Chapter 11
Chapter eleven
Sloane
“This was useful.”
I say it out loud to the ceiling, because ceilings don’t argue back.
Also because if I say it silently, my body might call me a liar.
Useful. Strategic. Efficient. A successful execution of a high-visibility opportunity with measurable upside and zero contractual obligation.
See? That didn’t even sound emotional.
The morning light cuts across the room like it wants to wake me up. I blink at it, roll onto my side, and immediately regret the movement because my brain decides now is the perfect time to replay last night.
Specifically the kiss.
I groan and press my face into the pillow.
No. We are not doing this.
The kiss was not a moment. It was a byproduct. An inevitable outcome of adrenaline, proximity, and a crowd that had collectively decided it was rooting for us.
Also, I kissed him back.
Which is… fine.
People kiss all the time. It doesn’t mean anything. It especially doesn’t mean anything when both parties are adults who understand optics and boundaries and the fact that chemistry is not a binding agreement.
I peel myself out of bed and pad toward the bathroom, avoiding the mirror like it might try to have a conversation with me.
“This was useful,” I tell my reflection again, because I’m brave like that.
My reflection stares at me like, sure, whatever you say. She also looks annoyingly well-rested for someone who absolutely did not go to bed early. Hair slightly mussed. Lips...
Nope.
I turn on the sink and splash cold water on my face.
Let’s review the facts.
Fact one: The event worked. Social engagement spiked. Mentions doubled. Raina’s name trended locally for three blessed hours after my publicity.
Fact two: No one crossed a professional line. There were no promises. No declarations. No post-kiss “what does this mean” conversations.
Fact three: I am an adult woman with impulse control.
Mostly.
I dry my hands and grab my phone, because data never betrays you.
Numbers load.
They’re good.
Not viral, not miraculous, but good. Solid. Momentum. The kind of bump that tells an algorithm you’re worth paying attention to.
I let out a big breath.
There it is.
Proof.
This wasn’t reckless. It was smart.
Which is why the memory of Colby’s hand at my waist... warm, steady, not possessive... has absolutely no place in this analysis.
And yet.
I see it anyway.
The way he waited. The way he didn’t rush the moment like he was trying to capitalize on it. The way he looked at me like I was a person instead of an opportunity.
That’s not dangerous, I tell myself.
That’s just… rare.
I shake my head once, sharp.
Rare does not equal safe.
I learned that lesson already.
Once upon a time, I dated a hockey player.
He was charming in public. Golden in interviews. Everyone loved him. Especially the version of him that existed under bright lights and louder applause.
Privately, he was careless with trust, with promises, AND with me.
I don’t think about the specifics. I don’t need to. The conclusion is enough.
Hockey players come with attention. Attention comes with temptation. And temptation always thinks it’s special.
I promised myself I wouldn’t do that again.
And I haven’t.
Last night doesn’t count.
Because last night wasn’t a relationship.
It was a moment.
A controlled one.
My phone buzzes.
COLBY: Morning.
That’s it.
No heart emoji. No commentary. No assumption.
Just… morning.
I stare at the screen longer than necessary.
My body does something deeply unhelpful, like softening.
I don't reward it.
ME: Morning. Did you survive the chaos?
Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.
COLBY: Barely. Dex is already talking about a sequel.
I smile.
I do not swoon.
ME: I’m sorry in advance.
COLBY: Don’t apologize. It raised a lot of money.
Of course he says that.
Of course that’s his takeaway.
My body does the annoying warm thing again.
I type back before I can overthink it.
ME: Worth it then.
COLBY: Definitely.
Pause.
Then:
COLBY: I was going to ask, no pressure, but if you’re free sometime this week, you could come to a game.
There it is.
My answer forms instantly.
Yes.
Absolutely.
I want to see you play. I want to see the version of you that commands a room without trying. I want to understand why your team looks at you like gravity.
I don’t send any of that.
My brain intervenes.
Professional. Strategic. Measured.
ME: That could be good. I’ve been tossing around some ideas for future music events, and seeing the arena in action would actually help a lot.
I wince.
Wow. That was aggressively corporate.
There’s a beat before he responds.
COLBY: Makes sense. Let me know what game works for you.
No teasing.
No pushback.
No “just for fun.”
He accepts the boundary like it’s real.
Which somehow makes it harder to pretend this is casual.
I set my phone down and exhale slowly.
This is fine.
I can enjoy this without wanting it.
That’s the rule.
I get dressed. I make coffee. I open my calendar and stack my day like a Jenga tower of responsibility.
Life continues.
And by the time I'm ready to leave the apartment, I’ve convinced myself completely.
I’m in control.
This is business.
This is useful.
This is not a beginning.
And if my heart doesn’t seem convinced yet…
Well.
It’ll catch up.
That’s what I tell myself as I lock the door behind me and step into the hallway, heels clicking with purpose, spine straight, shoulders back. I look like a woman who knows exactly where she’s going. I look like someone with a plan.
I’m very good at plans.
I make them for a living.
Plans are clean. Logical. They have contingencies and margins for error. Plans do not involve waking up replaying the exact way a man’s mouth curved when he smiled against yours, like he wasn’t in a rush to prove anything.
That part was… inconvenient.
I walk to the elevator and jab the button harder than necessary. While I wait, my phone buzzes again, and I pretend I don’t feel the tiny spike of anticipation that comes with it.
I check it anyway. I’m not a monk.
COLBY: Also, no rush at all, but if you do come, I’ll make sure you’re not subjected to Dex during warmups.
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it.
ME: Tempting offer.
COLBY: Fair warning, I can’t promise protection from him once the puck drops. We’ve got home games Tuesday and Thursday this week. Pick whichever one works for you and how many tickets you want. I’ll leave them at the box office.
There’s something about him. About the way he's understated. Not flirty. Not performative. Just… him.
Which is exactly the problem.
The elevator dings. I step inside, and my reflection stares back at me from the mirrored wall. I look composed. Alert. Like the kind of woman people trust with their careers.
I don’t look like someone who would make the same mistake twice.
I ride down in silence, using the time to remind myself of something important. Liking someone’s presence is not the same as wanting their future. Attraction is chemistry. Chemistry fades. Strategy lasts.
That’s not cynicism. That’s experience.
By the time I reach the lobby, I’ve successfully reframed Colby into a category that feels safe.
Colby Hayes: Asset.
Public goodwill. Built-in audience. Cross-industry credibility. A face people trust. A voice people listen to.
He’s useful.
The word lands solidly in my chest, like a paperweight.
Useful doesn’t mean disposable. It just means defined.
I step outside, the city already alive around me, and pull my coat tighter. Nashville comes to life the way it always does: music leaking from open doors, tourists pointing at buildings they’ve seen on Instagram, and locals moving with purpose because we know better than to linger.
This is my environment.
I thrive here.
And when I pass a sports bar and see a replay from the charity night looping on a screen, my steps slow.
There we are.
Me on stage. Him behind the wall. The moment right before everything started to matter.
I don’t stop walking. I don’t go in.
But I register it.
I straighten my shoulders and keep moving.
This is fine.
I can enjoy this without wanting it.
I can let him be kind. I can let him be attractive. I can even let him matter in the limited, carefully managed way that works for me.
There are no labels. No promises. No risks I didn’t calculate.
And whatever this thing with Colby Hayes is...
It fits neatly into the space I’ve allowed for it.
For now.