Chapter 21 Sloane
Chapter twenty-one
Sloane
“Fan Appreciation Night, baby!”
The voice comes from somewhere above me, bright and booming through the speakers as I thread my way along the concourse with a lanyard digging into my neck and my phone glued to my palm.
I don’t look up. I don’t have time.
“Stick around after the final horn,” the announcer continues, milking every syllable like he gets paid by the exclamation point, “because we’ve got free T-shirts, giveaways all night, and a very special performance from Nashville’s own Raina…”
I wince automatically at the way he hits her name like a drum.
“... who will be performing between the second and third periods, and again after the game. You heard me right. Don’t leave early. You’ll regret it.”
I pass the merch stand, the smell of buttery popcorn and fried something punching me in the face, and I mouth the words along with him because I’ve heard this script twelve times today.
Between second and third.
Encore after.
Free shirts.
Keep your eyes on the big screen.
If this goes well, it’s huge for Raina.
If it goes badly, it’s huge for Raina.
That’s the problem with “huge.”
A security guard at the tunnel entrance lifts the rope for me without being asked. “Ms. Carter?”
“Hi, yes.” I flash my badge like it’s a weapon.
He smiles. “Busy night.”
“You have no idea.”
He probably does. It’s an arena. Everyone has an idea.
I step into the belly of the building and the sound shifts instantly. The crowd noise becomes a muffled roar behind concrete. The air smells like ice and rubber and expensive cologne.
My phone vibrates.
Raina: Tell me again where the stage will be. I’m so nervous, I think I’m going to vomit.
Me: It’s not on the ice. First set is in the stands, in section 114, remember? You’ll be surrounded by people, not ice. You will not vomit. You are a star. Stars do not vomit.
She sends a skull emoji.
Of course she does.
I tuck the phone against my palm and keep moving.
Tonight is the kind of night I used to chase when I was starting out. The kind that makes an artist look like they belong in rooms they’re still afraid to enter. The kind that turns one song into a whole new tier of opportunity.
It’s my job to make it look effortless.
It’s also my job not to think about the fact that Colby will be skating on the ice tonight, and is the reason my stomach has been in a low-grade spin for days.
I shouldn’t be thinking about him.
I shouldn’t be counting the hours since his last real message.
I shouldn’t be looking for him.
Which is why the second I step out near the tunnel and catch a glimpse of him through the open doorway, my whole body betrays me.
He’s in full gear, helmet off, jaw tight, shoulders broad in that effortless way that makes him look like the rink was built around him.
He’s focused, eyes are on the flag as the national anthem is about to begin.
His body is still except for the subtle roll of his shoulders like he’s already inside the game.
And it hits me like a flash of cold water.
Because I don’t know who I’m dealing with anymore.
The Colby who parked with the engine off and talked to me until the windows fogged.
The Colby who texted first.
The Colby who didn’t mind that nothing between us was labeled as long as it was real.
Or the Colby who now answers like he’s choosing every word with tweezers.
I force my eyes away and keep walking.
Work, Sloane.
I’ve got a headset in my ear by the time I reach the stage area. The production crew is already there, checking cables, adjusting lights, taping down edges that no one is allowed to trip over.
A man in black joggers and a headset sees me and points. “You’re Sloane?”
“Yes.”
“Stage manager. Dave.” He offers a hand.
I shake it. “Hi, Dave.”
He gestures toward a cluster of lights and truss rigging visible above the lower bowl. “Stage is set up here in section 114. When the horn sounds, the announcer will direct the crowd there and we’ll bring the lights up. She walks on when he says her name. Clean and simple.”
I nod, cataloging every word even as a slow, familiar dread curls in my stomach.
“Her audio’s already dialed,” he continues. “Monitors are good. House mics are good. She’s got her in-ears?”
“She has them.”
“Good. Remember this is between the second and third periods.”
“Perfect,” I say, because that is the word I say when I am one missed cue away from combusting.
“Great. House will be loud. She needs to hit her mark and smile like she owns the place.”
I nod.
Smile like she owns the place.
That’s what I tell Raina.
It’s not what I know how to do tonight.
Because I’m in the same building as Colby Hayes and I can’t tell if he’s mad at me, hurt by me, or already halfway out the door.
Or if he’s waiting for me to say something brave.
Or if I missed the window.
***
The puck drops at 7:05pm.
The Outlaws come out fast.
They’re flying.
The crowd is loud in that electric way Nashville does best, like everyone showed up already halfway drunk and ready to scream.
I keep my focus where it belongs.
On the game.
On the timing.
On the fact that Raina has this great gig tonight that will help her record sales.
Not on Colby.
Except.
I can’t not see him.
He’s everywhere.
He’s the center of every shift.
He’s the guy the crowd reacts to even when he’s just gliding, even when he’s just setting up, even when he’s just existing.
The first period is a blur of bodies, boards and noise.
The Outlaws’ forecheck is aggressive. The opposing defense looks rattled. There’s a scrum in the corner that draws a roar from the stands.
I’m tracking it all with half my attention while the other half is counting minutes.
At twelve minutes in, Colby takes a pass at the blue line and does that thing he does where he makes a split-second decision look like choreography.
He cuts inside.
A defender reaches.
Colby shifts his weight, quick and controlled, and slips past.
My breath catches before I can stop it.
He shoots.
The puck snaps past the goalie and the red light flashes.
The building erupts.
My heart jumps like I’m one of them.
Like I’m a fan.
Like I haven’t been pretending this is just work.
Colby throws his arms up, gloved hands high, and for a second he looks… happy.
Then his teammates crash into him.
Dex is first. Of course he is.
Mason piles on.
Gabriel skates up late, calm as ever, and taps Colby’s helmet like he’s blessing him.
I blink hard.
Stop it.
Stop reacting.
Stop caring.
But my face aches with the ghost of a smile.
Because even when I’m spiraling, I know greatness when I see it.
And he just put it on display.
The announcer’s voice booms over the speakers.
“And that is why Colby Hayes wears the C!”
The crowd roars again.
My phone vibrates.
Raina: Did he just score??
Me: Yes. Don’t look. Stay focused.
Raina: I looked.
Me: Of course you did.
She sends a string of fire emojis.
I tuck the phone away, trying to breathe through the weird tightness in my ribs.
Because that goal shouldn’t affect me.
But it does.
It makes him feel closer.
It makes the building feel smaller.
It makes me remember what it feels like to be swept into something bigger than your plan.
The rest of the period plays out, fast and physical. The opposing team tries to answer. The Outlaws’ defense holds.
From where I'm sitting in the lower part of Section 114, I catch flashes of Colby between shifts, with his helmet off at the bench, drinking water, eyes sharp.
Once, he laughs at something Bryce says.
Once, he leans toward Gabriel and says something that makes Gabriel elbow him.
Once, his gaze lifts.
Just a fraction.
Like he’s scanning the boards.
Like he’s looking for someone.
My stomach drops.
I look away first.
The horn sounds at the end of the first.
One-nothing.
Good start.
I exhale, realizing I’ve been holding my breath.
In the break, I move.
I check with Dave.
I check with the sound tech.
I check with the security escort.
I check with Raina’s assistant to make sure her jacket is ready and her in-ears are charged.
I do everything I can to make sure the next part of the night runs smoothly.
Because if I keep moving, I don’t have to feel.
***
The second period starts and the energy stays high.
The opposing team pushes harder.
The Outlaws answer.
Colby takes a hit along the boards and bounces off like the boards apologized.
I hate that my first thought is:
Are you okay?
My second thought is worse.
He hasn’t texted me in days.
The second period is messy in a good way. It’s more physical, more chippy. The refs are letting them play. The crowd loves it.
I’m watching for the clock as much as the puck now.
Because I have a performance to manage and the horn is coming whether I’m ready or not.
At sixteen minutes, a fight breaks out near the net.
Dex is in the middle of it, of course.
Mason is grinning like he’s having the time of his life.
Colby skates in, not wild, not reckless, but just controlled authority. He separates bodies with his forearm, says something I can’t hear.
Everyone calms.
Not because they want to.
Because he told them to.
That’s what being captain looks like.
Dex doesn’t back down, though. He chirps something I can’t hear, the opposing forward fires right back, and suddenly gloves are coming up.
The whistle shrieks.
The crowd explodes into boos as both of them get hauled toward the box, Dex still talking even as the ref points him off.
Coach is on his feet instantly, shouting from the bench, arms chopping the air. I can’t hear the words, but I don’t need to. The message is clear: focus. Lock it down. Don’t get sloppy.
Play resumes and the tension is high as we are nearing the end of the period.
And this time, the other team capitalizes.
A quick pass through traffic. A rebound. A puck that slips past the pad before the goalie can seal the post.
The red light flashes again.
But not for us.
The building groans as one.
One–one.
There are six minutes left, but I can't watch anymore.
My whole body goes alert.
This is it.
I move with purpose, headset snug, heart pounding.
Raina is already near the stage, wrapped in a long coat that hides her outfit, her cheeks flushed.
“You’re good,” I tell her, taking her hands for a second. “You’re ready.”
She swallows. “I’m going to throw up.”
“You’re not.”
“I am.”
“You’re a star,” I repeat.
She makes a face. “Stars probably throw up all the time.”
“Not on stage,” I say. “Not tonight.”
Dave gives me a thumbs-up from the corner.
The horn sounds to end the second.
The crowd rises.
And somewhere above, the jumbotron switches graphics.
A huge title flashes:
FAN APPRECIATION NIGHT
Under it:
RAINA — LIVE
The roar swells.
Raina’s eyes widen.
I squeeze her hand once.
“Smile like they're here just for you,” I whisper.
She exhales. “Okay.”
Then she steps forward.
And as she does, the arena host’s voice rises again, bright and loud:
“Alright, Nashville, don’t go anywhere. You asked for it, you got it. Here she is…”
I take my position behind the stage, eyes tracking every light cue and every camera sweep.
This part I know how to handle.
Music. Timing. Crowd energy.
I can manage all of that.
What I can’t manage is the knot forming low in my stomach, the awareness that at some point tonight, paths might cross.
That I might run into Colby in a hallway or near the tunnel or somewhere there’s nowhere to hide.
I don’t know if he’ll look at me.
I don’t know if he’ll walk past like I’m just another face in the building.
All I know is that by the end of the night, I won’t be able to keep pretending I don’t care what happens next.