She hums. “So the carbs are strategic.”
“Everything’s strategic,” I say. “Even dessert.”
Her brows lift. “There’s dessert?”
“There’s always dessert,” I tell her. “The question is whether you regret it during morning skate.”
She laughs, shaking her head. “See, this is why I manage musicians. They call it physical exertion when they’re standing under lights for ninety minutes.”
“I don't know,” I say. “I’ve seen some of them pace or jump around like they’re training for something.”
She points her fork at me. “True. Stage cardio is real.”
“I believe you,” I say easily.
She sets her fork down, studying me. “So what’s it actually like leading the Outlaws?”
“Being captain?” I ask.
She nods. “Does it ever feel heavy? Like you’re carrying more than just your own game?”
I consider that for a second. “Yeah. Sometimes.”
“Do you miss it?” she asks. “Just playing without thinking five steps ahead?”
I smile a little. “Sometimes. But not as much as I thought I would.”
She waits, giving me space.
“It’s not loud leadership,” I say. “Most days it’s just showing up. Being steady when everyone else is tired. Making sure the room feels solid, even when things aren’t.”
She listens the way she does on stage. Fully. Like the moment matters.
The conversation keeps moving, back and forth, effortlessly. Music stories traded for road-trip hockey ones. Jokes layered with understanding. Laughter that doesn’t feel like it’s filling space.
By the time our plates are cleared, there’s no urgency to stand. No signal that the night has to end just because the first act did.
I hesitate, not because I’m unsure, but because I want to be precise.
“There’s a boutique hotel across the street,” I say finally. “Quiet lounge. Fireplaces. They do dessert and coffee late, and the chef makes this ridiculous chocolate fudge cake everyone pretends not to come back for.” I pause. “Only if you want.”
She doesn’t overthink it.
“I’d like that,” she says.
I stand, offering my hand. She takes it, brief and warm, before releasing it again like we both understand exactly where the line is.
As we head toward the door, I realize something I wasn’t prepared for.
This wasn’t supposed to matter.
But it does.
***
The lounge is quieter than the restaurant, like someone turned the world down a notch.
Low lighting. Leather chairs angled toward a stone fireplace that actually is being used. A couple tucked into a corner booth, heads bent close. No cameras. No handlers. No one pretending not to stare.
