Page 80 of Goalie Secrets
Jeremy cradles my chin in his hands. With his comforting kisses, he catches my tears.
The chandelier’s glow reflects off the ice sculpture centerpiece, casting shimmering patterns across the ballroom. TheMavericks Caresgala is in full swing, and every big name in the Columbus hockey scene—players, management, sponsors—is here to raise money for children’s healthcare programs. For me, it’s supposed to be a “smile and shake hands” kind of night, but my mind is elsewhere.
I step into the room, nodding at the swarm of reporters who immediately converge on me. Cameras flash. I hear the same questions on repeat. How’s the team gearing up for the playoffs? What did I think of last night’s shootout win? My answers are autopilot smooth, my goalie mask firmly in place even without it.
The team’s PR director pulls me toward the big donors. The Mavericks execs laugh a little too hard. They’re drunk on alcohol or brownnosing, who knows. Someone pats me on the back like I’ve just told the joke of the year. I force a smile. My face aches from the effort. I nod along as they pivot to sponsorship pitches and expansion ideas. I’m not really listening. My brain’s running on two tracks: one murmuring polite responses, the other laser-focused on scoping out the room.
It’s a glamorous crowd, women in glittering gowns, men in tuxedos, all swirling between the crystal-draped tables and the champagne towers. Perfect for people watching, but there’s only one person I’m watching for.
I see her. The room dims for me like someone’s turned down the house lights and she’s center stage under a spotlight. Vanya.
That dress—emerald-green, sleek, and understatedly elegant—hugs her curves perfectly. Her hair is swept up, leaving her neck bare, except for one wayward strand brushing her cheek. She looks like she’s stepped out of a dream. My dream.
I feel the tug of reality as someone from the team nudges me, trying to pull me back into the conversation about donor engagement strategies. I mutter something noncommittal and excuse myself, weaving through the crowd. Every step closer to her tightens the coil in my chest.
Vanya stands near Kyle and his usual group of doctors. They’re deep in conversation, so she doesn’t see me coming. There are chuckles in response to someone’s comment. Vanya’s fingers curl around the stem of a wine glass, her lips faintly glossed and curved just enough to make me lose my train of thought. By the time I reach her, I’ve forgotten what I even planned to say.
I smooth down my jacket and take a deep breath, trying to act like I didn’t just trip over a chair leg five seconds ago. I step in closer, clearing my throat softly to catch her attention.
“Dr. Kapur.”
She turns toward me, surprise flashing in her eyes before her expression settles into something unreadable. She’s trying not to smile, but I catch the slight curve anyway. I lean in just enough to make it clear I’m here for her and not her companions.
“I was wondering if you’d like to dance,” I say, my voice low enough that it feels like a private question, despite the audience around us.
She tilts her head, half in disbelief. “Dance? You’re not serious.”
“Completely serious,” I reply, keeping my tone even. “Someone has to monitor my movements, right? You keep saying I need to work on my mobility.”
She shakes her head, but her eyes soften. “You think moving on this dance floor counts as physical therapy?”
I grin, shrugging slightly. “Call it what you want, but I’m sure my physical well-being depends on mobility. At least that’s what my doctors say.”
This earns me a small laugh. She sets her glass down. “Fine. One dance.”
I lead her to the dance floor. The string quartet starts playing something soft and romantic, and I gently place my hand on her waist.
“You look incredible tonight,” I murmur, my voice just loud enough for her to hear.
Her cheeks flush slightly, and she tilts her head up to meet my gaze. “You don’t look too bad yourself, Lopez.”
The rest of the world fades as we move to music. I don’t care who’s watching. All that matters is the way she fits perfectly in my arms.
“Do you know what day it is today?” I ask.
“March twenty-fifth,” she says with a shrug. “Otherwise known as the first day this year that I didn’t need a winter coat.”
The soft notes of the string quartet carry through the ballroom, weaving through the hum of chatter and clinking glasses. Vanya moves gracefully in my arms, her curves tempting me to grip tighter.
“It’s also our three-month anniversary.”
She stiffens.
“Not that I’m counting, or anything,” I say lamely.
She pulls back just enough to look at me, her brows furrowing, eyes flashing with something like sadness.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbles.