Chapter 3
Chapter three
Sloane
Paige slams her hand onto the table like she’s concluding testimony. “And then,” she says, leaning back against the booth, “he asked me if I believed in manifestation.”
Nancy doesn’t look up from her menu. “That’s when you fake a work emergency.”
“I tried,” Paige says. “He said negative energy blocks abundance.”
I hear this as I slide into the booth across from them, setting my bag down with precision. The restaurant is too loud, with conversations bleeding together, and every table close enough to witness a mistake in real time. It’s exactly the kind of place where secrets go to die.
“You left,” I say.
“I stayed,” she admits. “Because I thought maybe he’d redeem himself.”
Nancy snorts. “Please tell me this gets worse.”
"He ordered bone broth. At a Mexican restaurant,” Paige adds. “And then explained his gut health journey.”
“That’s not a journey,” I say. “That’s a warning label.”
Paige points at me. “Thank you. Finally, someone who understands me.”
The waiter appears immediately, smiling like he’s already chosen sides. “Drinks?”
“Yes,” Paige says. “And if you have anything that pairs well with emotional trauma, I’ll take two.”
He laughs. “Rough date?”
“You could say that,” Nancy replies dryly. “She survived. We'll have margaritas, on the drinks specials menu.”
The waiter nods solemnly. “That’s dating in this city. Honestly? Everyone’s either overcommitted or emotionally unavailable. Sometimes both.”
“Efficiency,” I say. “It saves time.”
Paige lifts her water glass and points to me. “She treats dating like a work meeting that could’ve been an email.”
The waiter chuckles. "I'll be right back."
Nancy finally looks up at me. “What about you? Anything new in your love life?”
“No,” I say immediately. “And before you ask, that’s intentional.”
Paige grins. “She’s in her monastic era.”
“I’m in my focused era,” I correct. “Which is different.”
Nancy studies me over her menu. “You only sound like that when you’re about to do something reckless.”
“I don’t do reckless,” I say. “I do strategic.”
The waiter sets down our drinks. “That’s worse.”
Before I can respond, my phone buzzes on the table.
I glance down.
Congratulations! You’ve been selected as a finalist for Hearts on Ice: A Valentine’s Charity Night. Please reply YES to confirm your participation.
The table goes silent.
Paige lunges. “LET ME SEE.”
Nancy’s voice is calm. “What's this?”
The waiter freezes mid-step. “Oh my God. You put in a bid?”
I stare at my phone. I expected this. Planned for it. Still, it feels loud. Public. Immediate.
Paige grabs my wrist. “Holy shit! Say yes.”
Nancy softens. “Only if you want to.”
I inhale. This isn’t courage. It’s confirmation.
I type YES.
Send.
The waiter gasps.
Paige cheers.
Nancy sighs. “Somebody explain what's happening!”
“There’s a Valentine’s charity event,” I say. “A dating-game thing.”
“With who?” Nancy asks.
I take a sip of my drink. “The Nashville Outlaws.”
Paige squeals. Actually squeals. Heads turn.
Nancy goes completely still. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish.”
Paige is already reaching for her phone, furiously typing. “Oh my God, there’s a hashtag. There’s a press release. There’s a COUNTDOWN.”
“If you Google them at the table, I’m leaving,” I warn.
She freezes. “I won’t Google. I’ll vibe.”
Nancy leans back. “Why are you involved?”
“Because it’s a fundraiser with major media reach,” I say calmly. “Cross-industry exposure. Valentine’s timing. Perfect audience overlap for my artist.”
Paige blinks. “You practiced that.”
“I always practice,” I say. “This is business.”
The waiter reappears, practically vibrating. “Oh my God, the Hearts on Ice thing is going to be HUGE.”
All three of us stare at him.
“My cousin’s obsessed with the captain,” he adds.
Paige nearly spits out her drink. I clock it immediately… the waiter is absolutely obsessed with the captain. Of course he is.
He leans in, lowering his voice like this is confidential information. “Wait, are you the girl for the dating game?”
“I don’t know yet,” I say. “I was selected as a finalist.”
His eyes light up. “So you entered to snag a hockey boyfriend?”
“No,” I say, then pause. “I mean... professionally.”
He blinks. “Professionally,” he repeats, like he’s trying it on for size. “Wow. That's the most Nashville sentence I’ve ever heard.”
At the next table, someone laughs a little too loudly. Another woman leans over to her friend and whispers, eyes glaring our way.
Nancy clocks it immediately. “Great. We’re already a spectator sport.”
I set my phone down, pulse steady. “It’s controlled. Planned. Contained.”
Paige grins. “Famous last words.”
I smile tightly. “This is a strategy. Not a story.”
“Sure,” Nancy says. “Respectfully. So what’s the actual plan if you get chosen?”
Paige slaps her palm on the table like she’s calling a meeting to order. “We're not using the word plan. We’re using the word destiny.”
“We're absolutely using the word plan,” I say.
Nancy nods. “Thank you. Great. Plan. If you get chosen, what happens?”
“I go on stage,” I say, like I’m reading from a spreadsheet. “I ask a few questions. I pick the player who makes the most sense. Everyone claps. The charity gets money. My artist gets eyeballs. End of story.”
Paige smiles, all teeth. “You can’t say eyeballs at dinner.”
“I can and I will,” I tell her. “It’s a measurable goal.”
Nancy doesn’t blink. “What happens if they like you?”
“That’s not part of it.”
“It becomes part of it if they like you,” she says.
Paige leans in, stage-whispering like we’re in a documentary. “I would like her. I already like her. I’m obsessed.”
“Breathe,” Nancy says.
Paige inhales dramatically. “Fine. I’m breathing. But also, it’s one night. Free press. A Valentine’s theme. This is very you-coded… ambition.”
I peer at her. “I don’t know what that means.”
“It means you’re allergic to fun unless it comes with analytics,” Paige says.
Nancy’s gaze pins me again. “And what happens if you like them?”
I laugh once. Sharp. Controlled. “I won’t.”
At the next table, the whispering woman giggles like I’ve just said something charming. I hate it.
Paige points at her. “See? Even random ladies are already rooting for you.”
“I don’t need rooting,” I say. “I need turnout.”
Nancy’s voice drops. “Sloane.”
I look at her.
I sit up straighter. “Look. This is marketing. Not romance. Not vulnerability. Not… whatever you’re trying to drag out of me.”
Paige’s eyes gleam. “The word you’re searching for is feelings.”
“I wasn’t searching for it,” I say.
Nancy holds up a finger. “Then let’s talk logistics. You know, since you’re treating this like a product launch.”
“It is a product launch,” I say.
Paige gasps. “Are you calling yourself a product?”
“I’m calling this moment a vehicle for awareness.”
Nancy exhales. “Okay. Vehicle for awareness. What’s the message?”
“That I’m the kind of woman who can be on a stage with professional athletes and not melt into a puddle of fan behavior,” I say. “I’m there for a cause. I’m poised. I’m polished. I have standards.”
Paige lifts her glass again. “She has standards.”
The waiter leans in. “Standards are hot.”
Nancy points at him without looking. “Go away.”
He retreats, but not before whispering, “Team Captain,” like a prayer.
Paige waits until he’s out of earshot. “Okay. First question: what are you wearing?”
“A dress,” I say.
Paige squints. “That’s not an answer.”
Nancy nods. “True, that’s not an answer.”
“It’s literally an answer,” I say.
Paige shakes her head. “We need a message dress. Something that says: I’m sexy but not desperate. I’m fun but not available. I’m confident but also…”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” Nancy says.
Paige finishes anyway. “... approachable.”
“No,” I say immediately.
Paige blinks. “No?”
“Approachable is how you end up trapped in a conversation with a man who says ‘Let’s talk about crypto’ on a first date,” I say.
Paige claps once. “Fair.”
Nancy leans back. “So what do you want to be?”
Paige raises her hand. “Horny."
I deadpan. “Unmistakable.”
Nancy sighs. “I regret inviting both of you.“
I lift my chin. “I want to walk on stage and make it clear this is not a fantasy audition. I’m not there to be selected. I’m there to select.”
Paige presses her hand to her chest. “Hot.”
Nancy points at her again. “Inside voice.”
Paige lowers her tone by exactly half a decibel. “Hot.”
Nancy looks back at me. “You’re going to need at least some charm, or it won’t read as authentic.”
Paige perks up immediately. “Okay, great point. How much charm is safe?”
“Minimal,” I say.
Paige gapes. “Minimal?”
“Yes,” I say. “Smile. Eye contact. Light banter. I ask the questions. I stay curious, not personal.”
Paige blinks. “Wait, you ask the questions?”
“I think that’s how the game works,” I say. “They’re behind a wall. I’m not paraded around like a prize. I interview them.”
Nancy nods approvingly. “Okay, that part I like.”
Paige leans forward anyway. “Still. You can’t ban improvisation. That’s where the good stuff happens.”
“I can limit it,” I say. “I’m not there to freestyle my emotions.”
Nancy considers. “So you’re composed. Curious. In control.”
“Exactly.”
Paige squints. “You’re describing a job interview.”
“I excel at job interviews,” I say.
Paige props her chin on her hand. “But what if one of them surprises you?”
“After the public date, I thank him politely,” I say. “And move on.”
Nancy studies me for a beat. “And if you surprise yourself?”
I don’t hesitate. I keep my tone light, professional, airtight. “It’s about my artist.”
“Mm-hmm,” Nancy says.
“It’s about getting bodies into a club,” I say. “It’s about attention. It’s about a spike in streams. It’s about proving that the debut album deserves more than polite applause from people’s moms.”
Paige’s expression softens. “Okay. That’s too real.”
I shrug. “It’s work.”
Nancy studies me for a long second. “And you’re sure you can keep it work?”
“Yes,” I say.
Paige gives me a look. “You’re saying yes the way you say it when you’re buying something you can’t afford.”
“I can afford this,” I say.
Nancy’s mouth curves. “Then commit. What’s the version of you that walks on that stage?”
I picture it like I’m casting myself.
Not the girl who once trusted the wrong kind of charming athlete.
Not the girl who thought public promises meant private loyalty.
Not the girl who learned the hard way that a man can smile for a camera and lie right through it.
I lift my chin. “The version of me that doesn’t need anything from them.”
Paige nods slowly. “Cold. Powerful. But, be careful. That may not be enough to warm audiences to your artist.”
“Duly acknowledged.”
Nancy taps the table. “Wardrobe.”
“A black dress,” I say.
Paige wrinkles her nose. “Funeral.”
“It’s slimming,” I argue.
Nancy sips her drink. “Navy. Structured. Not apologetic. You’re welcome.”
Paige snaps her fingers. “Heels that say ‘don’t touch me,’ but hair that says ‘you can look.’”
“Absolutely not,” I say.
Paige’s grin widens. “Absolutely yes.”
The waiter appears again, not with food, but with gossip. “Just so you know, the Outlaws’ social team is already teasing the event.”
Nancy’s eyes widen. “How do you know that?”
He lifts his phone like it’s evidence. “Because I follow them. Respectfully.”
Paige leans over. “Show me.”
“No,” Nancy and I say at the same time.
Paige pouts. “You two are ruining my joy.”
“Good,” Nancy says.
I take a breath, forcing my shoulders down. I have harder things to do than a staged Q&A with athletes.
It’s just a confirmation text.
Not a life decision.
I glance at my phone again, as if it might take back the yes on its own.
It doesn’t.
Paige nudges my knee under the table. “You’re going to be great. You know that, right?”
Nancy nods once. “You’re competent. Even when you’re stubborn.”
Their compliments make me smile. They always do.
I lift my glass. “To charity,” I say.
Paige lifts hers. “To publicity and a hot date.”
Nancy lifts hers last. “To you not going to catch feelings for a Nashville Outlaw that the entire city is obsessed with.”
I smile like I’m unbothered.
“I’m not catching anything,” I say.
But my phone buzzes again. It's another notification, another countdown, another reminder that this is no longer hypothetical.
And I swear, just for a second, it feels like the universe is grinning.
I don’t look down.
I’m in control.
Planned.
Contained.
Right?