Sound crashes in from every direction.
And for the first time all night, I don’t care who’s watching.
Chapter twenty-three
Sloane
The arena doesn’t go quiet all at once.
It empties in layers.
First the music cuts. Then the crowd thins. Then the lights dim from spectacle to fluorescent reality
What’s left is the echo.
My ears ring as I walk down the corridor behind the stage, heels clicking too loud against concrete that still smells like fog machines and spilled beer. The adrenaline hasn’t drained yet. It’s reeling under my skin, sharp and restless, like my body doesn’t know the danger has passed.
I keep replaying the kiss.
The way he didn’t hesitate. The way his hand cupped my face, rough and unsteady. The way he looked at me before it happened, steady, certain, choosing.
And the part that won’t stop pressing in on me:
That kiss wasn’t forgiveness.
Maybe it was a door opening.
I don’t know if I’m even allowed to walk through it.
I slow near the end of the hallway where the noise finally drops off completely. No cheering. No announcements. Just the hum of electricity and the distant clatter of equipment being broken down.
This is usually where I’d leave.
That’s my instinct.
Retreat. Minimize. Don’t make things worse.
If I walk out now, I can tell myself the kiss was closure instead of invitation. I can file it undermoment, notmeaning. I can get home, send a few thank-you emails, and spin the night into a perfect highlight reel.
Clean. Controlled.
Safe.
I almost do it.
I almost leave.
Because I can already hear the rationalizations lining up in my head.
He was emotional. He just won a game. The crowd pushed him into that moment.
But I know better.
Colby Hayes doesn’t do anything he doesn’t mean.
That’s the problem.
That’s what scares me.
