Page 12 of Break the Ice

“What’s this for?”

“Didn’t we already go over this? It’s a work event—my first real work event with the Wolves.”

“Then I’m guessing you want to keep it classy. Anything thotty is out the window.”

My brows draw closer as I return the dress to the rack and then browse the wide selection of others—the attendant helping me put together so many style options, it’s overwhelming. The second she heard the words NHL event and the Onyx, she’d zipped toward me with a measuring tape and feverish excitement, promising she could find the perfect dress for the occasion.

What’s followed has been an hour and a half of being fitted for more than a dozen different dresses.

Thankfully, Jhene’s along for morale support and shit talking.

She drains the champagne the designer boutique has provided and then reaches for a few more of the complementary strawberries. “All I’m saying is, these industry events have a whole lot of very single, very available professional athletes. Some women have found their husbands at these events. It wouldn’t hurt to show some skin.”

“Except I’m not looking for a husband. I’m looking to make a good impression.”

“What better impression than having the girls on display?” Jhene snorts out a laugh at the horrified expression I give.

“Better?” I ask, grabbing the hanger of a different dress. A Dolce & Gabbana made of a cerulean-blue fabric that sheens. It would be perfect if the neckline weren’t to my navel.

Jhene nods. “Better. And you don’t have to look for a husband, by the way.”

“But…?”

“But,” she says, emphasizing the word, “it’s been so long since David. You’re going to have to move on eventually.”

“Not at a work event. How does this look?”

Before Jhene can answer, she catches sight of another dress on the track. She reaches between the Balmain and the Prada and pulls it out. It’s a Valentino dress that can be described succinctly in three words: little black dress.

And a little black dress it is—the dress is constructed in a way that feels simplistic yet eye-catching, with long sleeves and an almost off-the-shoulders neckline. The rich midnight-black fabric feels luxurious and has a geometric cutout along the sides of the torso. The skirt’s short and leggy.

Flirtatious… but also kind of innocuous.

“This,” Jhene says, her voice loud and enthused. “This is your dress, Mari!”

“It’s too short.”

“Think of how amazing your legs will look!”

“You’re going to get me fired.”

Jhene comes up behind me in the mirror and presses the Valentino against my front. Considering she’s a few inches shorter than me, barely scraping five feet, it’s a comical sight. “This is the dress, Mari. Wear it. Find yourself a husband. And be professional or whatever.”

I cast Jhene a wary smile. “That’s why you should come with. As backup.”

“I wish. I have a deadline for the Sentinel. You know how Dominguez is. He’s riding my ass.”

We walk out of the boutique clutching a few shopping bags—including the five-thousand-dollar Valentino dress I’ve splurged on. It’s a reckless purchase I’ve justified by arguing I can get plenty of use out of it in my personal life too.

Maybe.

Jhene’s right when she says my dating life’s been nonexistent.

I haven’t minded ’til now. My career has been my main focus these past few years. David was always a mistake. I had been too young and naive to realize what he was doing. I trusted him when I should’ve known you can trust no one but yourself.

He left my life in shambles. I’ve been playing catch up ever since.

My entire life trajectory was changed because of him.