“I’m positive,” I say, even though I absolutely am not.
Nancy laughs. “You say that like a woman who has never been to a hockey game but has Googled ‘best seats NHL’ exactly once.”
“That Google search was very thorough,” I tell her. “And expensive back then.”
The arena opens up in front of us, and for a second, I forget to keep walking.
It’s massive. Loud. Bright in a way that feels intentional, like every light and screen and blast of music is part of a ritual everyone else already understands.
I pause just long enough to take it in.
The scale. The noise. The choreography of it all.
“This is… a lot,” Paige says.
“It’s fine,” I say quickly. “It’s just a building full of people who are emotionally invested in men on knives strapped to their feet.”
Nancy hums. “You’re already using humor to cope. I love this for you.”
“I’m not coping,” I say. “I’m observing.”
That’s why I’m here.
Exposure. Optics. Understanding the environment.
Absolutely not because Colby Hayes is about to play a hockey game.
This is research.
This is work.
We make our way to our seats, and I notice something almost immediately.
How many people know his name.
Not his face. Not his voice. Just the name.
HAYES jerseys everywhere. On kids. On grown men. On women who look like they’ve been coming to games longer than I’ve been managing artists.
It’s… grounding. And a little unsettling.
“Okay,” Paige says as we sit. “So, where is he?”
“I didn’t say you were supposed to be watching anyone,” I say.
Nancy grins. “You didn’t have to.”
Before I can respond, someone taps my shoulder.
“Sloane?”
I turn, already braced for something awkward.
Instead, I’m met with a woman who looks confident, warm, and completely uninterested in interrogating me.
“I’m Annabelle,” she says, smiling. “You made it.”
“Oh, hi,” I say, standing automatically. “Yes. Hi. This place is… impressive.”
