Chapter 5 Sloane
Chapter five
Sloane
“You’re breathing like you’re about to argue a case before the Supreme Court,” Paige says.
“I’m breathing normally,” I say.
Nancy shakes her head, eyes narrowing. “That wasn’t normal.”
I stop in the middle of the arena concourse, heels planted, clutch in my hand, noise crashing around us. Music thumps from somewhere deeper inside. Pink and red lights wash the walls. Hearts on Ice banners hang from the rafters like someone aggressively committed to the theme.
“I’m fine,” I say again, slower this time. Professional. Controlled. “It’s a charity event. I was selected as a finalist. I might not even get picked.” I lift my chin. “But if I do, and I hope I do, I’m ready. This matters for my job.”
Paige beams at me. “Wow. Chills. Truly inspirational.”
Nancy squeezes my arm. “Relax. You look like you’re here to audit the event, not flirt. That dress has zero sex appeal and all the confidence of a quarterly earnings report.”
I snort. “Good. Because nothing says romance like a woman dressed to negotiate a hostile takeover.”
I chose this dress because it doesn’t ask questions. Clean lines. Structured. Red, for Valentine's Day. Heels I can stand in for hours without wobbling. Hair smooth, makeup precise. I look like myself, just slightly sharpened.
Armor.
The arena opens up in front of us and the sound hits all at once. Thousands of voices layered together. Laughter. Music. The low thrum of bass vibrating through the temporary flooring laid over the ice. The air smells like popcorn and beer.
This is bigger than I pictured.
A staff member in a Hearts on Ice blazer approaches. “Finalists?” she asks brightly.
Paige straightens. “That’s her.” She points at me like she’s presenting a prize on a game show.
The woman smiles. “Right this way.”
We follow her down the aisle, past rows of seats filling quickly. Valentine’s graphics flash across the jumbotron. Couples pose for photos. Someone hands out foam hearts like they’re weapons.
The finalist section is roped off near the front. A row of seats marked with small numbered placards. Several women are already there.
One is laughing loudly, already filming herself. One sits ramrod straight, hands folded in her lap, eyes darting. One chats easily with the woman beside her, confident and relaxed.
I take my assigned seat.
Seat seven.
One of about fifteen in this section.
Paige and Nancy are guided to seats just behind the roped section. Close enough that I can see them. Close enough that Paige can make faces at me.
She does. Immediately.
I fight a smile.
I tell myself to stay contained. To sit still. To treat this like any other event where I observe, assess, take mental notes. I’ve done harder things than this in rooms full of strangers.
But my pulse betrays me anyway, ticking just a little faster. There’s a flutter low in my stomach that isn’t nerves exactly, and definitely isn’t fear. It’s the awareness that something might happen. That I could be called. That I might step out of this seat and into something unscripted.
I square my shoulders, inhale slowly, and remind myself I’m prepared for every possible outcome.
And then, quietly, inconveniently, I realize I’m hoping for one of them.
The lights dim slightly. Music swells. A roar ripples through the crowd as the spotlight swings to center stage, right where center ice would be.
And then Dex Miller steps into it.
The place explodes.
He looks like he was built for this moment, confident and loose, grin already in place like it’s muscle memory. He throws his arms wide, soaking in the noise.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” he booms, pacing the stage. “Happy Valentine’s week! Or, as I like to call it, February but make it emotionally confusing.”
Laughter rolls through the arena.
Dex points to the stands. “Who’s here on a date?”
Cheers.
“Who’s here because your friend said there would be cute hockey players?”
Louder cheers.
“Who’s here because you just came for the merch and vibes?”
The loudest cheers yet.
Dex clutches his chest. “Honesty. We love to see it.”
He launches into the explanation, charm turned up but words clear.
“Hearts on Ice is all about charity, fun, and reminding everyone that hockey players are people too.” He pauses. “Large people. On skates. With feelings.”
More laughter.
Dex gestures toward the finalist section. “Tonight, we’ve got some incredible women joining us. Give it up for our finalists!”
Spotlights sweep over us.
I smile because that’s what you do.
Paige screams my name like she’s trying to summon me.
Nancy presses her hands together, eyes bright.
Dex grins. “All of these women earned their seats tonight by donating, entering, or being brave enough to raise their hands in the first place.”
Dex grins. “Now, how do we choose who joins us onstage?”
The crowd leans in.
He holds up a large clear drum filled with numbered heart paddles. “Each paddle matches a seat number one of the finalists is sitting in,” he explains. “No favorites. No volunteers. Just luck. We let fate and charity decide.”
My stomach tightens.
Dex spins the drum dramatically. Hearts clatter inside.
“Remember,” he says, “you don’t volunteer. You don’t campaign. You don’t bribe me.” He points at a woman in the crowd. “Ma’am, put the hundred-dollar bill away.”
Laughter.
He reaches in.
Pulls a paddle.
“Seat number…” He squints. “Seven.”
For half a second, nothing registers.
Then Paige screams.
Nancy grabs my hand.
The woman beside me gasps.
My seat number.
Dex looks right at me. “Seat seven! Come on down!”
The crowd erupts.
This is the moment control slips through my fingers.
I stand.
I smile.
I walk.
The steps feel longer than physics should allow. The sound grows louder, heavier, pressing in from all sides. My heart is steady but fast, like it’s bracing for impact.
Dex meets me at the stage with an easy grin. “Let’s hear it for our brave contestant!”
Applause crashes over me.
I step into the light.
Dex lowers his voice just enough. “You good?”
I nod. “I’m good.”
He winks at the crowd, not at me, and launches into the rules.
“Behind this wall,” he says, gesturing grandly, “will be Nashville Outlaws. You won’t see them. You’ll hear them. You’ll ask questions. They’ll answer. At the end, you choose who wins the date.”
Cheers.
My pulse ticks up.
Dex lifts the mic again. “Alright, Outlaws, get up here. Let’s meet the voices behind the wall.”
The crowd cheers as the players walk out and take their seats.
All I can see is wood and stage lights and my own reflection in the polished surface. No faces. No reactions. No easy tells.
I touch the mic at my collar, grounding myself in the cool plastic. My heartbeat hasn’t sped up, but it hasn’t slowed either. It’s waiting.
So am I.
Because whatever happens next won’t be about smiles or shoulders or the way someone looks in a jersey.
It will be about voices. Answers. Presence.
And I’m not sure who that gives the advantage to.
This was never about love. I know that. It’s charity, exposure, optics.
But now that I’m here, now that I’m the one sitting in this chair with a microphone clipped to my dress, I can’t pretend the rest doesn’t matter. Whoever I choose, I’ll have to spend time with him. Talk to him. Sit across from him.
So maybe I should actually listen. Maybe I should try.
Because professional or not, this part is real.