Page 34 of Giving Chase

"But they do," I insist gently. "At least to me, they do."

Eliza sighs, running a hand through her hair in a rare display of vulnerability. "Chase, please. We can't... we've been over this."

I want to argue, to tell her that maybe it's time we stopped pretending, stopped hiding behind professionalism and caution. But before I can say anything, the door opens and Will pokes his head out.

"Everything okay out here?" he asks, his eyes darting between Eliza and me.

Eliza straightens, trying to slip her professional mask back into place, but I can see the cracks now. "Everything's fine. We were just discussing some final details about the performance."

As we head back into the rehearsal space, I can't shake the feeling that we're at a crossroads. The induction ceremony looms ahead, promising to dredge up years of history, of feelings we've both tried to bury.

And as I watch Eliza dive back into planning mode, expertly navigating the egos and ideas in the room, I realize something. No matter what happens on that stage, no matter what words I say in my speech, the real performance will be this – Eliza and me, pretending that what's between us is anything less than everything.

But as Jake starts to sing the opening lines ofBurning Bridges,his haunting voice filling the room, I make a silent promise to myself. This time, I won't let our story end in ashes. This time, I'll find a way to bridge the gap between us, no matter what it takes.

February 8, 2015

The Staples Center thrums with an energy that's almost palpable. I adjust my tie for the thousandth time, the designer suit feeling both foreign and empowering. Will nudges me, a grin splitting his face.

"Dude, stop fidgeting. We look good."

I manage a smile, but my stomach is in knots. We're up for three awards tonight: Best Rock Performance, Best Rock Song, and the big one - Best Rock Album. It's surreal, being here among the glitterati of the music world.

My eyes scan the crowd, inevitably drawn to her. Eliza sits a few rows ahead, looking stunning in a deep blue gown that makes her blonde hair shine like spun white gold. She turns, as if sensing my gaze, and gives me a small smile and nod. My heart does a familiar flip, and I have to remind myself:she knows how you feel. She's made her choice. You need to move on.

The ceremony passes in a blur of performances and awards. When they announce "Best Rock Performance," and our name is called, everything seems to move in slow motion. We're on our feet, hugging each other, and suddenly I'm moving down the aisle.

Without thinking, driven by pure adrenaline and joy, I stop at Eliza's row. Her eyes widen in surprise as I lean down and plant a quick, excited kiss on her lips. It's over in a second, but the shock of it reverberates through me as I continue to the stage.

As I approach the mic, my bandmates clustered around me, I'm acutely aware of what I've just done. But the euphoria of the win overshadows everything else. The words tumble out, thanking our families, our team, our fans.

And then I see Eliza in the audience, her fingers touching her lips, a mix of emotions playing across her face. I can't help myself.

"And finally," I say, my voice thick with emotion, "I want to thank someone who's been with us from the very beginning. Eliza Kerr, our manager, our rock. Without you, we wouldn't be standing here today. You saw something in us when no one else did, and you never stopped believing. This is as much yours as it is ours."

The applause swells, and as we're ushered offstage, I catch a glimpse of Eliza's face. She's blinking rapidly, clearly fighting back tears.

The night continues, a whirlwind of interviews and congratulations. We win Best Rock Song, and then, in a moment that feels like a dream, Best Rock Album.

This time, when I take the mic, I'm more composed. I talk about the journey of making the album, the late nights and creative struggles. But once again, I find my gaze drawn to Eliza.

"You know, they say behind every great band is a great manager. But Eliza Kerr isn't behind us - she's beside us, in front of us, showing us the way forward. She's the unsung hero of Incendiary Ink, and I want the world to know it."

The afterparty is a riot of celebration. Champagne flows freely, and everywhere I turn, there's another hand to shake,another back to pat. But through it all, I'm aware of Eliza's presence, both drawn to her and trying to maintain a respectful distance.

I finally spot her near the bar, deep in conversation with some industry bigwig. She excuses herself when she sees me approach, and for a moment, we just stand there, an awkward tension between us.

"Congratulations, Chase," she says softly. "You deserve this. All of it."

"We deserve this," I correct her. "I meant what I said up there, Eliza. We wouldn't be here without you." I pause, then add, "About earlier... I'm sorry if I overstepped. I got caught up in the moment."

Something flickers in her eyes – longing, maybe? -- before she masks it with a professional smile. "It's okay. It was... unexpected, but I understand. It's an emotional night."

I want to say more, to reignite the conversation about us, about what we could be. But I've said it all before, and I know where we stand. Instead, I raise my champagne glass. "To Incendiary Ink, and the best manager in the business."

Eliza clinks her glass against mine, her eyes never leaving mine. "To Incendiary Ink, and the most talented frontman I've ever worked with."

The moment is broken by Will, slinging an arm around my shoulders. "Come on, man! They want pictures with the Grammy winners!"

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