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9

ELLIOT

T he day of the gala arrives with alarming speed. One minute I’m helping Sarah with centerpieces, the next I’m staring at my reflection in my bathroom mirror, wondering if I’ve lost my mind agreeing to this.

Me. At a hockey charity gala. With Brody Carter as my date.

“Not a date,” I remind my reflection sternly. “Just two friends attending a work function together.”

My reflection looks skeptical.

My phone buzzes on the counter with a text from Sarah.

Stop panicking. You look gorgeous and it’s going to be fine.

How did you know I was panicking?

You always panic before events. I’ve known you for 5 years.

That’s disturbingly accurate timing.

I’ve set my watch by your anxiety schedule. Now finish your makeup. Carter will be there at 6:30 and I know you’re only halfway done with your eyeliner.

I glance at my reflection again. One eye perfectly lined, the other still bare. Damn her psychic abilities.

Stop spying on me through my bathroom window. It’s creepy.

Just predictable. See you at the gala. And Elliot? It really will be fine. Better than fine.

I hope she’s right. The last three years, I’ve carefully constructed a life that doesn’t intersect with the hockey world. Now I’m willingly walking back into it, in a red dress no less, on the arm of the team’s new star defenseman.

My phone buzzes again. Brody this time.

Just making sure we’re still on for tonight. No pressure if you’ve changed your mind.

His consideration makes my chest warm. He’s been like this the whole time—pushing just enough to keep me from retreating completely, but always giving me an out if I need it.

We’re still on. Though I may need you to bring a paper bag for hyperventilation purposes.

I’ll bring two. One for each of us. I’m told I clean up well in a tux, but these bow ties are instruments of torture designed by sadists.

YouTube has tutorials.

I’ve watched six. My fingers are apparently immune to tutorial knowledge. It’s just a mess of fabric and crushed dreams over here.

I can help when you get here. I used to tie Jason’s all the time.

As soon as I send it, I regret mentioning Jason. But Brody’s response comes quickly, without awkwardness.

My inadequate bow tie skills and I gratefully accept your expertise. See you at 6:30.

I finish my makeup with steadier hands, then slip into the burgundy dress. Sarah was right—it makes me feel powerful, confident in a way I haven’t at a formal event in years. The woman in the mirror looks like she belongs at a fancy gala. Like she might actually survive the evening without hiding in the bathroom.

At precisely 6:30, my doorbell rings. Taking a deep breath, I open the door to find Brody standing there in a perfectly fitted tux, looking like he stepped out of a magazine. His bow tie, however, is indeed a disaster—crooked and barely holding together.

“Wow,” he says, eyes widening as he takes me in. “You look... I don’t even have words.”

“Articulate as always, Carter,” I tease, but warmth floods my cheeks.

“I’d come up with better adjectives, but my brain stopped functioning the moment you opened the door.” His gaze is warm, appreciative without being leering. “You’re beautiful, Elliot.”

“You clean up pretty well yourself,” I reply, trying to ignore the flutter in my stomach. “Though your bow tie is a cry for help.”

He grins ruefully. “Told you. Complete disaster. I considered just wearing a normal tie, but Tommy said Sarah would murder me for violating the dress code.”

“She would,” I confirm. “She once made Tommy change his socks because they were navy instead of black. Come here.”

He steps closer, and I reach up to fix the disaster he’s made of his tie. The position puts us mere inches apart, his eyes never leave my face as I deftly rearrange the fabric.

“How do you manage to dress yourself for games?”

He tilts his chin up obligingly. “Hockey equipment is easier. Fewer opportunities for strangulation.”

“Hold still.” My fingers brush against his throat. His pulse jumps beneath my touch, a small victory I can’t help savoring. “For someone with such allegedly good hands on the ice, you’re remarkably uncoordinated with formal wear.”

“My hands have many talents,” he murmurs, gaze dropping to my lips. “Just different applications.”

“Is that so?” I keep my eyes on the tie, though I’m acutely aware of his proximity, the clean scent of his cologne, the warmth radiating from his body. “Care to elaborate?”

“I could demonstrate instead.” His voice drops to that register that sends heat spiraling through me. “After the gala.”

I give the finished bow tie a final adjustment, letting my fingers linger just a moment longer than necessary. “Promises, promises, Carter.”

His hands settle on my waist, light enough that I could step away if I wanted. I don’t. “I always follow through, Waltman. Unlike my bow tie skills, my follow-through is exceptional.”

“Exceptional, hmm?” I arch an eyebrow, enjoying the slight darkening of his eyes. “That’s quite a claim. I might need evidence.”

“Happy to provide a thorough presentation of my capabilities.” His thumbs trace small circles just above my hips. “Though it might make us late for the gala.”

“How late are we talking?” I ask, stepping fractionally closer.

His slow smile is nothing short of wicked. “Depends on how thorough you want the demonstration to be.”

“I am known for my attention to detail.”

“And I’m known for my stamina.” He bends slightly, lips brushing my ear. “Something to consider when we schedule this... performance review.”

I pull back just enough to see his face, enjoying the heat in his gaze. “I’ll take it under advisement. But for now, we have a gala to attend. Try not to destroy my handiwork before we arrive.”

“No promises. Not when you look like that in that dress.”

He offers his arm and I take a deep breath, before placing my hand there. “Ready for my close up, Mr. Carter.”

As we walk to his car, I realize that’s the truth. I’m not completely ready to face the hockey world again, to potentially run into people who knew me as Jason’s wife, to field curious looks and whispered comments.

But with Brody beside me, steady and supportive, I’m as ready as I could possibly be.

“By the way,” he says as he opens the car door for me, “if it gets to be too much, just tug your ear. I’ll fake a medical emergency and whisk you away. I’ve been practicing my ‘sudden calf cramp’ face all week.”

I laugh, tension easing from my shoulders. “Let me guess. It looks exactly like your ‘blocked a shot with my ankle’ face?”

“Similar, but with more theatrical groaning.” He demonstrates a pained grimace that’s so over-the-top I can’t help but laugh harder.

“Impressive. But let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“Agreed.” He closes my door and rounds the car to the driver’s side. As he slides in beside me, he gives me a sidelong glance. “For what it’s worth, I’m a little nervous too.”

“You? Mr. Professional Athlete who performs in front of thousands of people regularly?”

“Different kind of pressure,” he explains, starting the engine. “On the ice, I know exactly what I’m doing. At events like this, I’m always afraid I’ll use the wrong fork or spill wine on someone important.”

“Just follow my lead with the silverware,” I advise. “And maybe don’t drink red wine, just to be safe.”

“See? Already saving me from social disaster.” He grins at me. “We make a good team, Waltman.”

As we pull away from our townhomes, heading toward an evening filled with uncertainty, I’m surprised to find myself smiling back.

“Maybe we do, Carter. Maybe we do.”