“Absolutely not,” I tell the roof of my car.
Then, because the universe hates me, my brain adds:
…unless it works.
The idea settles into my brain like an unwanted houseguest. It kicks its shoes off. It opens my fridge. It refuses to leave.
I don’t need a date.
I need eyeballs.
That’s the thing people never understand about my job. Romance is optional. Visibility is not.
I sit there for a minute, engine still off, phone balanced in my palm, while my mind starts doing what it always does when panic tries to creep in.
It builds a spreadsheet.
If I enter the charity dating thing, purely hypothetically, I get:
– Cross-industry exposure. Hockey fans love music. Music fans love drama. Everyone loves a crossover.
– Media pickup that doesn’t screamplease stream my artist or I will perish.
– A built-in narrative that isn’t manufactured by a social media intern with a ring light.
If Idon’tenter it, I get:
– Another week of Trent saying “organic.”
– Raina pretending she’s fine while quietly Googling “what if my debut flops.”
– Me lying awake at three a.m. wondering if I missed the window.
I blow out a breath, start to drive, and see the Outlaws logo plastered across half the city. Billboards. Social posts. A giant digital sign downtown that lights up every time they win.
Hockey players are walking headlines.
And headlines are currency.
I hate that my brain is this good at ruining my own rules.
Because Idohave rules.
Rule number one: I don’t mix business with feelings.
Rule number two: I definitely don’t mix publicity with professional athletes.
I learned that one the hard way.
The memory slips in uninvited, again.
I shake my head once, sharp.
No.
I am not doing that again.
This would be different.
