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7

ELLIOT

“I ’m only doing this because I love you,” I announce as I enter the event space, arms laden with Sarah’s emergency planning kit—three tote bags stuffed with supplies that apparently no charity gala could function without.

“And because I have photographic evidence of you doing karaoke to ‘Baby Got Back’ at my bachelorette party,” Sarah replies cheerfully, not looking up from her clipboard.

“That too.” I set the bags down on a table covered in seating charts and sample centerpieces. “Though I maintain I was drugged.”

“With two glasses of pinot grigio?” Sarah finally looks up, eyebrow raised. “You’re a lightweight, but you’re not that much of a lightweight.”

“Drugged by your enthusiasm, then. It’s infectious and possibly illegal in several states.”

Sarah snorts. “Just admit you secretly wanted to sing about big butts in front of strangers.”

“I’ll admit no such thing.” I glance around the ballroom of Phoenix’s most exclusive hotel. “So what exactly am I helping with? Because if it involves talking to hockey people, I’m going to need more than mild blackmail as motivation.”

“Relax.” Sarah hands me a stack of place cards. “You’re on table arrangements and centerpiece assembly. Minimal human interaction required.”

“Perfect. Just how I like my volunteer work.”

“Though...” Sarah’s innocent tone immediately puts me on alert. “The team wives committee might stop by later to approve the flower choices.”

“Sarah.”

“What? I didn’t plan it! They’re on the gala committee. It’s literally their job to approve things.”

I fix her with a glare that she blithely ignores, turning back to her clipboard. “Which wives exactly?”

“Don’t worry, all post-Jason era.” She makes a checkmark on her list. “None of them were around during... you know.”

“The Great Adultery Scandal?” I supply dryly. “You can say it. I won’t shatter.”

“Fine. None of them were around when your ex-husband decided to sleep with anything in a yoga outfit.” She looks up with a grimace. “Sorry. Too far?”

“Accurate summary, actually.” I pick up a centerpiece mock-up—an arrangement of hockey sticks and lilies that manages to be both tacky and oddly elegant. “So I’m just placing these monstrosities on tables and writing out name cards?”

“Yes. And before you criticize the centerpieces, remember they raised twelve thousand dollars last year through the silent auction.”

“I reserve the right to silently judge while placing them.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.” Sarah hands me a diagram of the ballroom with table numbers. “Blue dots are where centerpieces go. Red dots are for candles. Don’t mix them up or we’ll have a fire hazard situation.”

“Because nothing says ‘charity gala’ like flaming hockey sticks?”

“Exactly.”

I settle into the tedious but straightforward task, grateful for the solitude. The ballroom is mostly empty, with only a few hotel staff setting up chairs and sound equipment. Sarah buzzes around like a caffeinated hummingbird, alternating between her phone, her clipboard, and barking orders at the lighting crew.

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

How are the gala preparations going? Has Sarah gone full dictator mode yet?

She made a waiter cry five minutes ago because he suggested changing the napkin color. So yes, full dictator mode achieved.

Classic Sarah. What job did she assign you? Human sacrifice to the hockey gods?

Centerpiece placement. Apparently I’m trusted with floral arrangements but not human interaction.

Wise choice on her part. Your people skills are questionable at best.

Says the man who regularly gets paid to body-check strangers.

That’s not a people skill, that’s an art form.

I snort, earning a curious glance from a passing waiter.

Shouldn’t you be at practice or lifting heavy things while grunting or whatever it is you do during the day?

Just finished lifting heavy things WHILE grunting, thank you very much. Very productive session. Now I’m eating my bodyweight in protein and thinking about you.

The last three words make my heart do an annoying little flutter that I immediately try to suppress.

Multitasking. Impressive for a hockey player.

I aim to impress.

I’m still smiling at my phone like an idiot when I hear an all-too-familiar voice behind me.

“Elliot? Elliot Waltman?”

I freeze, centerpiece suspended mid-air, before slowly turning around. Standing there in designer athleisure and perfect highlights is Melissa Cooper, wife of veteran defenseman David Cooper—and former close friend of Jason’s ex-mistress Amber. Fantastic.

“Melissa,” I say with a polite smile that feels like it might crack my face. “How... unexpected.”

“Oh my god, it IS you!” She looks genuinely shocked. “Sarah didn’t mention you were helping with the gala!”

Because Sarah knows I would have fled the country if I’d known you’d be here. “Just lending a hand with decorations.”

“That’s so great.” Her smile seems sincere, which is somehow more unsettling than hostility would be. “It’s been what, three years?”

“Something like that.” Three years, two months, and approximately sixteen days since I last attended a hockey function, but who’s counting?

“You look amazing,” she gushes, with the slightly patronizing tone of someone surprised that divorce hasn’t left me visibly withered. “Are you still doing that editing thing?”

“Technical editing, yes. Still paying the bills.” Unlike your job of spending your husband’s money on Botox, I don’t add.

“Good for you.” She glances around conspiratorially before leaning closer. “You know, we were all on your side after everything happened. What Jason did was just...” She makes a disgusted face. “Total pig behavior.”

“Thank you?” I reply, unsure how else to respond to this bizarre rewriting of history. The hockey wives had definitely not been “on my side” during the divorce, though most had remained studiously neutral to avoid taking sides publicly.

“Is that why you’re helping with the gala? Getting back into the hockey world?”

“Just helping a friend,” I say firmly. “Sarah needed an extra pair of hands.”

“Of course, of course.” She nods like this makes perfect sense. “Though I did hear a rumor...”

Here it comes.

“...that you might be seeing someone on the team?” Her eyes gleam with poorly disguised hunger for gossip.

“Where did you hear that?” I ask, keeping my voice neutral.

“Oh, you know how locker rooms talk.” She waves dismissively. “Someone mentioned you were at Manuel’s taco truck with Carter last week. The new defenseman? Or I guess not new to Phoenix, he played here before, but new this season?”

I’m going to murder Brody for taking me to a known hockey player hangout. Slowly. With his own hockey stick.

“We’re neighbors,” I say, which is technically true. “He was showing me his favorite taco place.”

“Neighbors? How convenient.” She gives me a knowing smile that makes me want to shove the centerpiece down her throat. “Well, he’s certainly an upgrade from Jason. Those shoulders, right?”

My phone buzzes again, saving me from having to respond to Melissa’s assessment of Brody’s shoulders (which are, admittedly, impressive, but that’s beside the point).

“Sorry, I should check this,” I say, not sorry at all.

How’s it going over there? Need a rescue? I could fake an emergency. “Help, my hockey stick is stuck in a tree” or something equally believable.

I almost laugh out loud.

“Everything okay?” Melissa asks, trying to peek at my screen.

“Fine. Just work.” I slip my phone back into my pocket. “I should really finish these centerpieces before Sarah has a meltdown.”

“Oh, of course!” Melissa steps back but doesn’t leave. “It’s so good seeing you, Elliot. You should come to the team brunch sometime. All the wives and girlfriends get together monthly. Very casual.”

The idea of voluntarily attending a “wives and girlfriends” brunch makes my skin crawl. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Great! And I’ll see you at the gala, right? Sarah mentioned you’d be attending.”

“Yes, I’ll be there.” With Brody, though I’m not giving her that ammunition.

“Wonderful!” She gives me a little finger wave. “I should go find the rest of the committee. Flower duty calls!”

As soon as she’s out of earshot, I let out a long breath and pull out my phone.

You didn’t tell me Manuel’s was a hockey player hangout. Now the entire team knows we had tacos together.

It’s not my fault we’re both devastatingly attractive people who get noticed in public. Who saw us?

Melissa Cooper just cornered me. Apparently “the locker room” is talking.

Shit. Sorry. I haven’t said anything to anyone except Tommy.

Well, SOMEONE is talking. She invited me to the “wives and girlfriends” brunch.

Is that good or bad?

I’d rather eat glass.

Noted. No brunches. How about dinner instead? Tonight?

I stare at his message, torn between wanting to see him again and the warning bells Melissa’s appearance has set off. Getting back into the hockey world, even peripherally, means dealing with all the gossip and scrutiny I’ve happily avoided for three years.

But then I remember the way Brody looked at me as he wrapped his arm around mine at Marcel’s. The way he listened—really listened—when I talked about my work. The stupid smile on my face every time his name pops up on my phone.

Can’t tonight. Sarah’s kidnapping me for gala dress shopping.

Tragic. Tomorrow?

Maybe. Let me survive shopping with the dictator first.

Fair enough. Good luck. Wear comfortable shoes and bring snacks. Sarah’s a marathon shopper.

Voice of experience?

I once made the mistake of accompanying her and Tommy to buy a coffee table. FIVE HOURS, Elliot. For a coffee table.

I laugh, drawing Sarah’s attention from across the room.

“If you’re texting Carter instead of placing centerpieces, I’m going to tell him about the time you cried during a car commercial,” she calls out.

“It was a very emotional commercial about a dog and his owner!” I protest, quickly putting my phone away. “And I wasn’t texting Carter.”

“Your face says otherwise,” she retorts. “It’s doing that thing where you try not to smile but fail miserably.”

“That’s just my face contemplating ways to murder you for not warning me about Melissa Cooper.”

Sarah at least has the grace to look guilty. “She wasn’t supposed to be here until later! I swear I was going to warn you.”

“She invited me to the wives and girlfriends brunch.”

“Ouch.” Sarah winces. “What did you say?”

“That I’d rather gargle thumbtacks.”

“You did not.”

“Fine, I said I’d ‘keep it in mind,’ which is polite-person speak for ‘when hell freezes over.’”

Sarah abandons her clipboard to join me at the table. “Was she awful about the Jason thing?”

“Weirdly, no. She claimed ‘they were all on my side.’ Convenient historical revision.”

“People like being on the winning side in retrospect,” Sarah says wisely. “And you’re definitely winning the divorce. Especially now that you’re dating the hot new defenseman.”

“I’m not dating him,” I say automatically. “We’re friends.”

“Friends who text constantly, go to dinner together, exchange underwear pictures, and make each other smile like idiots?”

“Yes. Those kind of friends.”

“Whatever you say.” Sarah rolls her eyes. “You ready for dress shopping after this? I’m thinking something green to match your eyes. Or maybe red. Power color.”

“Nothing red,” I say firmly. “I’m not trying to make a statement.”

“Your existence at a hockey event is already a statement, Elle. Might as well look fabulous making it.”

She’s not wrong, but I’m not ready to admit it. “Let’s just focus on finishing these centerpieces before your committee members arrive and I have to make more awkward small talk about my love life.”

“Or lack thereof?”

“Not helping, Sarah.”

* * *

“No.” I stare at my reflection in horror. “Absolutely not.”

“What?” Sarah pouts, circling me like a fashion-obsessed shark. “It’s perfect!”

“It’s approximately three inches of fabric held together by wishful thinking!”

The dress in question—a slinky, backless number in emerald green—is undeniably gorgeous. It’s also the least “me” thing I’ve ever put on my body.

“It’s Versace,” Sarah says, as if that explains everything.

“It’s public indecency with a designer label.”

“It’s sophisticated and sexy, and Brody would swallow his tongue if he saw you in it.”

“That’s not my goal!”

“It should be,” Sarah mutters, but relents. “Fine. Try the blue one next.”

We’ve been shopping for two hours, and I’ve tried on everything from conservative black sheaths that Sarah deems “funeral director chic” to sequined monstrosities that would make a Vegas showgirl blush. Nothing feels right.

“I don’t see why I couldn’t just wear the black dress from my closet,” I grumble, wiggling out of the green slip of fabric.

“Because you’ve had it for six years and Jason bought it for you,” Sarah calls through the dressing room door.

“He did not!”

“The label is his favorite designer. You’d never have bought it yourself.”

Sometimes I hate how well she knows me. “Fine. But nothing backless, nothing with a slit up to my hip bone, and nothing that requires special underwear or fashion tape.”

“You’re taking all the joy out of formal wear,” Sarah complains.

I step into the blue dress—a simpler design with a modest neckline but flattering cut—and immediately feel more comfortable. The color is deep navy, almost black in certain lights, with a shimmer when I move.

“Zip me,” I call, opening the door.

Sarah obliges, then steps back to assess. Her expression is less enthusiastic than with the green dress, but she nods approvingly.

“It’s very... you.”

“Is that a compliment or an insult?”

“Neither. It’s accurate.” She adjusts the fabric at my shoulders. “You look beautiful, but safe.”

“I like safe,” I say defensively.

“I know you do.” Her tone softens. “But sometimes safe keeps you from experiences you might actually want.”

We’re not talking about dresses anymore. “Sarah?—”

“I’m just saying, you’ve spent three years building walls around yourself. And that’s completely understandable after what Jason did. But maybe it’s time to lower the drawbridge a little. Let someone in.”

“This metaphor is getting complicated,” I deflect.

“You know what I mean.” She meets my eyes in the mirror. “Brody’s a good guy, Elle. One of the best Tommy knows. And he looks at you like you hung the moon.”

A warmth spreads through my chest at her words, along with a corresponding spike of fear. “That’s exactly what terrifies me. The way he looks at me.”

“Why?”

“Because what if I let him in and it all falls apart again?” I voice the fear that’s been haunting me since our dinner at Marcel’s. “I barely survived the first time.”

“But you did survive,” Sarah points out. “You rebuilt everything. You’re stronger now.”

“Am I?” I turn to face her directly. “Or am I just more afraid?”

“Maybe both.” She squeezes my hand. “But I’ve seen you the last few weeks, since Brody came into the picture. You laugh more. You wear colors again. You agreed to come to a hockey event for the first time in three years.”

“Because you blackmailed me with karaoke evidence.”

“Because you wanted to,” she corrects. “You could have told me to post that video on YouTube and suffered the embarrassment. But you didn’t.”

She’s right, and it’s infuriating. “When did you get so insightful?”

“I’ve always been insightful. You’ve just been too stubborn to notice.” She grins, then turns serious again. “Try on the red dress. Just one more. For me.”

I sigh but nod. “Fine. One more. But if it has feathers, sequins, or requires double-sided tape, I’m walking out.”

“No feathers,” she promises, handing me a garment bag. “Just... trust me.”

The dress she hands me is nothing like I expect. It’s a deep burgundy rather than bright red, with a classic silhouette that somehow manages to be both elegant and striking. The neckline is modest but flattering, the waist fitted, the skirt falling in soft folds to the floor. When I slip it on, it feels like it was made for me.

“Sarah,” I breathe, staring at my reflection.

“I know.” She zips it up with a satisfied smile. “This is the one.”

“It’s perfect.” I turn to see the back—equally tasteful but with a subtle cutout that’s unexpected without being scandalous.

“You’re going to knock him dead,” Sarah says with certainty.

“It’s not about Brody,” I protest, but even I don’t believe it.

“Of course not.” Sarah hands me matching heels. “It’s about you reclaiming your place at these events. On your terms. In a dress that makes you feel powerful.”

And it does make me feel powerful. Confident in a way I haven’t in years. “When did you get so smart about fashion psychology?”

“Around the same time you started pretending you weren’t falling for your hockey player neighbor.” She grins at my glare. “Try the shoes.”

My phone buzzes from my purse on the dressing room bench.

“If that’s Brody, tell him you can’t talk because you’re trying on sexy dresses that will render him speechless,” Sarah says.

“I will tell him no such thing,” I mutter, checking the message.

How’s the shopping going? Found the perfect dress to make all the hockey wives jealous?

Shopping with Sarah is psychological warfare. Send help. Or wine.

That bad?

She tried to put me in something that was essentially body paint with sequins.

...I see no problem here.

Of course you don’t. You’re a man with functioning eyeballs.

Guilty as charged. You could wear a potato sack and still be the most beautiful woman at the gala.

I feel my cheeks heat at his words.

Flattery will get you nowhere, Carter.

Evidence suggests otherwise. You’re still texting me.

“If you’re done sexting with your ‘friend,’” Sarah interrupts, “we need to decide on this dress before the sales associate thinks we’re living here.”

“We’re not sexting,” I protest, putting my phone away. “We’re discussing appropriate gala attire.”

“Sure, and I’m discussing world peace with Tommy when he’s at away games and I’m sending him nudes.”

“Sarah!” I’m scandalized but also laughing.

“Just saying. There’s a fine line between fashion advice and foreplay.” She gestures to my reflection. “So? This one?”

I look at myself again, trying to see through objective eyes. The woman in the mirror looks confident, elegant, and just a little daring. She looks like someone who’s ready to walk into a room full of hockey players and their wives without flinching. Someone who isn’t defined by her ex-husband’s betrayal.

“This one,” I confirm, smoothing the fabric over my hips. “Definitely this one.”

Sarah looks satisfied. “Perfect. Now we just need jewelry, a clutch, and to discuss your hair and makeup strategy.”

I groan. “I thought we were done!”

“Oh, honey.” Sarah pats my arm condescendingly. “We’ve barely begun.”