We only calm down when we see a middle-aged guy heading toward us, his mouth pursed in concentration as he attempts to type on his smartphone while he walks. The wire of a microphone earpiece is tangled on the frame of his glasses, and he’s wearing a polo shirt that states, in bold letters, MANAGER. He only tears his attention away from the phone when he reaches the ticket booth. The worker points to me and gives a thumbs up, and the guy shoves the phone back in his pocket as he reaches out his other hand for a shake.
“So you’re the lucky winner,” he says, offering me a smile that looks forced and haggard. He introduces himself with a name I don’t quite catch, but then I see the smaller, embroidered letters on his polo: TONY ACCARDO, LEAD ARTIST MANAGER.
I accept the handshake and try not to pull back too quickly. Being surrounded by a crowd all evening has left my nerves ground down and raw, and physical contact is the last thing I want right now.
“I’m Ali Collins,” I tell him, and then point to Avery. “This is my friend Avery Summers.”
“Nice to meet you, Ali,” Tony says. As if he’s reading my mind, he shoots Avery an apologetic smile and says, “Sorry, but we can only bring the one winner on the tour.”
“That’s fine,” Avery says, and she gives me a stern glance as she adds, “Isn’t it?”
“Totally fine,” I agree with a sigh, realizing she’s not going to give me a chance to back out of this.
Tony nods a couple times and says to me, “Are you one of Jace’s UK fans? You sound like it. We’ve been seeing more tourists come to his concerts since Tone Deaf hit the charts over there.”
“No, I’m American,” I say, and then my entire face flushes red. Really, really red. I know because Avery winces a little, and Tony has to hide an amused smirk. I quickly explain, “I don’t really have an accent, I just kind of talk strange.” Seven years of not being able to hear your own voice does funny things to it. But Tony just cocks his head, clearly not understanding, so I add, “I’m deaf.”
Tony’s expression falls for a moment, then he quickly plasters on a smile. But he’s not quick enough for me to miss his reaction. I bet he’s thinking the same thing I am: Why should a deaf girl be the one to meet a music idol?
Tony slowly inclines his head toward the stage. “Well, come on. I’ll show you to Jace. He’s waiting backstage.” He tries to smile again, like this is exciting, but the expression comes off as almost nervous.
What, does he think I’m some crazed fan who’s going to go bonkers when I meet Jace? Maybe I should tell him the truth: that I’ve been mentored by some of the greatest pianists alive, and I know to act normal around celebrities. But I don’t say a word, because that was the past.
“I’ll wait for you in the parking lot,” Avery chirps, breaking into my thoughts. She tugs on my sundress, straightening it a little, and quickly signs, “You’re gorgeous and he’ll love you!” Then she waves and walks away, my good-bye trailing after her.
I officially have the best friend in the world. What other person could lose their chance at their life’s dream without a spark of jealousy? She’s amazing, and I vow to tell her that later.
But, for now, I have a rock star to hang out with.
Tony taps my shoulder to get my attention, and I quickly step away from his touch. I shoot him an apologetic smile, but he hardly seems to notice. He’s frowning now, although I’m not exactly sure what I’ve done to upset him.
Tony leads me toward the stage, and this time it’s much easier to make it through the crowd. He’s obviously an expert at navigating packed stadiums, and I follow carefully behind him as he nudges people out of the way and sidesteps the more intoxicated concertgoers. Tony gets us to the stage fast, and then he leads me up the stairs at its side and into the back. His shoulders grow tense as we pass people carrying lighting equipment and microphones.
I let my eyes roll. What is it about me that has Tony all anxious? I weigh a grand total of one hundred pounds. Even if I were some rabid fan, it’s not like I could ever do any damage to a musician who’s six foot two.
We turn a corner, moving down a small staircase and into the hallway behind the stage, and there he is. Jace Beckett, lead singer extraordinaire. Suddenly, my chest feels all tight and my stomach feels . . . fluttery. What the hell? Sure, the guy is hot, but that’s no excuse for my stomach to turn traitor.
Jace is leaning against a wooden panel, his electric guitar clutched in his hands. His body language is casual and cocky, but he holds the guitar carefully, like it’s some sort of Stradivarius. Well, at least he respects the instrument that made him famous.