They say don’t meet your heroes.

For a moment this afternoon, I’d thought mine was going to leave me to die by the side of the road.

So, we didn’t get off to the best start. But when I caught him looking at the track on my phone, it was like the judgement fell away and a light went on. He studied the dips and valleys, the frequencies that together made the sounds.

When Jax’s eyes closed, I tried to write an email to let Professor Carter know about my internship. We only have a few weeks left to finalize my Spark competition submission, and we’ll have to do it by email.

I couldn’t focus, and it wasn’t the motion of the spacious car cruising down the interstate or the growling of my stomach after realizing I hadn’t had lunch today.

It was because I was being a girl.

Sneaking looks at Jax.

How a guy pulls off looking manly while holding a LEGO set, I’ll never know.

Serena would’ve winked if she’d been in the car.

When Jax and I roll into Pittsburgh, he’s swept away for interviews by a determined Nina, leaving me to find the elusive Jerry.

The empty arena is a cavernous testament to technology and scale and the demands of mankind to be entertained.

The sound booth is at the back and midway up the rows of seats. It has a killer view of the stage. Even with twenty thousand people, it will. That thought sends chills running through me.

I stand behind the board. It’s a mix of old and new. Mechanical and digital. A wall of computer screens interfaces with the switches and dials.

I feel even more out of my element than before.

“Billy Joel.”

I jump at the raspy voice behind me. Its owner’s hunched shoulders make him look even older, and shorter, than he really is. The man is stocky, wearing a faded black T-shirt and black jeans. His face is faded too and lined. But the blue eyes set between the creases are clear.

“The first concert I did here. Billy Joel.”

“It must have been incredible. I’m Haley. You must be Jerry.”

His nod is more like a bob. His hands look like crumpled paper. Rough on the surface, fragile underneath.

“You’re my new assistant.” He says it with a dry chuckle. I wait for him to strip me down, tell me I’m not needed or wanted, but all he does is scratch a patch of silver hair on his head. “You ever used a board like this?”

“No. I mostly use a DAW. Started on Logic, moved to Ableton.”

He makes a face. “Digital. This handles more than a hundred tracks. Twelve for drums alone.”

My gaze runs over the board. For the first time since this morning, I feel something flirting with my consciousness.

Comprehension. Just out of reach but nearer than it’s been during this crazy day.

“No backup tracks?”

“Everything is live. Every drum beat, every guitar riff comes from that stage and through here.” He reaches out to tap the board, his red plaid shirt following the movement.

He tells me a series of numbers for the guitars, mic, bass, which I commit to memory.

“What about the opening act?” I ask.

“What about them?”

“I met five musicians on the bus. We have Lita”—I point at the board—“her guitarist, bassist, drums. Where’re her keys?”

Jerry shifts over to make room, then talks me through the specs sheet of the equipment we’re using. Frequency response, SPL output, dispersion.

I know all the terms, but I’ve never seen the equal of this equipment. I try to absorb all of it, my brain firing on every cylinder.

Part of me wonders if I should make notes, but I’m more of a visual person, so I try to soak up every piece of the desk that looks like it could fly the Enterprise.

Not the Kirk version. Definitely the Picard one.

Maybe even Archer.

“Help me with those cords, will you?”

I reach over to where he’s pointing and start removing zip ties from the equipment. “So how do you know how to get the right sound in a venue? Is it based solely on the specs, or do you talk to other sound engineers?”

I pull up a window on my phone to look for venue info, but he holds up a hand. “I’ve mixed thirty shows in Wells Fargo.”

I lower the phone, slow.

Jerry shifts back against the low wall that separates the booth from the surrounding seats, his arms folding over his thick chest. For a second I wonder if he’s forgotten about me. But he says, “I have an idea. Watch tonight from up there.” He points at the stage.

“Backstage?”

“To know what’s working, you need to see the audience. That’s your job tonight—to watch.”

Shit. I think I might be having a cardiac arrest.

I’m too young to die of a heart attack. But then, it’s too much to ask me to internalize the excitement of watching a Jax Jamieson show from backstage.

On stage, the roadies are setting up, along with the lighting techs and the guitar and keyboard techs. It’s orchestrated chaos. Some of it will be for the opening act, but most of it’s for the main event.

The next hour flies by in last-minute fixes before I’m pushed backstage as the fans fill the space.

All of it transfixes me. The setup is completed with a jerky efficiency, but it might as well be the finest ballet.

Lita’s band plays first, and I’m hypnotized. She’s really damn good. I watch her get her final applause and unplug her guitar.

Once the curtain falls, the crew takes over. Unplugging and plugging cords. Rearranging equipment.

“You lost, babysitter?”

The one-in-a-million voice has me turning to find Jax behind me for the second time today.

This time, I should be prepared.

You’re so not.

He’s dressed in black from head to toe. His body is hard and lean and sculpted, and I wish I could pull a Dr. Strange just to freeze time and check out every muscle one by one.

His hair’s got some kind of product in it, and I’m pretty sure he has stage makeup on.

Those amber eyes are the same.

I always thought Jax Jamieson gutted people with his voice. I’m starting to think he could do it with that stare alone.

“Jerry said I could watch from up here,” I say.

“Did he?”

I’m getting better at not melting into a pile of stuttering goop when he challenges me. It’s something I’ll have to practice if I’m going to be here for a month.

On stage, the crew is finishing up. Kyle takes his spot behind the drums, doing a visual check. Brick sets up behind his bass on the far side of the stage. Mace leaves his guitar unplugged as his fingers warm up over the strings. He’s muttering to himself.

“He okay?” I ask.

“He’ll survive. But apparently Emperor Palpatine’s throne broke off and went AWOL in transit today.”

I remember the Death Star that’d ridden along with us. “Crap. And he blames it on you.”

“Nah. I told him it was your fault.”

My jaw drops. “Why would you do that?”

“Man doesn’t get his Snickers, he’s bound to do some crazy shit.” Jax strides past me, shaking his head as he takes the stage.

Was that a joke? I remember from a media interview that he’s supposed to have a dry sense of humor, but right now I’m not sure.

Still, I can’t take my eyes off him as he lifts his guitar from its rack, shifting it over his head with the easy grace of someone who does it as effortlessly as walking.

My skin’s tingling everywhere. Not in a bad way, a good one.

The crowd can’t even see him yet, and they’re going crazy in the darkness.

He’s in his own world. Walking a slow circle, his eyes closed, he stops in front of the mic, dropping his head back.

He could be a Western gunslinger or a gladiator. The confidence. The competence.

Then the curtain rises.

The venue explodes, the roar filling my ears.

Jax looks immune, but when he lifts his head, opens his eyes, the roar gets louder.

The sea of people is marked by grins and bouncing and excitement.

But like yesterday in the interview room, my attention drags back to the man on the stage.

Jax’s profile is in sharp relief, his strong nose and chin outlined against the powerful stage lights.

There’s no music, no talking, just screaming that takes a moment to fade.

When it does, the arena is quiet.

Jax shifts imperceptibly closer to the mic stand. His gaze drops to the big, square mic as though he can see inside it. As though he knows every inch of it well enough to recreate it in his mind.

It’s a million degrees next to the stage, but my arms are pebbled with goose bumps.

His lips part, his chest rising. He’s the only one breathing in the entire venue.

And then…

A single note, low and raw, splits the silence.

The tension shatters. The quiet too, as twenty thousand people recognize the hit song and erupt into cheers.

My lips fall open, but I can’t hear any sound that comes out.

I’m reminded in an instant why Jax Jamieson’s a damned magician.

Not because his songs are perfect. Because they’re real.

The program I’m building can’t explain the kind of genius this man brings when he writes a song.

But every line, every verse, every chord touches me like nothing else does. The vibration fills me, owns me, in a way no person ever has.

It takes a moment to realize Nina’s next to me, looking relaxed for the first time since the truck broke down.

“It’s not always easy,” she comments, the beatific smile making her look more like a Dove commercial than a tour manager. “But in these moments? It’s worth it.”