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Oliver raises an eyebrow. “You sure? You seem… distracted tonight.”

I glance toward the dance floor. Drew is teaching Jackson how to twerk. “Just a loton my mind.”

“Like whether Elliot will be mad if a cute guy gets to skate with you?”

I sigh. “He’s not going to be mad. He’s not that insecure.”

Oliver shrugs. “If you say so.”

I know Oliver means well—he always does—but sometimes his overprotectiveness can feel suffocating. Like right now, when all I want is to enjoy the last few minutes of dinner without worrying about the raffle or Elliot or the Ice Queen’s blog. “I appreciate your concern, but really, it’s all good.”

Oliver sits back and crosses his arms over his chest. “Okay.” There’s a pause before he changes the subject. “Did you hear that there’s been a switch-up to tonight’s routine? Instead of just calling out the names of the winners and which player they’ll skate with, now each player has to go up to the stage and take a professional photo with their winner.”

My stomach does a pirouette. “Seriously?”

“Yeah! Isn’t that awesome? More publicity for the team, plus the photos are going to be used in next year’s program.”

I glance down at my pink tuxedo and matching bowtie. What had seemed like a fun, ironic choice now feels like a glaring mistake. I suddenly wish I’d gone with something more traditional, like Oliver’s green getup—even that looks classy in comparison.

“Awesome,” I say, trying to match Oliver’s enthusiasm.

He stands and gives me a playful punch on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Gerard. You look fantastic. The fans are going to eat it up.”

I force a smile as he walks away, but my mind is already imagining Elliot’s face when he sees the picture of me in my ridiculous pink suit, grinning like an idiot next to some dude over the moon to be skating with Gerard Gunnarson. Skating is one thing; it’s innocent enough and can be written off as part of the event. But a photo makes it all so much more real.

My phone buzzes. Finally, it’s Elliot.

Elliot

How’s it going?

I step into the hallway, away from the clatter of dishes and hum of conversation, and text him back.

Me

Good. We just finished eating. About to do the raffle.

I picture him at the information desk, surrounded by towering stacks of books and the soft glow of his laptop. He pushes his glasses up his nose and types on his phone with that cute little frown he always wears.

Elliot

I wish I could be there.

Me

Me too. You sure you can’t sneak out?

Elliot

You know I can’t. Someone has to cover the night shift with Sarah.

I sigh. He’s right, of course, but it doesn’t stop me from wanting him here. This is the kind of thing I want to share with him—the tradition, the excitement, the memories we could make together.

Me

I’ll come straight over after. Promise.

Elliot