He froze before shoving his hands in his pockets. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“I have some things to wrap up at the office,” she said firmly, beeping her lock open. “I’ll let you know who E.M.M.A. suggests would be the perfect match for you. I think we are really on the right path here.”
“Wait, Harri—”
“Good night,” Harriet said in a tone that brokered no further conversation. “I’ll text you with updates. Stay tuned.”
With that, she bolted into her car. Gale watched as she reversed out of the parking space and disappeared down the street, a little over the speed limit.
“Shit,” he muttered, clenching one hand into a fist. A surge of frustration coursed through him, but he caught himself before acting on the impulse to walk over and punch the nearby brick wall. The last thing he needed was someone snapping a picture and sending it to the tabloids. He could already envision the sensational headline: “Dark Knight: A Threat to the Regals’ Playoff HopesandPublic Safety?”
No thanks.
His mind raced, a whirlwind of emotions leaving him dizzy. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots in frustration.Get it together.The real issue wasn’t some stupid algorithm—it was her. The pull he felt, the one he’d been fighting forever, the one that had him practically vibrating out of his skin.
Of course he found her magnetic—the way her nose scrunched up when she laughed, how her eyes lit up talking about her work. But he couldn’t go there. She was Brooke’s best friend. His friend too. And getting tangled up while working on her project and his performance? Recipe for disaster.
And if her creation said his perfect match was someone else... shouldn’t that mean something?
Besides, those kisses could’ve just been... kisses. People hooked up. Left it there. Maybe he was the idiot reading into every smile, every time their eyes caught and held.
He was a big boy. He could handle this. Had to. Keep it professional, or at least try not to act on whatever this was. He wasn’tsome lovesick teenager, but damn—he’d do just about anything to keep her happy.
An hour later, Gale sank into his leather couch, his hair still damp from a long chilly shower. As the tension in his shoulders eased, Deke and Biscuit mewed softly from the box with Little Mama in it—cozy on their heating pad.
His phone buzzed. Harriet. His heart did its usual little jump at her name. “Get it together, man,” he muttered as he opened the message:
Harriet:Are you ready? I got some exciting news from E.M.M.A.!
Gale’s brow furrowed. He typed back:Oh? What’s up?
Harriet:As expected, E.M.M.A. found your perfect match! And you won’t believe who it is...
A knot formed in his stomach. He didn’t want to know any more.
Gale:Ok...
Harriet:It’s Seraphim! THE Seraphim! “Polaroid Daydream,” “Siren,” and “Undertow” Seraphim. Nominated for a Grammy last year. That’s incredible, right?
Gale blinked, rereading the message. Seraphim? The pop star? He was supposed to go on a date with her?
Gale:Very funny.
Harriet:I’m serious! E.M.M.A.’s algorithms are strong on this point. Oh, and I may have passed the info to your manager...??
“Well, shit,” Gale muttered.
Seraphim. Everyone knew Seraphim. Hell, you’d have to be living under a rock not to. Her songs dominated the airwaves, her face plastered across billboards and magazine covers. She was more than just a singer—she was a cultural phenomenon.
Gale’s mind flashed through what he knew about her. Famously kind to fans, and sharp and witty in interviews. Donated to charities. A Grammy? Or was it three? The woman who could sell out stadiums in minutes, whose every social media post sent fans into a frenzy of decoding hidden messages and Easter eggs.
What would they even talk about? “Hey, nice song about your ex. Wanna hear about my stats?” The similarities between choreographing a dance routine and running drills at practice? The subtle differences between a power ballad and a power play?
His phone screen glowed accusingly in the dim room, cursor blinking like a metronome counting down to a decision he wasn’t ready to make. The truth sat heavy on his chest: he wanted to dateHarriet. But watching her AI play matchmaker with the enthusiasm of a proud parent felt like a knife twisting in his gut. How could he tell her that her creation’s perfect match algorithm had failed in the most ironic way possible—by matching him with anyone but her?
And Seraphim... she deserved better than to be some AI’s idea of destiny. She was a real person, not a variable in an equation. The thought of using her as a distraction from his feelings for Harriet made him feel hollow.
He wandered over to the kitten’s box and lightly pet LittleMama, curled around her babies, while imagining locker room fallout if this went ahead: Tuck would be unbearable, probably serenading the whole team with off-key renditions of “Siren” while Orlenko lobbied to get her to sing the national anthem. Coach would give him that look—the one that said “I don’t care if you’re dating the Queen of England as long as you can still stop a puck.”
