She pauses. Tries again. Louder this time.
Nothing.
I bite the inside of my cheek and turn my head just enough.
“Well,” I murmur, keeping my voice low, “at least we’re not that table.”
Sloane follows my gaze, and for half a second she’s pure observation. Then she smiles.
“I give it five minutes before she asks if he’s always like this,” she says.
“Ten,” I counter. “But only because dessert hasn’t happened yet.”
She snorts, the sound escaping before she can stop it, and immediately presses her lips together like she’s surprised by herself.
“Worst-case scenario,” she adds, warming to it, “this is a second date that shouldn’t exist.”
“Best-case?”
She considers. “Blind date set up by a well-meaning aunt.”
I glance back just in time to see the woman gesture emphatically toward the bread basket.
“Ah,” I say. “You’re right. The aunt is involved.”
Sloane laughs quietly, shaking her head.
It’s easy. Too easy. And the thing that hits me hardest is that neither of us is trying.
The server returns to take our dinner order, mercifully cutting off the commentary before it can turn into a full narrative arc. Once he’s gone, the atmosphere feels… lighter.
“So,” I say, settling back. “When you’re not wrangling cameras and on a stage with hockey players, what do you actually do?”
She blinks, then laughs softly. “That’s the first non-scripted question I’ve gotten all night.”
“Figured we earned one,” I say.
She considers me for a moment, then answers, more honestly than polished. “I manage artists. Country music, mostly. I handle gig schedules, negotiations, egos... whatever keeps them focused on the music instead of lighting their careers on fire.”
“That explains the calm,” I say. “You’re used to chaos wearing expensive boots.”
She smiles, the tension around her eyes easing. “It’s either that or scream into a pillow.”
She laughs again, softer this time, and I clock the way the tension around her eyes eases.
The conversation drifts after that. Not the curated talking points we’d been circling earlier, but smaller things. Observations. The bread being aggressively artisanal. The fact that every upscale restaurant seems contractually obligated to dim the lights just enough to make menus unreadable.
“I think it’s a test,” I say. “They dim the lights so it feels romantic, but not enough to actually read anything.”
She laughs. “So everyone’s just guessing.”
“Exactly,” I say. “Age has nothing to do with it. No one can see in here.”
Dinner arrives, and with it a comfortable rhythm. Plates set down, steam rising, the kind of pause where you both take a second before diving in.
“So,” she says, glancing at my plate. “Is it rude to ask if hockey players actually eat like this, or if this is a special-occasion situation?”
I smile. “This is a special-occasion situation. Most nights it’s whatever gets me through practice without collapsing.”
