Chapter 2
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.
“Speak for yourself, Captain,” Gregory Mills says from his stall, methodically taping his stick with the concentration of a man preparing for a standardized test. “Some of us enjoy structured events that raise money for good causes.”
Dex snorts. “Gregory, buddy, if this thing is structured, I will eat my helmet.”
Mason Barber grunts from the bench, arms folded, expression carved from granite. “You already eat like you’ve lost a bet.”
The guys laugh. I tug my jersey over my shoulders and take a second to scan the room.
This is my team.
Loud. Ridiculous. Loyal to a fault.
And yes, I’m the captain. Which means I’m supposed to be the responsible one. The glue. The guy who keeps the wheels from flying off.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy a little chaos.
Let’s not rewrite history. I was right there on that stage a few months ago, grabbing a mic and chanting like a deranged cheerleader while Annabelle's ex imploded on live television. I didn’t stop that disaster, I conducted it.
Leadership isn’t about killing the fun.
It’s about knowing when to aim it.
Coach Ryder Hale walks in, clipboard under his arm, coffee in hand, wedding band catching the fluorescent lights as he claps once for attention.
“Alright, ladies,” he says, smirking when Dex flips him off affectionately. “Gear up. And before anyone bolts, PR’s here.”
A collective groan ripples through the room.
Dex perks up immediately. “Oh hell yes.”
“That’s not the reaction you want to have,” I tell him.
“Are you kidding?” he says. “This is where dreams are born. Or scandals. Sometimes both. I thrive in ambiguity.”
Two PR reps step inside, smiles polished, posture immaculate, holding tablets like shields.
“We’ll be quick,” one of them promises.
It’s always a lie.
She launches in. Valentine’s week. Community outreach. Charity partners. Media sponsors already lined up. Big push. Bigger audience.
“And,” she says brightly, “we’re calling it Hearts on Ice: A Valentine’s Charity Night.”
Someone whistles. Someone else groans louder.
Dex presses a hand to his chest. “That’s beautiful. That’s art. I’m getting that tattooed.”
“You’re absolutely not,” I say.
She continues, unfazed. “Dating-game style fundraiser. Three players on stage. Live audience. Bidding element. Proceeds to our usual local charities.”
Mason shifts like he’s considering faking an injury. Gregory freezes mid-tape.
Dex raises his hand. “Question.”
She smiles at him cautiously. “Yes?”
“Are we shirtless?”
“No.”
Dex deflates instantly. “Then what’s the point of anything anymore?”
I lean back against my stall, arms crossed. Charity is good. Community is good. Dating games?
Risky.
“Which three players?” I ask.
Her smile sharpens. “You, Colby Hayes.”
I blink.
“Mason Barber.”
Mason exhales slowly, eyes closing like he’s accepting his fate.
“And Gregory Mills.”
Gregory straightens. “Do we receive a briefing packet? Or a flowchart?”
Dex loses it. “Oh my God, you’re perfect. America is going to love you.”
I open my mouth to object. Then close it.
Because this is how it always goes.
I’m the safe choice. The captain. The guy the sponsors like. The one they trust not to set something on fire.
Which is ironic, considering my team specializes in arson.
“For the record,” I say, “I don’t enjoy performative romance.”
Dex slings an arm around my shoulders. “That’s okay. Romance will enjoy you.”
I shove him off. “You’re not hosting.”
His face falls. “Cruel.”
“You’d turn it into a roast.”
“Exactly.”
Coach clears his throat. “It’s for charity. And for the city. We do it.”
That’s it. That’s the deciding factor.
I nod. “We do it.”
Because I don’t back out.
***
On the ice later, the chirping ramps up.
Dex skates backward in front of me. “So, Captain. Looking for love?”
“No.”
“Fearful you’ll catch feelings?”
“Still no.”
“God forbid you feel something,” he says solemnly.
Gabriel Shelly glides past us, helmet tucked under his arm, dad-energy calm even in full gear. “Ignore him. Worst case, you smile for cameras and raise money. Best case, you remember you’re human.”
“I am human.”
Gabriel chuckles. “You date like it’s a penalty kill.”
“That’s not true,” I say automatically.
Dex skids to a stop nearby, snow spraying up like he planned the dramatic entrance. “Oh, it’s absolutely true. You approach women like you’re protecting a one-goal lead with thirty seconds left.”
“I do not,” I argue.
Mason glances over. “You brought flashcards on your last date.”
“That was one time,” I say. “And they were talking points.”
Gregory nods. “You labeled them.”
“They were color-coded!” Dex adds helpfully. “Red flags. Yellow flags. Green flags. He had a whole system.”
I point my stick at him. “You’re one to talk. You once dated three women in the same week and called it ‘crowdsourcing compatibility.’”
Dex beams. “Science demands sacrifice.”
Gabriel chuckles, skating backward with ease. “Colby’s not bad at dating. He’s just… selective.”
“That’s a nice word for emotionally unavailable,” Dex says.
“I am available,” I snap. “I just don’t enjoy mayhem.”
Dex raises a brow. “You literally led a chant on live television to expose a cheating musician.”
“That was targeted and purposeful,” I say. “Different category.”
Mason smirks. “Shelly isn’t wrong, though. Colby doesn’t do casual.”
I stiffen. “That’s not…”
Gregory cuts in, earnest as ever. “Statistically speaking, Colby has the lowest number of romantic partners on the team over the past three seasons.”
Dex gasps. “You’re keeping stats now?”
Gregory shrugs. “I noticed a pattern.”
I groan. “Can we not psychoanalyze me while I’m in skates?”
Dex taps his chin. “You don’t date fans. You don’t date within the league. You don’t date anyone who wants publicity. Or who doesn’t want publicity. Or who has a pulse during the playoffs.”
“That’s called standards,” I say.
“That’s called a witness protection program,” Dex counters.
Gabriel bumps my shoulder lightly. “You’re careful. That’s not a flaw.”
“It is, when you’re twenty-nine and the internet keeps trying to marry you off to random strangers,” Mason says.
Dex nods solemnly. “Last week I saw a thread titled ‘Colby Hayes Looks Like He’d Ruin Your Life and Apologize Politely.’”
I roll my eyes. “Exactly my point. Everyone thinks they know you. They don’t. And I don’t feel like explaining myself over dinner.”
Dex skates closer. “Ah. So the issue isn’t dating. It’s vulnerability.”
“Keep talking and you’ll be vulnerable to a high stick,” I say.
He grins. “See? Romance.”
Gabriel laughs. “You just want something real.”
I open my mouth, then close it. Because that’s the problem, isn’t it?
Real things don’t need an audience. They don’t need commentary or hashtags or people projecting their fantasies onto you. Real things are quiet. They happen off-camera.
And yet here I am, agreeing to step on a stage and let strangers bid on a date like I’m a charity auction item.
Dex skates ahead, calling over his shoulder, “Don’t worry, Captain. Worst case scenario, you get a funny story. Best case, you accidentally fall in love.”
I scoff. “That’s not how accidents work.”
Mason snorts. “You’re assuming you’d even get chosen.”
I twist to look at him. “Excuse me?”
He shrugs, completely unapologetic. “I’m just saying. You’re acting like this is a guaranteed win. Some of us are objectively more… desirable.”
Dex gasps, clutching his chest. “Oh, I love when Mason talks himself up. That’s confidence with absolutely no game.”
Mason levels a look at him. “I’m tall, good-looking and I don’t embarrass women in public.”
“That last one is debatable,” I say. “I’ve seen you try to order wine.”
Gregory nods thoughtfully. “Statistically speaking, women respond well to stability and reliability. Which would suggest Mason has a strong probability of coming in third.”
Dex squints at him. “Are you campaigning for yourself?”
“Yes,” Gregory says.
Mason rolls his shoulders. “Look, I’m not saying I want to do this. I’m saying if the woman has taste, she might pick me.”
Dex bursts out laughing. “Buddy, if she picks you, it’s because she thinks you’re a safe exit strategy.”
“That’s not a bad thing,” Gabriel says mildly. “Some people like safe.”
“Exactly,” Mason says. “Low drama. Minimal chaos. No flashcards.” He glances at me.
I groan. “I will never live that down.”
Gregory clears his throat. “For the record, I believe she may select me.”
All of us stop.
Dex blinks. “You?”
Gregory nods, earnest as ever. “I’m charming in a quiet way. I follow rules. I listen. I ask follow-up questions.”
Dex presses a hand to his chest. “You’re going to ruin us.”
“I will research conversational prompts appropriate for a public dating environment,” Gregory adds. “I will be prepared.”
Mason squints. “You’re bringing flashcards too, aren’t you?”
Gregory hesitates. “They’re laminated.”
Dex collapses against the boards laughing. “This is the best day of my life.”
I shake my head, biting back a grin. “You’re all missing the point.”
Mason raises a brow. “Which is?”
“This isn’t about who gets picked,” I say. “It’s about not turning this into a circus.”
Dex straightens immediately. “Absolutely not. It’s definitely a circus.”
Gabriel chuckles. “Colby’s just saying he doesn’t want to be embarrassed.”
“That’s not…”
“Yes it is,” Mason says. “You hate being the punchline when it has to do with you.”
I open my mouth, then close it. Because that’s annoyingly accurate.
Gregory tilts his head. “So if she doesn’t pick you, would that bother you?”
“No,” I say too fast.
Dex grins. “Oh, it would absolutely bother him. That’s just his defense mechanism talking. Man panics at the idea of being publicly wanted.”
“I’d be relieved, asshole,” I shoot back. “I don’t want this kind of attention.”
When it comes to women, I don’t rush in. I don’t flirt for sport. I don’t collect moments for attention. If I step onto that stage, it won’t be a game to me.
Which means if this thing goes sideways… it won’t be funny.
After practice, PR circles back with details. There are non-fan participants, industry professionals, media crossovers... not the usual jersey-wearing fangirls.
That registers.
I don’t know what’s in the water this year, but the women signing up for this are different, which somehow makes me more nervous.
Still, I sign the waiver. Shake hands. Smile for the team photo.
“This is just a game for charity,” I tell myself.
Nothing real is on the line.
There’s a knot in my gut anyway.