This is not a date.
This is a strategy.
I tap.
The entry form loads.
Name. Email. Occupation.
I hesitate for exactly half a second.
Then I type:
Sloane Carter. [email protected]. Music manager.
I place a hefty bid and hit submit before I can overthink it.
The confirmation page pops up immediately.
Thank you for your interest. We’ll be in touch.
I lock my phone and let it drop into my lap.
“Well,” I tell the empty car, my voice light and lying. “That was painless.”
And realistically? There’s a decent chance nothing even comes of it. I’m not a fan, not a puck bunny, not someone the crowd would cheer for. I could submit my name and never hear a thing back.
My chest tightens with anxiety anyway.
Because something tells me this isn’t going to be painless at all.
And for the first time since Raina's album dropped, I’m not thinking about numbers.
I’m thinking about the fact that I possibly just stepped onto a stage I promised myself I’d never stand on again.
I pull away and turn at the next light, already rehearsing the explanation I’ll give everyone.
This is temporary.
This is professional.
I am absolutely, definitely not here to fall for a hockey player.
Not this time.
Chapter two
Colby
“Why is Dex smiling like he’s about to commit a crime?”
I don’t even look up from unlacing my skates when I say it. I don’t have to. Dex Miller’s chaos has a sound. A frequency. The locker room hums differently when he’s gearing up for nonsense, like the air itself is bracing for impact.
“That hurts,” Dex says, offended on principle. “This is my face of joy. My face of giving back. My face of philanthropy.”
I glance over just in time to see him grinning like a man who’s already mentally drafting an apology text he never plans to send.
“We’re doomed,” I mutter.
