“There’s a Valentine’s charity thing,” Trent says, like he’s reading my mind.
My spine stiffens.
“Say less,” I mutter.
“It’s in two weeks,” he continues. “Nashville Outlaws. Big arena. They’re doing some kind of ‘dating game’ segment. Fans, bidders, whatever. It’s getting media coverage.”
I stare out the windshield again.
Of course it is.
Nashville is a city fueled by three things:
Music.
Hockey.
The relentless desire to turn everything into entertainment.
A charity dating game with professional athletes and Valentine’s branding is basically catnip.
And the worst part?
It’s a really good idea.
Which makes it a dangerous idea.
Because I don’t date hockey players.
I manage disasters.
I don’t sleep with them.
And I definitely don't build marketing plans around them.
“I’m not walking into an arena to flirt with a bunch of six-foot-tall men who think emotional intimacy is a pregame speech,” I say.
Trent laughs. “Not all hockey players are like that.”
That’s cute.
“Trent,” I say, voice sweet as arsenic, “I once dated a hockey player who told me he loved me and then forgot my birthday because he ‘was in a film session.’ And by film session, he meant he was in a hotel room with a puck bunny named Tiffany.”
Silence.
Then, very softly, he says, “Yikes.”
“Exactly,” I say. “So no. I don’t do athletes. I don’t do publicity plus hormones. I don’t do men who are professionally praised for body-checking strangers.”
“But this isn’t about dating,” he says quickly. “It’s about exposure. Your artist could perform…”
“She’s not performing at a hockey arena.”
“They bring local acts all the time. Intermission, fan fest, pregame. Sloane, it’s a huge crowd.”
I grip the steering wheel.
My brain hates him because he’s right.
