“Nice,” Mason says, meeting me as I walk off. “You didn’t accidentally propose.”
“They cut me off before I could get down on one knee, which would’ve been impressive considering she wasn’t even there.”
Mason laughs. “So what’s next? Do they hand you a rose? A sash? A crown? And you walk the tunnel waving like Miss America?”
I almost choke. “Hard pass on that one.”
Gregory checks his phone. “Date logistics, probably.”
Right on cue, the PR rep reappears, like she’s orbiting our team.
“Colby,” she says. “We have your date window. Tomorrow night. 7:30. Location will be confirmed shortly. Photographers will be present for arrival and fifteen minutes inside. After that, you’ll have privacy.”
I nod, absorbing it the way I absorb a game plan.
“Any questions?” she asks.
“One,” I say before I can stop myself.
She looks pleasantly surprised. “Yes?”
“How long is the ‘privacy’ window?” I ask, keeping my tone neutral like I’m asking about a sponsor obligation.
“Two hours,” she says. “Give or take. You’ll have a handler nearby, but not in your space.”
I nod again, like that’s all I needed.
But it isn’t.
Because the second she says two hours, my brain does something it doesn’t usually do.
It pictures the part without cameras.
Not the staged arrival. Not the posed smiles. Not the charity angle.
The quiet middle.
Two hours at a table with someone who asks questions like she means them.
Two hours with Sloane Carter when no one’s watching.
That thought lands and stays.
Mason lifts his brows. “Two hours, huh?”
“Don’t,” I say.
He smirks anyway. “Just saying. You asked.”
Gregory’s mouth twitches, almost a smile. “Captain’s curious.”
“I’m not curious,” I say.
Eli makes a sound that could be a laugh if he were anyone else. “Sure.”
I keep walking, because if I stop, they’ll keep talking, and I don’t have the energy to wrestle my own team in a hallway.
I’m not nervous.
