Doc (Harrison):Stop betting. And Becker… don’t embarrass yourself. We’re watching tonight. The whole locker room. With popcorn.
Me:I hate you. Every single one of you.
Turbo (Tayler):?????? Kisses to your Cupid. And tell her that if she gets tired of you, I’m available and my ball control is excellent.
Me:Touch her and you’re dead, Klein.
Turbo (Tayler):Ooooh, the lion roars! ????
I lock my phone and toss it onto the passenger seat, shaking my head.
Idiots.
But I can’t stop smiling. It’s the first time in months I’ve actually felt like part of the pack again. Even if they’re roasting me alive, it feels like things are finally falling back into place.
It’s eight in the morning. I’m parked in front of Elm Hollow’s main square—which currently looks like it’s been violently sneezed on by a sugar-high unicorn—and my phone is vibrating so hard I’m afraid it might detonate.
I step out of the car and immediately get hit by a visual shockwave.
Mayor Nino did not hold back. The man has clearly raided every party-supply store within a three-state radius.
The square isn’t a square anymore.
It’s a sacrificial altar to the God of Kitsch Love.
Pink and red balloon arches form a tunnel toward the main stage.
Ice sculptures shaped like Cupid (who are peeing strawberry punch into the fountains, for reasons unknown) sparkle under the winter sun.
And hearts. Everywhere. Hearts made of cardboard, neon, flowers, feathers.
I feel diabetic just looking at it.
I weave through the tech crew sprinting around with cables and microphones.
“Becker! Over here!”
A production assistant with an earpiece waves me over to get mic’d. While she runs the cold cable under my shirt (freezing hands, zero gentleness), my gaze automatically scans for her.
Sloane.
I don’t have to look long.
She’s at the center of the stage, giving orders to three different people at the same time.
And, holy shit, she’s a sight.
She’s wearing a fitted white coat that makes her look like a snow queen, a red cashmere scarf, and those stiletto boots that should be illegal on winter asphalt because they’re both sexy and lethal.
Her hair is down, soft waves brushing her shoulders, and that lipstick… that damned lipstick I keep dreaming about.
The second she sees me, she freezes.
The chaos around us slows.
Her blue eyes lock on mine, and there’s that spark again—the one from the dressing room, the shower, her office.
We’re not just business partners or fakers anymore.
