Chapter 8 Colby
Chapter eight
Colby
“Captain Bachelor!”
I don’t even make it off the last step before a hand slaps my shoulder hard enough to jostle my spine.
“Easy,” I say, because it’s either that or a thank you, and none of these guys deserve a thank you for what they’re about to do to me.
Mason barrels into my space grinning like we just won in overtime. “You won, Hayes.”
“I did a charity thing,” I say.
“You won on a stage,” Gregory adds, eyes bright, like he’s already compiling stats. “In front of people.”
“I’m aware there were people,” I say.
Dex Miller appears from nowhere with an evil grin. “Don’t undersell it. That was a culturally significant moment. A renaissance. A turning point for romance as a concept.”
“It was a microphone,” I tell him.
“It was a weapon,” Dex says, sweeping an arm toward the hallway as if the crowd is still chanting our names. “And you, my captain, wielded it with the restraint of a monk and the jawline of a Greek statue.”
Someone laughs behind us. Someone whistles.
The second we clear the doors, the noise drops fast. The roar becomes muffled, like a game heard through concrete.
Distant music bleeds in, bass thumping somewhere down the corridor.
Staff voices overlap with clicking headsets and purposeful walking.
It smells like food and those fog machines they use to make everything look cooler than it is.
This should feel like a post-game tunnel.
It doesn’t.
After a game, I’m drained but clean inside. The rules are familiar. Win, lose, talk, shower, move on.
This feels… sideways. Like I did something that should’ve been simple and it somehow left a mark anyway.
“Hayes,” Jonah calls, jogging up with a grin. “Do you sign autographs now? Or only on hearts?”
“Neither,” I say.
Eli Vargas falls into step beside me, calm as always. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say.
Eli’s nods. He doesn’t push. He never does. That’s why I like him.
Before Dex can wind himself up again, a familiar voice cuts in.
“Well, well,” Bryce Blackhorn says, stepping into the hallway like he owns the lighting. “If it isn’t Nashville’s Most Emotionally Responsible Bachelor.”
Annabelle Hacker is right beside him, arms crossed, eyes sharp, taking us in like a PR audit. “I leave you alone for five minutes,” she says to me, “and suddenly you’re winning reality-adjacent game shows.”
“I didn’t win,” I say.
Bryce grins. “You absolutely did. Look at Mason, he’s disappointed.”
Mason scoffs. “Please. I’m happy for the captain.”
“Sure you are,” Bryce says. “You were one camera angle away from crying. And Gregory,” he turns, pointing, “you looked like you were calculating endorsement opportunities mid-applause.”
Gregory doesn’t deny it. “There were variables.”
Bryce laughs, then looks back at me. “Seriously, Hayes. You went up there, said nothing stupid, didn’t flirt, didn’t grandstand, didn’t turn it into a personality crisis.”
“That’s the goal,” I say.
“That’s terrifying,” Bryce says. “Men like you ruin it for the rest of us.”
Annabelle snorts. “He’s right. Mason thrives on chaos. Gregory thrives on metrics. You?” She looks at me. “You thrive in the game… on the ice, on stage, wherever the spotlight lands. It’s the almost-blind-date, with cameras and a PR handler breathing down your neck, that’s new territory.”
“For the record, dating isn’t exactly new territory,” I say. “I just don’t usually do it with an audience and a countdown clock.”
Bryce claps my shoulder. “Captain Bachelor,” he says again, like it’s official. “Try not to make the rest of the league look bad tomorrow night.”
Gregory fake punches my shoulder. “Seriously, you handled that well, Hayes.”
“Thanks,” I say, and I mean it because Gregory doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean.
Dex leans in like he’s about to deliver a sermon. “How did it feel to be looked at through a voice wall, Colby? How did it feel to be heard?”
“It felt like a charity event,” I say.
Dex stares at me. “You are clinically incapable of whimsy.”
“I’m capable,” I say. “I’m choosing not to.”
We round a corner and nearly collide with an event coordinator. She sidesteps, unfazed, points at a sign like we’re being herded through an airport.
“Players this way. Media line starts in three minutes. Captain Hayes, you’re first.”
Of course I am.
Dex puts a hand to his chest. “We’re being summoned. This is the part where they separate us like we’re in a heist movie.”
“No one is separating you,” I say.
He gasps dramatically. “You don’t know that.”
A PR rep appears ahead in her sharp suit. She clocks our group instantly and walks toward us with purpose.
“Captain Hayes,” she says, like she’s greeting a CEO. “Congratulations. Great job tonight.”
“Thank you,” I say, because I’m not Dex and I was raised right.
“Quick run-through,” she says, already talking while we’re still moving. “Media’s going to ask about the connection, the upcoming date, and whether this is outside your comfort zone. Keep it charity-forward. Keep it respectful. No speculation.”
Dex lifts a finger. “What if speculation is my love language?”
The PR rep doesn’t even look at him. “Mr. Miller, you are done for the night.”
Dex’s eyes go wide. “Excuse me?”
“You have completed your required appearances,” she says, still smiling. “Security will escort you back to the player area.”
Dex turns to us like he’s about to be dragged away in cuffs. “Tell my story. Tell them I died doing what I loved.”
Mason snorts. “Running your mouth?”
Dex points at him. “Supporting my captain’s romantic destiny.”
I glance at the PR rep. “He can walk on his own. No security needed.”
“He can walk,” she agrees.
Dex holds his hands out in front of him. “Fine. I’ll go peacefully. But for the record, this is how revolutions begin.”
“Go,” I say.
He shuffles backward, still performing. “Captain, if you need me, I’ll be in the locker room drafting wedding vows.”
“You’ll be in the locker room icing your face,” Eli calls.
Dex points at him too. “You, Vargas, are the only one who understands me.”
Eli’s expression doesn’t change. “That’s aggressively not true.”
Dex disappears down the hall, still muttering, and the air feels lighter immediately.
The PR rep exhales like she’s been holding that breath all night. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I say.
Mason grins. “You’re getting good at this celebrity thing, Captain.”
“I’m not a celebrity,” I say.
Gregory nods. “Technically, you are.”
I look at him. “Don’t encourage it.”
He shrugs, unbothered. “Facts aren’t encouragement.”
We reach a short media line. Bright lights. Two people giving directions. A cameraman adjusting his rig. The rustling of equipment. The kind of setup that makes you aware of your face in a way I don’t enjoy.
“Captain Hayes,” the PR rep says softly, stepping closer. “Same deal. Charity. Respect. No teasing answers. No jokes that can be clipped out of context.”
Mason leans toward me. “So… no fun.”
“Go stand over there,” I tell him.
He laughs and does it.
I step onto the marked spot. A reporter smiles brightly like she’s about to ask me my favorite color and then ruin my week.
“Captain Hayes,” she says, microphone angled up. “Are you drawn to the finalist? Would she be someone you’d ask out on your own?”
I keep my expression neutral. The answer is easy if I make it boring.
“She seems like a good person,” I say. “And this is for a good cause.”
“That’s very diplomatic,” the reporter says, eyebrows lifting. “Are you excited about the date?”
“I’m looking forward to supporting the charity,” I say.
“And is this outside your comfort zone?” another reporter asks from the side.
I don’t hesitate. “A little.”
That’s true, and it’s safe.
After games, I talk to the media all the time. I know that rhythm. This is different. Not because it’s harder. Because it’s… personal, but not in a way that fits the normal boxes.
“Did you feel like you had chemistry?” the first reporter pushes.
I glance at the PR rep, not because I need permission, but because it’s smart to acknowledge the boundaries.
“We had a good conversation,” I say. “That’s what tonight was about.”
The questions keep coming, quick and clipped.
“What did you like about her?”
“She listened.”
“What surprised you?”
“Her questions.”
“Was it hard to answer honestly knowing the crowd was there?”
I give the smallest smile. “I’m used to crowds.”
That gets a laugh, and it’s clean enough to clip without making me look like a jerk.
The whole time, I’m aware of something else.
Sloane.
Not onstage but offstage, somewhere in these same hallways, doing the same thing I’m doing now. Probably composed. Precise. Giving nothing away. Professional down to the bone.
It’s not just that she handled the spotlight. Plenty of people can do that.
It’s that she handled it like she’s been trained to survive it.
That consistency sticks.
The PR rep steps in after a final question. “That’s all for Captain Hayes, thank you. In three minutes, Mason and Gregory are up.”
I step back, and the lights feel less harsh immediately.
“Nice,” Mason says, meeting me as I walk off. “You didn’t accidentally propose.”
“They cut me off before I could get down on one knee, which would’ve been impressive considering she wasn’t even there.”
Mason laughs. “So what’s next? Do they hand you a rose? A sash? A crown? And you walk the tunnel waving like Miss America?”
I almost choke. “Hard pass on that one.”
Gregory checks his phone. “Date logistics, probably.”
Right on cue, the PR rep reappears, like she’s orbiting our team.
“Colby,” she says. “We have your date window. Tomorrow night. 7:30. Location will be confirmed shortly. Photographers will be present for arrival and fifteen minutes inside. After that, you’ll have privacy.”
I nod, absorbing it the way I absorb a game plan.
“Any questions?” she asks.
“One,” I say before I can stop myself.
She looks pleasantly surprised. “Yes?”
“How long is the ‘privacy’ window?” I ask, keeping my tone neutral like I’m asking about a sponsor obligation.
“Two hours,” she says. “Give or take. You’ll have a handler nearby, but not in your space.”
I nod again, like that’s all I needed.
But it isn’t.
Because the second she says two hours, my brain does something it doesn’t usually do.
It pictures the part without cameras.
Not the staged arrival. Not the posed smiles. Not the charity angle.
The quiet middle.
Two hours at a table with someone who asks questions like she means them.
Two hours with Sloane Carter when no one’s watching.
That thought lands and stays.
Mason lifts his brows. “Two hours, huh?”
“Don’t,” I say.
He smirks anyway. “Just saying. You asked.”
Gregory’s mouth twitches, almost a smile. “Captain’s curious.”
“I’m not curious,” I say.
Eli makes a sound that could be a laugh if he were anyone else. “Sure.”
I keep walking, because if I stop, they’ll keep talking, and I don’t have the energy to wrestle my own team in a hallway.
I’m not nervous.
I’m not flustered.
I’m alert.
And I don’t like that I noticed the part without cameras first.
I peel off toward the locker room before anyone can say anything else.
The door shuts behind me with a familiar thud, the kind that usually means tape jobs and postgame noise and guys arguing over music. Tonight it’s quiet. Too quiet. Just the hum of ventilation and the faint echo of whatever song is still bleeding through the walls from the event space.
I drop onto the bench and rest my forearms on my thighs, staring at the floor like it’s going to offer commentary.
This is the part where adrenaline usually burns off clean. You replay a shift. You break down a mistake. You move on.
Instead, my brain keeps circling one thing.
Her voice.
Not the words; those were polished, careful, exactly what they were supposed to be. It’s the way she asked the questions. Like she was actually listening to the answers. Like she wasn’t trying to steer me toward anything. Just… gathering information.
Most people don’t do that.
They wait for their turn to talk.
She didn’t.
I scrub a hand over my face and let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
This wasn’t a win.
It wasn’t a loss.
It wasn’t even a moment I need to explain to anyone.
It just… stuck.
I think about the way she stood on that stage. Straight-backed. Calm. Like she knew exactly how much space she was allowed to take and refused to shrink an inch of it. No nerves. No reaching for approval. No performance.
That’s rare.
And unsettling.
I’m used to reading people quickly. You have to be, wearing a letter. Teammates, media, coaches… everyone wants something from you. You learn the tells. You learn who’s playing a role.
Sloane Carter didn’t feel like she was playing anything.
Which means the date tomorrow isn’t about whatever headline they’re hoping for.
It’s about sitting across from someone who might actually see me.
That shouldn’t matter.
I straighten, roll my shoulders, remind myself this is controlled. Approved. Timed down to the minute.
Two hours.
Dinner. Conversation. Cameras gone.
I’ve handled harder situations with less prep.
Still, the thought of that quiet middle, the part without handlers or lighting cues, doesn’t fade.
I grab my phone, half-expecting nothing, half-expecting something.
There it is.
Her name.
Tomorrow. 7:30.
I stare at the screen longer than necessary, then lock it and shove the phone back into my pocket.
This is supposed to be simple.
Suddenly, it isn’t.
And for reasons I don’t bother unpacking yet, I’m already looking forward to it.