SLOANE
I was halfway through explaining why the Titans’ power play needed cleaner puck movement—less heroics, more quick touches—when Marcus’s phone buzzed against the lounge chair arm.
He glanced at the screen, frowned faintly, then looked back at me.
“Sorry. Team group chat. They’re doing something stupid with the beer pong table again.”
“Sounds about right.”
He stood, stretched his arms overhead—casual, unhurried. “I should probably go make sure no one drowns. You want to come? I promise to protect you from the chaos.”
I laughed—small, surprised. “I think I’m good here. Safe zone, remember?”
“Fair.” He hesitated, then gave me that easy, genuine smile. “This was nice, though. Talking to you. We should do it again sometime. Maybe without the pool-party soundtrack.”
Something warm
