I slip my phone into my clutch, grab my keys, and open my front door.
The hallway smells faintly like someone burned popcorn. The overhead lights buzz softly. Somewhere down the hall, a TV laughs.
I step out and pull the door closed behind me until the lock clicks.
“Perfect,” I mutter. “My night hasn’t even started and I already want to strangle him with my lanyard.”
I square my shoulders, lift my chin, and head toward the stairs.
Ready or not… it’s showtime.
Chapter four
Bryce
"If one more guy in skinny jeans sings about heartbreak, I am taking the mic and ending everyone’s suffering." I mutter it as I kill the engine and step out of my truck.
Cameras are already flashing outside the venue. Reporters hover near the entrance, clutching mics and phones and wearing that hungry look they get when they smell a sound bite. I pull my jacket straight and tell myself I will behave. At least for the first twenty minutes.
A black sedan glides into the reserved spot beside me. It is annoyingly graceful. Of course it’s hers.
Annabelle Hacker steps out like she is stepping onto a stage she owns. Black dress. Long legs. Hair pulled back in a way that should look severe but somehow makes her look even better. For a solid two seconds, my brain forgets how to function.
She shuts her door and gives me a once-over.
"Hello, Bryce. Please do not start the night with violence," she says. "It is a charity event. Cameras everywhere. Donors everywhere. My patience nowhere."
"Gotcha. No fights. Probably."
She exhales slowly. "Wonderful. That sounded reassuring in absolutely zero ways."
A reporter spots us and points. Flashes go off like lightning. I move without thinking, shifting closer so my body blocks the worst of the lights from hitting her face.
She stiffens, just for a second.
"Relax," I say quietly. "They are here for me. You are collateral damage."
"That is not comforting," she replies, but she walks beside me toward the doors anyway.
Inside, the venue is all exposed brick and warm string lights. Whiskey barrels have been turned into high-top tables. The small wooden stage up front is bathed in soft amber. Someone tuned a guitar recently. I can hear it in the air.
The place already hums with conversation. Sponsor banners. A silent auction table lined with signed jerseys and guitars. Media scattered around like vultures in designer jackets.
Our crew is impossible to miss.
Coach Ryder Hale and his wife Harper stand near the bar, talking to a cluster of older donors. Colby Hayes, our captain, is in a suit that probably cost more than my first car. Eli Vargas is laughing at something his wife Mia just said. Dex Miller bounces on his heels near the stage like someone fed him espresso. Mason Barber, and Gabriel Shelly are already gathered near our table, which is set for ten.
Colby spots us first. His grin is instant. "Blackhorn brought a date."
"I am supervising," Annabelle says before I can open my mouth.
Dex leans toward Mason and stage whispers, "She is really pretty for a supervisor."
"Dex," I warn.
He holds both hands up. "Complimenting management. That is growth. Coach should be proud."
Mia gives me a look as we reach the table. "Bryce, please do the organization a favor and stay out of the tabloids tonight. Just this once. For the children."
