Chapter 10
Chapter ten
Colby
“Glad they’re done.”
It’s the first thing out of my mouth once the cameras finally drift back, like someone slowly turning down a dimmer switch.
The noise in the room doesn’t disappear, exactly. It just… settles. Plates clink. Someone laughs a few tables over. The low vibration of conversation resumes its normal volume, no longer calibrated for microphones.
Sloane exhales.
It’s subtle, but I catch it. The way her shoulders drop a fraction. The way her fingers loosen around her glass.
“Yeah,” she says. “Much better.”
I nod, because I get that. There’s a specific kind of pressure that comes with knowing every expression is being recorded, clipped, and replayed. You learn to live inside it in my line of work, but that doesn’t mean you enjoy it.
Now that it’s gone, something else rushes in.
Space.
Only now do my thoughts catch up to everything I’ve been deliberately shelving since she arrived.
The pink sweater. Not armor. Soft, intentional. The way she stepped out of the car like she’d rehearsed the moment and then decided to improvise anyway. The way she met my eyes like she was braced for impact and curious about it at the same time.
I didn’t let myself dwell on any of it then. Cameras don’t leave room for dwelling.
There’s room for it now.
A server refills our water without fanfare, and the nearby tables relax, too. No more careful glances. No more pretending not to look. The restaurant breathes again.
I glance toward Sloane. She’s scanning the room, too, but not for attention. For calibration. Habit, probably.
That’s when I notice the couple two tables over.
The guy is leaning back in his chair, staring at his phone like it personally offended him. The woman across from him is talking fast and animated, one hand waving slightly as she tries to pull his attention back into the conversation.
He doesn’t look up.
She pauses. Tries again. Louder this time.
Nothing.
I bite the inside of my cheek and turn my head just enough.
“Well,” I murmur, keeping my voice low, “at least we’re not that table.”
Sloane follows my gaze, and for half a second she’s pure observation. Then she smiles.
“I give it five minutes before she asks if he’s always like this,” she says.
“Ten,” I counter. “But only because dessert hasn’t happened yet.”
She snorts, the sound escaping before she can stop it, and immediately presses her lips together like she’s surprised by herself.
“Worst-case scenario,” she adds, warming to it, “this is a second date that shouldn’t exist.”
“Best-case?”
She considers. “Blind date set up by a well-meaning aunt.”
I glance back just in time to see the woman gesture emphatically toward the bread basket.
“Ah,” I say. “You’re right. The aunt is involved.”
Sloane laughs quietly, shaking her head.
It’s easy. Too easy. And the thing that hits me hardest is that neither of us is trying.
The server returns to take our dinner order, mercifully cutting off the commentary before it can turn into a full narrative arc. Once he’s gone, the atmosphere feels… lighter.
“So,” I say, settling back. “When you’re not wrangling cameras and on a stage with hockey players, what do you actually do?”
She blinks, then laughs softly. “That’s the first non-scripted question I’ve gotten all night.”
“Figured we earned one,” I say.
She considers me for a moment, then answers, more honestly than polished. “I manage artists. Country music, mostly. I handle gig schedules, negotiations, egos... whatever keeps them focused on the music instead of lighting their careers on fire.”
“That explains the calm,” I say. “You’re used to chaos wearing expensive boots.”
She smiles, the tension around her eyes easing. “It’s either that or scream into a pillow.”
She laughs again, softer this time, and I clock the way the tension around her eyes eases.
The conversation drifts after that. Not the curated talking points we’d been circling earlier, but smaller things. Observations. The bread being aggressively artisanal. The fact that every upscale restaurant seems contractually obligated to dim the lights just enough to make menus unreadable.
“I think it’s a test,” I say. “They dim the lights so it feels romantic, but not enough to actually read anything.”
She laughs. “So everyone’s just guessing.”
“Exactly,” I say. “Age has nothing to do with it. No one can see in here.”
Dinner arrives, and with it a comfortable rhythm. Plates set down, steam rising, the kind of pause where you both take a second before diving in.
“So,” she says, glancing at my plate. “Is it rude to ask if hockey players actually eat like this, or if this is a special-occasion situation?”
I smile. “This is a special-occasion situation. Most nights it’s whatever gets me through practice without collapsing.”
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.
Sloane shrugs out of her coat, draping it over the back of the chair, and something about the way she exhales feels different than before. Less managed. Less contained.
“This place is dangerous,” she says, glancing around. “It tricks you into thinking you can stay.”
“That’s how they get you,” I say. “Dessert helps.”
She smiles at that, settling into the chair across from me. Not angled away. Not closed off. Just… there.
A server appears, asks about drinks. She orders coffee without hesitation. I go with an old fashioned, then add, “And we’ll do the chocolate fudge cake, too.”
"Good choice. I'll be right back with that."
“Coffee late at night?” I ask once the server’s gone.
She shrugs. “Yup. Coffee surprisingly doesn’t keep me up. And, my brain doesn’t shut off easily no matter what I eat or drink. ”
“Same,” I say. “Mine just switches subjects.”
She laughs softly. “That sounds exhausting.”
“It is,” I admit. “But it’s familiar.”
The fudge cake arrives faster than expected, a generous square set between us like a shared secret, the server placing two forks down like he knows exactly what’s about to happen. It’s rich, dark, and unapologetic. She stares at it for a second, then looks up at me.
“This is absolutely not a ‘just one bite’ situation,” she says.
“I tried to warn you.”
She cuts a small piece, takes a bite, then closes her eyes.
“Oh no,” she says. “This is excellent.”
I smile. “You sound betrayed.”
“I feel betrayed,” she says. “By every other dessert I’ve ever eaten.”
We share the plate without talking for a minute. No rush to fill the space. No need to.
She leans back, studying me now, like she’s debating something.
“So,” she says. “You were very calm up there.”
“On stage?”
“Mm-hmm. Most people would’ve leaned into it. Played it up.”
“I don’t love performing unless I know the rules,” I say.
“And this didn’t have rules?”
“It had expectations,” I correct. “Not the same thing.”
She nods slowly, like that lands.
“That’s why I picked you,” she says, then stops, eyes looking up to mine. “I mean…”
I don’t interrupt. Don’t rescue her from it.
She clears her throat. “You weren’t trying to win.”
“I was trying to listen,” I say.
Her gaze holds mine a second longer than before.
“That showed.”
The fire pops softly behind us. Somewhere near the bar, someone laughs. The world continues, but it feels like we’ve stepped slightly outside of it.
She shifts forward, elbows resting lightly on her knees now.
“This is the part,” she says, quieter, “where things usually get complicated.”
“Because it’s quiet?”
“Because it’s easy,” she says. “And easy can make you forget why you showed up in the first place.”
I hold her gaze. Don’t argue. Don’t deflect.
“I’m not forgetting,” I say. “I’m choosing to stay right here.”
Her breath shifts. Not a step back. Not forward either.
That’s enough.
I move slowly, giving her every chance to stop me. She doesn’t.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” I say, low.
She shakes her head once. Barely.
So I kiss her.
Not rushed. Not careful either. My mouth fits to hers like we’re both testing something we already know the answer to. Her lips soften under mine, then press back, deliberately choosing this.
No hands roaming. No urgency.
Heat and connection coil tight between us.
I open my mouth slowly, giving her time to pull away.
She doesn’t. Her lips part in answer, and I fill the space with a light brush of my tongue against her lower lip, another invitation, not a demand.
She responds immediately, meeting me there, softening and pressing closer like the choice has already been made.
Then she pulls back first.
Not flustered. Just breathing harder than before.
“Okay,” she says softly, like she needs to anchor herself.
I nod. “Okay.”
I hesitate, then add lightly, “Nice way to end a really nice date. Ready, I’ll text the drivers?”
She smiles, already reaching for her phone. “Yeah. And, before we scatter, let’s exchange numbers.”
I arch a brow, amused. “Already planning the encore?”
“Partly,” she says. “I can get you tickets to a few shows in Nashville. Perks of the job.”
“Only fair,” I say, pulling my phone out. “I’ll return the favor. Good seats. No cameras.”
Her smile widens as our phones buzz almost in unison.
Outside the tall windows, headlights sweep past as two black car services pull up, right on cue.
We stand together. I help her with her coat without touching her more than necessary. The moment stays intact.
At the door, she pauses, fingers brushing mine briefly, intentional, yet fleeting.
“Thank you,” she says. “For tonight.”
“Anytime,” I say. And I mean it.
She leaves first. I watch her get into her car. Mine waits behind it.
As I turn back toward the lounge, one thought lingers longer than the rest.
This was supposed to be simple.
I already know it won’t be.