Page 69 of Holiday Interference
Then: “Noelle? This is Sloane Carrington.”
My stomach drops out, and my heart jerks like it just skipped a step.
I sit upright, the blanket sliding off my shoulders in a whisper of flannel and cotton. The chill in the air hits my skin like a slap, but I barely register it.
“Yes—hi,” I say, voice pitched high before I reel it in. I clear my throat, trying to sound composed. “Good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon. Listen, I just wanted to thank you for how you handled the holiday event last week. I’ve received nothing but positive feedback—about the atmosphere, the pivot during the weather, the guest flow. You handled it all with professionalism and calm under pressure.”
A warm flush rises under my skin, crawling from my collarbone to my ears.
Her words shouldn’t affect me like this. Not after a decade of running point for high-level clients. But it’s been a long time since someone saw the full scope of what I do and didn’t just smile politely and ask me to “handle it.”
“That means a lot,” I say, my voice softer now.
“I was impressed. My team was impressed.”
I press my palm flat against my thigh, grounding myself. The worn cotton of my sleep pants catches under my skin. My pulse thuds under my ribs.
“We’re looking to make some changes this season,” she continues. “New energy. Fresh leadership in community engagement and in-arena fan experiences. We’re looking for someone who knows how to read a room and how to run one. You’ve got a talent for both.”
My fingers go a little numb around the phone.
The compliment is professional, measured. But something in it makes my chest expand like I’ve just stepped into clean air after holding my breath too long.
I nod before I remember she can’t see me. “That’s…wow. Thank you so much. I’m honored.”
“My team and I would love to talk more with you,” she says. “In person, if you’re open to it.”
I nod before I remember she can’t see me. “I’d love that,” I say quickly, the words tumbling out before my fear can catch up. “When would be a good time?”
“There’s a home game this Saturday,” Sloane says. “I’ll leave a pass for you at Will Call. Come as my guest. Watch the game. We can chat before the game.”
My heart gives a traitorous stutter.
A game.
He’llbe there.
Of course he will.
The Vipers arehisteam. His ice, his world.
And the moment she saidnext home game, I pictured him in that black jersey with the venom green trim, jaw set, eyes locked in that same don’t-look-away stare that made me feel bare and lit up all at once.
My fingers tighten around the phone. My skin prickles with memory—his hands, his voice, the way his mouth felt on mine like he’d memorized me already.
I feel it all like a match head strike in my bloodstream. A flare I wasn’t ready for.
“Absolutely,” I say, grateful for how steady I manage to sound. “I’ll be there.”
“Looking forward to it,” she says, and then she’s gone.
I set the phone down slowly, screen still glowing in my hand like an aftershock.
The room feels too quiet now. Nothing but the hum of the heater, the faint clink of wind against the window. My heartbeat thudding in my ears.
The edges of my blanket are bunched under my arms. My chest rises too fast and too shallow. The hum in my blood kicks up a notch, part adrenaline, part fear, part something I don’t have a name for yet.
