago's golden boy. Completely fucking unavoidable.

I close the photograph and return to the sponsorship presentation I'm supposed to be reviewing, but my thoughts keep circling back to something Beck asked this morning.

Does Luke know you're here?

I'd said yes, and Beck had responded with one word.

Interesting.

The last time Dad mentioned one of Beck's playoff games, Luke went so quiet that Mom immediately changed the subject. That wasn't indifference. It was avoidance. My phone rings before I can think any further, and Luke's name appears on the screen.

"Are you psychic now?" I ask when I answer.

"What?"

"Nothing. How are you?"

He laughs before asking about my first day, and for several minutes the conversation is reassuringly normal. Luke asks about my office, my apartment, and whether the moving company finally found my missing box, while I tell him Grant appears to have a personal vendetta against empty calendars.

Then I realize what he's doing.

He's asking about everything except Beck.

"I saw him this morning."

Luke stops talking so abruptly that the muffled sounds of his training facility become louder through the silence.

"Luke?"

"Yeah. I heard you."

"That's all you've got?"

His exhale crackles through the phone. "You knew he played there."

The warmth disappears from his voice, replaced by something guarded enough to make my shoulders stiffen. "Beck just seemed surprised that you hadn't mentioned him."

Another pause follows before Luke asks, "Why were you discussing me with him?"

I close my eyes briefly. "That's your takeaway? He asked whether you knew I was working here, I said yes, and he acted like it meant something."

"It doesn't."

The answer comes too quickly.

"Okay."

"Don't do this, Sloane."

I sit forward, lowering my voice. "Do what? Ask a question because the two of you are suddenly behaving like there's a secret handshake I missed?"

"Turn something into a conspiracy because Hayes decided to mess with your head."

Hayes.

Not Beck.

Eight years ago, I hadn't questioned anything because there hadn't seemed to be anything to question. Luke came home injured and furious, my parents were devastated, and Beck disappeared from our lives. Whenever I asked what happened, the explanation was always some variation of the same thing: Beck crossed a line, Luke paid the price, and their friendship ended.

At nineteen, that had been enough.

At twenty-seven, I'm suddenly realizing how few actual details I know.

"What happened that night?"

"It's been eight years. It doesn't matter anymore."

I stare at my desk because there it is again: an evasion rather than an answer. "It mattered enough that Mom cried for a week and Dad banned his best friend's son from our house. It mattered enough that you haven't spoken to Beck in eight years, so don't tell me it doesn't matter."

Before Luke can respond, Grant appears outside my office and points toward his watch, reminding me about the meeting I'm supposed to attend.

"I have to go."

"Sloane, listen to me." Luke's voice softens, but the warning that follows feels heavier because of it. "Beck and I have history that has nothing to do with you. Whatever he says, don't let him drag you into it."

A chill moves down my spine. "Why would he?"

"He won't if you stay away from him."

I almost laugh. "Apparently every man in my life has decided he's responsible for managing my social interactions."

"What does that mean?"

I end the call before he can respond, but the uneasiness follows me into the meeting.

The conference room is already crowded when I arrive, and Grant spends the next forty minutes walking us through Thursday night's charity event. Halfway through the meeting, the door opens.

"Sorry," Beck says. "Practice ran over."

Grant glances at his watch. "Practice ended forty minutes ago."

"I showered."

"Congratulations."

A few people laugh as Beck takes the only available chair, directly across from mine. His hair is still damp, and he's wearing a black team quarter-zip that should make him considerably less distracting than the suit from this morning.

It doesn't.

His eyes find mine almost immediately, and one corner of his mouth begins to lift before I look away.

Grant continues. "Hayes will handle the sponsor reception Thursday, and Sloane will be managing the sponsor-facing portion of the evening, so she'll be your point of contact."

My pen stops.

Across the table, Beck leans back. "Will she?"

"Yes," Grant replies. "She'll brief you on priority partners and make sure you're where you need to be."

"Is there a problem?" Grant asks when he notices my expression.

"No," I say at the exact moment Beck answers, "Definitely."

Laughter moves around the table, and I turn slowly toward him.

"Mercer doesn't like me," Beck explains.

I give Grant my most professional smile. "I don't have opinions about players."

Beck makes a suspiciously cough-like sound.

Grant studies us both. "You know each other?"

Before I can answer, Beck says, "She used to steal my fries."

I stare at him. "Our families knew each other," I explain. "A long time ago."

Something changes briefly in Beck's expression at the word knew, but Grant moves on after confirming there isn't a professional conflict.

When the meeting finally ends, I gather my things quickly and head for my office, only for Beck to catch up in the hallway.

"Mercer."

"I have work."

"So do I."

"Then we should both go do it."

For once, he doesn't tease me. "How's Luke?"

"You haven't spoken to him?"

His jaw tightens. "Not in a while."

I study him, remembering Luke's evasions. "What happened between you two?"

Beck looks away before rubbing a hand across his jaw. When he turns back, the easy confidence he carries everywhere else has disappeared.

"Leave it alone, Sloane."

I laugh without humor. "That's exactly what Luke told me."

Beck goes completely still. His reaction confirms more than he probably intends.

"Was it your fault?" I ask quietly.

Beck looks at me, and something changes in his expression so profoundly that my stomach drops. For one second, I think he's going to answer.

Then his phone rings.

He glances at the screen. "Coach."

"Convenient."

"Sloane."

"Go."

Instead, he lets it ring for another moment while looking at me with an expression I can't read.

"I'm sorry."

The words catch me off guard. "For what?"

"More than you know."

Until today, I knew Beckett Hayes was guilty.

Now I'm starting to wonder.