Raina:Tell me again where the stage will be. I’m so nervous, I think I’m going to vomit.
Me:It’s not on the ice. First set is in the stands, in section 114, remember? You’ll be surrounded by people, not ice. You will not vomit. You are a star. Stars do not vomit.
She sends a skull emoji.
Of course she does.
I tuck the phone against my palm and keep moving.
Tonight is the kind of night I used to chase when I was starting out. The kind that makes an artist look like they belong in rooms they’re still afraid to enter. The kind that turns one song into a whole new tier of opportunity.
It’s my job to make it look effortless.
It’s also my job not to think about the fact that Colby will be skating on the ice tonight, and is the reason my stomach has been in a low-grade spin for days.
I shouldn’t be thinking about him.
I shouldn’t be counting the hours since his last real message.
I shouldn’t be looking for him.
Which is why the second I step out near the tunnel and catch a glimpse of him through the open doorway, my whole body betrays me.
He’s in full gear, helmet off, jaw tight, shoulders broad in that effortless way that makes him look like the rink was built around him. He’s focused, eyes are on the flag as the national anthem is about to begin. His body is still except for the subtle roll of his shoulders like he’s already inside the game.
And it hits me like a flash of cold water.
Because I don’t know who I’m dealing with anymore.
The Colby who parked with the engine off and talked to me until the windows fogged.
The Colby who texted first.
The Colby who didn’t mind that nothing between us was labeled as long as it was real.
Or the Colby who now answers like he’s choosing every word with tweezers.
I force my eyes away and keep walking.
Work, Sloane.
I’ve got a headset in my ear by the time I reach the stage area. The production crew is already there, checking cables, adjusting lights, taping down edges that no one is allowed to trip over.
A man in black joggers and a headset sees me and points. “You’re Sloane?”
“Yes.”
“Stage manager. Dave.” He offers a hand.
I shake it. “Hi, Dave.”
He gestures toward a cluster of lights and truss rigging visible above the lower bowl. “Stage is set up here in section 114. When the horn sounds, the announcer will direct the crowd there and we’ll bring the lights up. She walks on when he says her name. Clean and simple.”
I nod, cataloging every word even as a slow, familiar dread curls in my stomach.
“Her audio’s already dialed,” he continues. “Monitors are good. House mics are good. She’s got her in-ears?”
“She has them.”
