Chapter 7 Sloane
Chapter seven
Sloane
“Right this way, Sloane.”
I’m still clapping with everyone when the lights cut.
The crowd noise doesn’t fade so much as shift, from explosive to chaotic, from chant to chatter, from spectacle to aftermath.
Music blasts somewhere behind me, Dex’s voice booms one last time in the distance, and then an event staffer in a headset is gently steering me by the elbow like I might wander back onto the stage if left unsupervised.
“Okay,” Paige pants, appearing at my other side like she’s been launched from a cannon. “First of all, iconic. Second of all, ICONIC. Third of all, I blacked out, so you’re going to have to tell me everything.”
“I didn’t black out,” Nancy says, already walking backward in front of us, eyes bright, hands moving like she’s conducting an orchestra. “I witnessed history. I will be telling this story at brunch for the next decade.”
“I think I need water,” Paige adds. “Or champagne. Or a shirt with your face on it.”
“I need you both to breathe,” I say, because that’s easier than saying I don’t know what just happened.
The staffer smiles professionally. “Green room’s this way.”
Green room. Of course it has a name.
The hallway narrows, the sound drops a notch, and suddenly everything feels off, like my body just realized it’s allowed to catch up. My pulse is steady but loud, a drumbeat I can feel in my throat now that no one’s cheering over it.
“You were so calm,” Paige says, clutching her chest. “Like, offensively calm. I would’ve tripped. I would’ve cried. I would’ve proposed marriage to at least two of them.”
“I was sitting down,” I remind her.
“That doesn’t matter,” Nancy says. “You commanded the chair.”
“I didn’t command anything,” I say. “I listened and asked questions.”
Nancy points at me. “That’s the problem. You asked them like a human being.”
The staffer opens a door. “You can wait here.”
The room is smaller than I expected. Beige couches. A folding table with bottled water and branded napkins. A coat rack that looks like it’s seen some things. It smells faintly like hairspray and coffee.
The door closes behind us.
Paige explodes.
“Oh my GOD,” she shrieks, dropping onto the couch. “THE WAY THE CROWD WENT QUIET.”
“They didn't go quiet,” I say automatically.
“They absolutely did,” Nancy says. “It was a different kind of loud. Like… listening loud.”
Paige fans herself. “Player Three’s voice? Illegal. I’m filing a complaint.”
I twist the cap off a water bottle and take a long drink, mostly to give my hands something to do. The plastic crinkles louder than it should.
My body still feels oddly detached. Like I left it onstage and picked it back up in the hallway.
I handled it.
That’s the strange part.
I didn’t fumble. I didn’t freeze. I didn’t feel the usual spike of anxiety that comes with public unpredictability. I sat. I listened. I asked. I chose.
“Okay,” Paige says, scooting closer. “Tell us everything you were thinking. From the moment the wall came down.”
“The wall didn’t come down,” I say.
“You know what I mean.”
I close my eyes for half a second, and it’s all right there again.
His answers.
Not flashy. Not rehearsed. No performance for the crowd.
The pauses.
The way he waited for the question instead of jumping over it.
The hug that was brief, respectful, intentional. No lingering. No claiming. Just a solid, grounding moment that said I see you without trying to own anything.
I open my eyes.
“I wasn’t thinking,” I say carefully. “That’s what surprised me.”
Nancy’s eyebrows lift. “That never happens.”
“Exactly.”
Paige grins. “So you chose him because he was hot.”
“I chose him because he listened,” I say.
The words hit me harder than I meant them to.
Paige’s smile slows. “Oh.”
Nancy tilts her head. “That’s… inconvenient.”
“I didn’t choose him because he was charming,” I add, because it feels important to clarify it even to myself. “I chose him because he didn’t try to be.”
No one says anything for a second.
Paige presses her lips together. “That’s worse.”
Before I can respond, the door opens again.
A PR rep steps in smoothly, like she’s been waiting for a lull.
“Sloane, congratulations,” she says brightly. “You did wonderfully.”
“Thank you,” I say, automatically polite.
She’s already flipping a tablet toward herself. “Just a few quick questions for the post-game interview while everything’s fresh. We’ll keep this light.”
Of course we will.
She launches in without waiting.
“Emphasize charity first in all responses. Smile, but not too much. Neutral enthusiasm. If asked about chemistry, deflect to shared values and the cause. No speculation about feelings, future, or exclusivity.”
Nancy makes a face behind her.
I nod. “Understood.”
“We’ll coordinate date logistics through your email,” she continues. “Location is pre-approved. Photographer will be present for part of it, but not the entire time. We’ll need a few posed shots for social, then candid shots taken from a distance.”
“That works,” I say.
She finishes with, “Great! Any questions?”
“No,” I say. “I’m clear.”
And I am. This world makes sense to me. Visibility. Framing. Control.
She nods once, satisfied, and slips back out like she was never there.
Paige stares at the door. “She just outlined your life like a checklist.”
“That’s what PR does,” I say.
Nancy leans in. “And you didn’t flinch.”
“I know the rules,” I say. “I’ve lived adjacent to them for years.”
Which is true.
But it doesn’t explain the tension under my skin now, the sense that something slipped sideways while I wasn’t watching closely enough.
There’s a knock, then the door opens again.
Two reporters this time, already mid-smile.
“Sloane! Quick question, what drew you to Player Three?”
I answer smoothly. “His answers felt thoughtful. This was about connection and charity, not showmanship.”
“And are you excited about the date?”
“I’m excited to support a great cause and have a conversation,” I say.
“Is this something you’d normally do?”
I smile, just enough. “Normally, I make strategic decisions. This was one of them.”
They laugh like that’s charming.
One of them leans in. “But off the record…”
“No,” the PR rep says instantly, materializing like she teleported. “There's no off the record.”
Nancy snorts.
The reporters retreat, unfazed, and the door closes again.
Paige claps once. “Awesome shut down.”
Nancy grins. “I’m stealing ‘strategic decisions’ for my dating bio.”
I sink back against the couch, finally letting my shoulders drop.
“I didn’t plan to feel… anything,” I admit, staring at the ceiling.
Paige softens. “Did you feel something?”
I choose my words carefully. “He surprised me.”
Nancy nods like that’s exactly what she expected. “That’s dangerous territory for you.”
“I’m not swept off my feet,” I say. “I’m not spiraling. I’m just... aware.”
Aware that Mason was confident.
Aware that Gregory was impressive.
Aware that Colby, Player Three, was present in a way that didn’t ask for applause.
He didn’t perform.
He didn’t posture.
He didn’t chase the crowd.
I chose the one who didn’t need to win.
My phone buzzes.
Once. Twice. Then it doesn’t stop.
Group chats. Mentions. Tags. A text from work. A message from someone I didn’t expect.
Paige peers over. “Oh wow. You’re trending.”
“I don’t trend,” I mutter.
Nancy smiles. “You do now.”
The noise of the arena seeps back in under the door, muffled but persistent.
I exhale slowly.
This was smart.
Contained.
Professional.
And somehow, it nudged something loose I hadn’t planned on touching yet.
Paige is the first one to break the moment.
“Okay,” she says, clapping her hands once like she’s calling a meeting to order. “Logistics. Because if I don’t ask, my brain is going to start writing fanfic and I don’t want that kind of accountability.”
Nancy nods immediately. “Yes. We need facts. Times. Locations. Boundaries. Ideally in bullet points.”
“I don’t have all of that yet,” I say. “PR said they’ll email.”
Paige groans. “I hate email. Email is where excitement goes to die.”
My phone buzzes again, like it heard her insult and took it personally. I glance down.
PR FOLLOW-UP: Date confirmed. Tomorrow night. 7:30 PM. Location forthcoming. Please confirm availability.
Tomorrow.
Not next week. Not ‘sometime soon.’ Tomorrow.
I type back CONFIRMED before I can think too hard about what that means.
Paige’s eyes widen. “Is that it? Is that the face of someone who just scheduled a date with a hockey captain?”
“It’s the face of someone who scheduled a work obligation,” I say.
Nancy smiles. “For yourself.”
“For charity,” I add.
Paige points at me. “You’re doing the thing.”
“What thing?”
“Where you treat human interaction like a calendar block,” she says. “Very efficient. Very concerning.”
I shrug. “It keeps things clear.”
Nancy studies me for a second. “Does it?”
I don’t answer right away.
Because here’s the thing.
I already know why I chose him. I just haven’t let myself sit with it yet.
Mason was confident in a way that filled the space.
Gregory was impressive in a way that wanted to be understood.
Colby didn’t try to take the room at all.
He waited.
He answered what was asked, not what would land best.
He didn’t chase the laugh or play to the cameras or lean into the fantasy of it.
He treated the moment like it mattered because a person was sitting across from him, not because thousands were watching.
I chose the one who didn’t perform.
That should’ve felt safe.
Instead, it felt… specific.
“Say it,” Paige says suddenly.
“Say what?”
“What surprised you,” she says. “Not the polished version. The real one.”
I stare at the water bottle in my hands, at the way the label’s starting to peel from where I’ve been twisting it.
“He didn’t rush,” I say finally. “He wasn’t trying to win. He wasn’t trying to get chosen. He just… showed up.”
Nancy nods slowly. “That’ll do it.”
“I don’t like that it did,” I add.
Paige smiles, almost fond. “Of course you don’t.”
My phone buzzes again.
This time it’s not PR.
It’s Raina.
RAINA: I just saw the clips. You look unreal. Also… is it bad that I’m excited about this?
Something warm and sharp cuts through me, sudden and inconvenient.
ME: It’s not bad. It’s good exposure.
I hesitate, thumb hovering over the screen.
RAINA: He seemed… solid.
I swallow.
ME: He was respectful.
That feels like the safest word I have.
Paige leans over my shoulder anyway. “She likes him.”
“It’s not about him,” I say automatically. “This helps the album.”
Nancy’s mouth curves. “It can be two things.”
“I don’t need it to be two things,” I say.
“Maybe,” Nancy says gently, “you don’t get to decide that part.”
The arena noise is louder now, like the night’s only just getting started for everyone else.
Eventually, we leave. Back through hallways that feel less electric now. Out into the cool air where the nervous energy finally has somewhere to go.
In the car, I kick off my heels and rest my head against the seat, phone glowing in my hand. Thank goodness Paige is driving.
Notifications keep coming.
Tags. Messages. Speculation.
Somewhere in the middle of it all is the quiet memory of his voice.
Not loud.
Not charming.
Just there.
I tell myself the same things again.
This was smart.
This was controlled.
This was professional.
It wasn’t reckless.
But it also wasn’t safe.
And as the car pulls away from the arena, I realize something that gives me a small jolt I don’t expect.
I’m looking forward to tomorrow.