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nova

O f all the ways I pictured spending the night of the ESPY Awards—my first ever—I can’t say I imagine I would be playing emotional support to my brother while he mourns the end of his very public, very toxic relationship.

But here we are.

He is being such a buzzkill…

“She could’ve waited until after the awards,” Gio mutters to himself, straightening his already-straight collar in the mirror of his highly overpriced penthouse hotel room. “Congratulations on your nomination, babe,” his voice slides into a ridiculous, nasally imitation of Giselle’s French accent, “but I don’t see this going anywhere.”

I nod, fluffing my platinum blonde hair in the mirror adjacent, doing my best to outline my lips in the bold, fire-engine red pencil without drawing outside the lines.

“Her name was Giselle,” I remind him calmly, tracing the cupid’s bow of my upper lip. “What were you expecting?”

Our eyes meet in the mirror.

“Uh. Some loyalty?”

Loyalty? Ha! Yeah right.

I snort. “You met her at a sponsored tequila launch party—and she was there as someone else’s date. I think loyalty was a stretch. ”

You lose them how you get them .

How soon they forget.

Gio groans and adjusts the lapels of his tux for the fifth time, muttering something about how ‘you never really know someone until they dump you right before the biggest night of your life.’

To be fair, the ESPYs are a big deal. His name is on the ballot for Best NHL Player. The empty suit bag from Tom Ford hangs on the closet door and a private car waits for us downstairs.

And he’s spending it wallowing over Giselle, who spent most of her time taking selfies and posting them on social media.

Personally? Couldn’t stand her.

I was relieved when she dumped him; I knew he was never going to break up with her. Gio is too nice of a guy. He worked too hard at his relationships—even the ones that were doomed to fail.

“God,” he mutters, pacing the carpet, waiting for me to finish pruning. “Wouldn’t it be ironic if she’s here tonight? My agent told me yesterday that Tony Rossi had contacted him for her number. If that prick brings her tonight…”

I’m half listening to him whine. “At least you manage to have partners. I’m still single and I didn’t get dumped. What’s my excuse?”

“You’re single by choice,” Gio mutters, pulling a lint roller from the bathroom and attacking invisible specks on his sleeves. “You have standards.” His eyes widen at his choice of words. “Shit. I didn’t mean it like that. I meant…shit. I don’t know what I meant.”

I grin, bending to strap on my red heels while he runs the lint roller over his jacket before sitting on the coffee table, elbows on knees, fingers raking through his freshly styled hair.

I should be irritated with him.

And I am, a little.

He’s supposed to be soaking in the moment; basking in it! Moments like this only come once in a lifetime and it’s being overshadowed by his gold-digging ex-girlfriend.

Ugh!

But…

Gio is my brother. My twin .

No matter how famous or irritating or emotionally constipated he gets, I will always be the one standing beside him while he spirals in his three-piece suit that costs more than a semester at university.

I cross the room and gently tug at the collar of his shirt. “Snap out of it,” I tell him firmly. “You were nominated for goalie of the year. You’re making a speech at dinner later. Stop giving this woman more brain space than she deserves.” My hands are on my hips, bangles jingling. “What advice would you give me if the roles were reversed.”

“I’d say FUCK THAT GUY.”

“Exactly. Now come on, let’s go get you an award.”

The red carpet is absolute chaos. Reporters. Athletes in suits that cost more than my car. Influencers. Everyone is posing, everyone is glammed up. Diamonds. Expensive watches.

Egos that go on for miles…

Gio gets pulled toward the step-and-repeat while I hover to the side, smiling politely at anyone who glances my way. Clutching the purse he bought me that matches my dress.

I’m trying to be cool.

Trying not to gape.

Trying very hard not to trip in my heels.

And that’s when I see him.

Across the carpet, off to the side—leaning against a column like he’s allergic to attention but magnetic as hell—is him.

Luca Babineaux.

I had just learned his name—he hasn’t been drafted yet, but my brother says he’s someone the coaches are looking at. Players have a way of knowing these things, and I like knowing things too, so my eyes go straight for him, drinking in the sight of him.

He’s tall.

Like—crazy tall.

Broad.

Ridiculously hot. His suit fits like it was made for his body and his hair is slicked back in a way that makes me irrationally thirsty. He’s laughing at something, smile flashing, and I swear, for a second, the entire awards show dims .

I go still.

My heart does a full-body lurch.

As if sensing the moment, his eyes flick toward me.

Hold.

Linger.

That single look is everything—awareness. Surprise. Interest.

The world tilts a little.

I forget about my heels. About the uncomfortable pair of Spanx I jammed my body into so I could fit into this dress. About the paparazzi shouting for Gio’s attention and the blinding flashes of light bouncing off glass and diamonds and status.

Luca Babineaux doesn’t move. Doesn’t wave or nod or offer some cocky little smirk like most guys might. No, he just watches me—eyes locked, like he’s flipping through some mental file to place me.

Who are you? His expression is saying.

That’s the moment my brother turns to face me. Gio snaps his fingers in my direction to get my attention, following my eyes.

“Don’t even think about it.” His voice holds a warning that causes my head to jerk around.

“Don’t think about what ?”

I have no idea what he means.

“Sleeping with someone who might be on my team.”

I feel my eyebrows raise into my hairline.

“Since when do I sleep with random people?” First of all, I can’t believe he’s bringing this shit up in front of people. Anyone could overhear us! Secondly, “I’m allowed to sleep with whomever I want.”

My brother laughs as we continue down the carpet. “No, you’re not.”

I don’t press him.

We can save this for another day. Another night.

I look down at my plump neckline—or lack thereof—cheeks on fire, lips parted, doing my best impression of a girl who isn’t currently imagining what a man who looks like Luca Babineaux smells like. Or how his laugh might sound when he hears something actually funny.

Women must be crawling all over him .

I push that thought out of my brain because WHO CARES? Gio already warned me to stay away from him even though he’s not the boss of me.

Inside the massive venue, we’re seated at round tables of ten, white tablecloths pressed crisp, and as I take my seat beside my dumb brother, I let my eyes skim the room casually. Casually. Just doing a sweep.

I see him.

Two tables over. One row back.

Seated beside a guy with a man-bun and a crooked tie, laughing at something on the little folded menu card in front of him.

He's not looking at me.

Pfft—why would he be?

I angle slightly in my chair, all nonchalant, like I’m shifting to cross my legs. Like I’m not highly aware of the exact moment his gaze lifts. Drags. Finds mine.

The corner of his lips turn up.

Oh.

God.

The nerve!

My skin already feels too tight. My dress itches in places that have never itched before, and my wine is going straight to my bloodstream, amplified by the heat radiating from two tables behind me.

I sip my wine and try to act unaffected. Then—because I have zero impulse control and the attention span of a gnat—I peek over my shoulder again.

Quickly. Just a flick of my eyes.

His eyes are on the stage, where some Chairman of blah blah blah is introducing some boring montage, blah.

I force my attention to the stage, too, clapping when it’s appropriate, brain beginning to fog from the expensive wine I’ve consumed before drinking another.

I glance over my shoulder.

He’s talking to the guy beside him. Laughing at something on his phone. Being a normal human being.

Kind of annoying .

On stage they’re presenting an award for Best Comeback or Most Improved—I don’t even know. I can’t hear anything over the pulse pounding in my ears and the boredom beating down on me.

Another glance.

So casual-like…

He’s watching me.

Shit!

Shit, shit, shit!

This is so dumb. He probably flirts with every girl in here tonight at some point. Men who look like him usually do.

I sit up straighter. Adjust my neckline. Pick up my water glass because I need my hands to do something other than guzzle wine. The last thing I need to do is get drunk!

“Dude. What did I tell you?” Gio mutters, leaning toward me without even looking up from his bread plate. He stuffs a hunk in his mouth and chews.

I blink innocently, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. “I don’t know, Gio—what did you tell me?”

“Nova,” he says, voice low but stern. “You’re not as slick as you think you are. I see you looking at him.”

My stomach does a little guilty twist. “So?”

He finally lifts his gaze, leveling me with that big-brother glare that could curdle milk. “So? Don’t bother. It’s not happening.”

“What is your problem? Jeez, what are you—the Stare Police?”

That makes us both laugh.

“Listen, I’m miserable. Can you be supportive and commiserate with me? Please? For one night, that’s all I’m asking…”

My salty mood softens. “I’m sorry. You’re right.”

I’m here for him.

Not for myself.

I sit up in bed, gasping, glancing around my empty room. Why am I dreaming about that night? It was years ago. I didn’t even know Luca then. Not really. He was just a guy in the background of my brother’s career.

And now?

I may have ruined everything.