Page 10

Nope.

They’re just standing there—silent, wide-eyed, like I’ve just declared myself Mayor of Cringeville, including my grumpy-ass elder brother who swore he would have my back.

And then, like the second-hand embarrassment isn’t bad enough, the speakers skip to the “Cha-Cha Slide.”

Are you fucking kidding me? We never talked about this!

I glance toward Harper, who gives me two thumbs up and mouths, “Do the slide!”

I shoot her a look that says, “I will fake an injury right now,” but she just keeps filming.

So, like a complete idiot, I start stepping to the left, stepping to the right, taking it back now, y’all, mouthing the words like my life depends on it.

And that’s when I realize… I’m not alone.

Slammy’s out there right behind me, crushing it.

The big bastard’s sliding, spinning, and moonwalking like he’s auditioning for So You Think You Can Mascot. His stupid foam feet somehow have more rhythm than I’ve had in my entire life.

And the crowd is losing their ever-loving minds.

My so-called friends and neighbors are on their feet, clapping along, chanting Slammy’s name like he’s the fucking main event,not me. Every cheer, every whoop, every goddamn cell phone light in the air is for the guy in the oversized hammer/man suit which we affectionately call the Mammer suit—not Brogan Foster, not BroFetti, not the desperate idiot cha-cha sliding for his career.

And because life is a sick joke, Slammy finishes with a backward worm that gets the biggest pop of the night.

I’m out here fighting for my life, and the fucking mascot just stole my soul.

It’s brutal. Worse than brutal. I’m one “cha cha real smooth” away from faking a groin pull just to get off the ice.

And that’s when Shep comes barreling out of the tunnel like he’s been shot out of a goddamn cannon.

“WOOOOOO!”

He skates past me, spins once, and starts twerking—twerking!—in the center of the rink.

The crowd starts to escalate, the din growing even louder, unsure if this is part of the bit or a full-blown mental breakdown.

And just when I think things can’t possibly get any worse, and that Britt will never be able to negotiate me a new contract, it happens.

BOOM!

A giant confetti cannon explodes above us, raining down black and silver paper like we’ve just won the Kelly Cup.

Shep throws his arms in the air like he’s Moses parting the sea, pointing to the rafters. “YEAH, BABY! THAT’S FOR ME!” he shouts, doing another lap, throwing fake kisses to the crowd.

And just like that, Lucinda’s frown is turned upside down. She even takes her top and pulls the deep V down a few inches until her ample tits are in danger of falling out.

For motherfucking Shep Sawyer.

Meanwhile, Harper’s doubled over, gasping, “BroFetti! Oh my god—BroFetti, you’ve done it!”

Bennett’s deadpan from the bench, not even cracking a smile. “Somebody take the phones away before this ends up on ESPN. Some of us take our careers seriously.”

In the sea of disapproval, my eyes desperately scan for Joely. Spotting her is like finding a lighthouse in a storm. Her face, open and concerned, offers a sliver of solace. For a moment, our eyes lock, and everything else falls away. The noise, the crowd, the sinking feeling of failure—it all fades.

In her chocolate brown eyes, I don’t see pity, just... understanding. It’s the kind of look that says she’s with me, in this moment, no matter how embarrassing it gets.

Pulling away from that comforting gaze, I skate over to Bennett, who’s managing to look both amused and sympathetic.