Chapter one
Annabelle
“Absolutely not,” I tell my steering wheel. “We are never dating musicians again. If a man owns a guitar, I’m leaving the room.”
The Nashville skyline rises ahead of me, glittering like it wants to apologize for ruining my life. Cute. Not happening. The city may be beautiful, but it also witnessed my worst breakup in history, so I am granting it temporary visitation rights only.
“Never trust dimples, cowboy hats, or a guy who calls music his ‘first love.’ Because apparently his second love is sneaking backstage to cheat on you during soundcheck.” I flick my blinker on, determined to lecture myself all the way into the parking lot.
My phone sits face down in the console, silent as a saint. No texts from my ex. No notifications about the sappy breakupballad he probably released last night. I already lived through the real thing. I do not need the acoustic version.
I pass Southside Station, the bar where we had our first date. My face tightens like Spanx on Thanksgiving.
“That bar owes me emotional damages and at least three cocktails.”
One block later, I pass the coffee shop where he used to write lyrics and “pretend” I inspired him. Then the tiny venue where I used to stand in the wings and clap like a supportive idiot. Romantic memories feel less romantic when you discover the man writing love songs for you is also writing them for two backup singers.
Again, I mentally cancel every country singer in Nashville. If you own a guitar, a smooth voice, and a tendency to cry on stage for attention, you are banned. Permanently.
I even consider filing a restraining order against the entire music industry. “Dear Nashville, it isn’t you. It’s my absolute taste in men.”
Finally, I turn off the main road and follow the signs for the Nashville Outlaws Arena. The moment the building comes into view, a knot in my chest loosens. The arena looks exactly the same. Bold. Cold. Loud. Comforting.
Home.
I pull into the executive parking area and slip into a spot with my name freshly painted on the concrete.
ANNABELLE HACKER EXECUTIVE OPERATIONS
Seeing it written like that hits me harder than I expect. I’m not just the owner’s daughter anymore. I’m officially part of the front office. I swallow around the tightness in my throat.
“Okay,” I tell myself, grabbing my bag. “No more crying over men who can’t keep their pants zipped. No more chasing someone else’s dream. This is your reset.”
The air outside smells like asphalt and fryer grease. The air inside smells like popcorn, sweat, and ice. My favorite combination. It hits me full in the face as the sliding doors open, and I swear my spine straightens like it recognizes home too.
I did homework in these halls. I learned to skate before I could spell my last name. When other kids were on the playground, I was counting goals through the glass.
“Annabelle?” a voice calls.
Tasha at the reception area jumps up, rushes around the counter, and hugs the life out of me.
“You’re back,” she says. “For good this time?”
“For good,” I say. “Unless everything collapses again, in which case I’m moving to a cabin and raising goats.”
She laughs. “You look incredible. Very big boss energy.”
“I practiced in the mirror. Still working on my terrifying glare.”
“You sure you want to see your dad right away? He’s been pacing. The forehead vein is happening.”
“Perfect. I love when we start with anxiety-related blood pressure.”
She snorts. “He said to send you straight in.”
I walk the long hallway toward his office. My boots click against the polished floor, echoing off banners of Outlaws players. Captain Colby Hayes with a grin that belongs on cereal boxes. Eli Vargas, our star goalie, with his mask pushed back. And then, hanging right outside Dad’s office, Bryce Blackhorn. Shirt clinging to his chest, eyes burning even through glossy vinyl.
I roll my eyes before I can stop myself.
