Page 20

Chapter Twenty

Connor

T he Icehawks team SUV rolls to a stop, and I swear, I feel my pulse thud in my throat like I’m about to face off in Game Seven again.

But it’s not the press line or the crowd or the fact that half the NHL is gathered in one place for the Opening Night Gala event.

It’s Lucy.

She steps out first with one heel, one smooth leg, then the full sweep of that emerald dress—and I almost forget how to walk. The thing fits her like it was sewn by the gods.

I hop out behind her, straightening my jacket, already sweating under the sharp lights and sixty-seven billion camera flashes. A wall of photographers clicks into gear, shouting our names as we step onto the carpet. Lucy’s hand slides into mine like we’ve done this a hundred times.

She waves once, gives a tight-lipped smile that looks like she’s been doing this her whole life. I mean, in a way, I guess she has.

“You good?” she murmurs, that soft smirk tugging at her lips.

“If I pass out from blinding camera flashes, just keep kicking me until I roll off the carpet.”

“Only if you promise to look good doing it.”

I huff out a laugh as we move forward, the sea of bodies parting for us like we’re royalty. Ahead of us, Hunter’s shaking hands with someone from the New York Rangers. Blake and Sophia are already being mobbed by fans that are lining the roped off walkway.

Across the way, the goddamn Vegas team—the ones we beat for the Cup—are posing like models in front of the sponsor wall.

Everyone here looks like they stepped out of an Armani ad. I’m wearing my favorite suit, the one I got tailored just right on a visit to Rome a year ago. It's navy with a subtle sheen, sharp lapels. The full works.

I clean up pretty damn well, just fucking ask me.

But next to Lucy?

I look like her bodyguard , not her date.

It's pretty fucking obvious that I'm the one that used to shovel snow off our roof with my sisters and eat hot dogs three nights a week. Yet now I’m walking a red carpet with Lucy Daniels in a dress that could stop traffic.

I’ve done media lines before. I know how to smile for the cameras, drop a joke, charm a headline.

But this? Watching Lucy smile for the cameras and waltz the red carpet in the way she is right now?

This is her world.

And I’d burn it all down if it ever made her feel like she didn’t belong in it.

The ballroom’s massive—gold chandeliers dripping crystal, velvet ropes sectioning off media areas, servers in black ties weaving through the crush of enormous hockey-player bodies and their girlfriends with trays of champagne and gourmet sliders.

I’ve seen playoff finals with less chaos.

But in saying that, it's still… fun.

Coach Brody’s deep in conversation with the Vancouver General Manager, looking sharp in his tux and smug as hell like he just aced a trade deal. But Lucy nudges me and tilts her head toward them, barely containing her grin.

“Look at his hand,” she whispers.

Sure enough, Coach has one arm slung around Natalie’s waist like she’s the crown jewel of the Icehawks roster. But as we watch, his fingers start drifting lower… and lower… until his palm lands squarely between her thighs like he’s casually checking puck placement mid-interview.

“Is he serious right now—” I start, already winding up a loud, public callout that would absolutely earn me extra laps at practice.

Lucy grabs my arm and spins me around so fast I nearly spill my champagne.

“Nope. We are not interrupting whatever that is,” she says, eyes wide with laughter.

"Come on," I plea as Lucy pushes me back. "There’s no way I’m letting that slide without giving him shit."

"Yes, you are." Lucy whispers. “Let's just hope they get caught. Then you'll never have to run laps again.”

We both break into barely-contained snorts as we pass Blake and Sophia holding court with Logan and Seattle’s top rookie draft—who looks like he’s still figuring out how to wear cufflinks.

The entire team looks like they're working the room like they were born in front of a camera. Every one of us is laughing, posing, sipping champagne like it’s water.

Meanwhile, Lucy and I are still drifting through the crowd, stealing sips and dodging photo ops like we’re on a stealth mission.

We finally make it to our table which is nestled near the stage with just enough distance from the media pit to breathe. Blake and Sophia are already there now, deep in conversation with Logan and Ryder, while Coach Brody and Natalie have disappeared somewhere toward the back.

Probably so Coach can keep copping a feel in peace.

Lucy leans close, her shoulder brushing mine as she slides into her seat.

“Okay,” she whispers, eyes scanning the crowd. “Ethan and I used to play this game at our parents events. Want to play?"

I smirk and lean in so close I get a strong whiff of her vanilla scent. “Go on.”

"Okay. The game is called Guess the Gala Guest. ” She nods toward a guy across the room in a velvet tux and bedazzled boots. “So you see that guy? He's definitely an ex-Disney star turned crypto bro.”

I chuckle, sip my champagne. “Five bucks says the guy next to him used to eat bugs on YouTube for views.”

Lucy grins and grips my thigh with a beaming smile. "Yes! You get it. Okay."

She scans the room again, then subtly gestures with her champagne flute. “Alright. The woman by the bar with the platinum bob and skin-tight latex dress? Former Real Housewife turned tantric sex coach.”

I choke on a laugh. “That’s oddly specific.”

“Trust me. I can feel the crystals in her clutch from here.”

I lean closer, eyes narrowed.

“Okay, my turn.” I nod toward a blond-tipped tuxedoed guy standing stiffly near the dessert station. “That dude? Used to be an Olympic figure skater, now runs a tech startup that sells smart mirrors. Also cries during Pixar movies.”

“Connor,” she gasps, giggling. “That’s disturbingly accurate.”

“I pride myself on my observational skills.”

We both laugh as the sound of clinking glasses and camera shutters hums around us. The world blurs, a bubble forming around just the two of us.

And holy fuck.

I’ve never wanted to live in a moment more than this one.

My girl is radiant in that dress. My skin is still tingling from where she grabbed my leg, the warmth of her laughter on my neck still lingering like a slow-burn temptation I can't resist.

It's crazy.

I'm at this event that, as a kid, I would have killed to be at. But now, I’m not even thinking about hockey, or cameras, or anything else.

Because I'm with her.

It’s all her. All the time.

I’m at some glitzy NHL gala surrounded by all-stars and billionaires, and somehow the best part of the night is just... this. Her laugh. Her eyes. The way she makes everything feel like it was meant to be.

Goddamn, this might actually be the best night of my life.

The lights dim just enough to soften the sharp edges of the gala, and a slow song starts to pour through the speakers. Something sultry and old-school with a beat that sinks into your bones.

Across the table, Lucy glances toward the dance floor, then back at me.

I roll my eyes, rise from the table with a grunt and hold out my hand. “Fine. Dance with me?”

She hesitates for half a second, picking up on my less-than-thrilled-about-this vibe.

“Connor… You don't have—”

“Come on.” I tilt my head, coaxing. “Let me show you off. I did pay for that dress, so there's no point in hiding it from the world.”

Her fingers slip into mine, and I swear the whole damn room disappears.

I guide her out, winding through the crowd until we find a space just off-center on the floor. She steps into me slowly, her arms sliding around my neck like it’s the most natural thing in the world. My hands find her waist, then her hips, pulling her close.

Closer than close.

And just like that, we're moving in slow, easy circles while the world fades around us.

Her cheek brushes mine. Her perfume curls through my chest. And my heart is busy doing fucking backflips in my perfectly tailored suit.

I hold her tighter, inhaling the smell of her hair.

“You know, Lucy Lou… I was just thinking…” I murmur against her soft locks. “This might just be the best night of my life.”

She laughs softly, resting her head against me. “I swear I've heard you say that every time you win a hockey game.”

“Yeah. But the Cup’s not in my arms right now, is it?”

She makes a sound like a half-laugh, half-sigh. One of those sweet little noises that ruins me.

“I don’t care about the cameras,” I whisper. “Or the awards. Or the gala, or the league, or any of this.” I pull back just enough to meet her eyes, and fuck, they’re shining in this light like they could tear me open. “I care about you . That’s it. That’s the whole list.”

She stares at me, lips parted. I keep going—because when you love someone like this, you have to say it. You have to let it spill. Because you might not get another chance.

“I love you, Lucy. So damn much it hurts sometimes. I didn’t even know it was possible to feel this way. I used to think forever wasn’t for me.” I shake my head. “But now I can’t stop picturing it. You. A house in the hills. Kids who talk too much and ask too many damn questions. I can see the peach rings on the floor, stuck to the soles of my socks, my shoes... the things are fucking everywhere.”

She chokes on a laugh, but her eyes stay glassy.

“I’m proud of you,” I say. “Of everything you’ve fought to become. I know this world—the cameras, the spotlight, all of it—is everything you tried to fight off. But you’re still standing. Still shining.”

Her fingers tighten at the back of my neck.

“And if you want this life—really want it—I’ll give it to you. All of it, no problems. But if you want to run, Lucy…” I swallow. “I’ll run with you. I’d go anywhere, so long as it’s with you.”

She doesn’t say anything right away. Just sways with me, forehead resting against mine, while the music winds around us like silk.

And for a few stolen minutes, I let myself believe this moment will last forever.

The song ends too soon, but I don’t let her go right away. I press one more kiss to her hair, just above her ear, and I swear she melts into me like she’s ready to stay here forever.

Then the lights shift, a new song thumps through the speakers, and the bubble bursts. Reality seeps in on a wave of bass and champagne clinks.

“Come on,” Lucy says softly, her voice still thick with emotion.

I lace my fingers with hers, leading us toward the bar, which is already swarmed with overgroomed sports agents and trophy wives comparing diamond engagement rings.

Lucy is still glowing, either from that dance or a few too many champagnes. I order us another round anyway, admiring how her cheeks are dusted pink, those beautiful eyes soft like she’s let her guard down just a little.

Then a voice from the side of us, all honeyed and sharp, instantly makes Lucy’s spine go bolt straight.

“Lucinda, darling!”

We both turn as a woman in a floor-length navy gown approaches, silver-blond hair swept into a sleek chignon, diamonds glittering like she’s trying to blind the entire NHL roster.

I feel Lucy's fingers tighten around mine—just for a second—before she pastes on a perfect, effortless smile.

“Celeste,” she says smoothly, like she hasn’t just been sucker-punched by her childhood. “It’s been a while.”

Celeste Worthington air-kisses both sides of Lucy’s cheek, then draws back just enough to give me a once-over, eyes flicking over my suit, my stance, probably my soul.

“And who’s this handsome mystery man?”

“This is Connor Walsh,” Lucy says with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Cup-winning player for the Iron Ridge Icehawks.”

I offer a polite nod. “Nice to meet you.”

Celeste hums. “Of course. I thought I recognized you. The defenseman with the temper.”

“Goalie,” I correct with a grin. “The defenseman’s taller and has better manners.”

She laughs like I’m a mildly amusing pet.

Then her eyes slide back to Lucy, all faux concern.

“You’re looking well,” she says, brushing phantom fingers over Lucy’s forearm. “Especially after everything your brother’s gotten tangled in…”

I feel Lucy’s grip twitch in mine again. My jaw tightens.

Celeste tilts her head, mouth curling. “Such a shame. Your father would be devastated to see all his work unravel this way.”

And there it is.

The blow. Polished, pointed, dipped in velvet.

Lucy doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t fold. She just smiles, cool and precise like the high society performer she is.

“Well, I guess it’s a good thing I stopped living for his expectations a long time ago.”

Celeste’s lips twitch.

I open my mouth—fully ready to let something very unpolished fly—but Lucy subtly shifts in front of me and angles her shoulder between us like she’s blocking a shot on the ice.

“Enjoy your evening, Celeste,” she says sweetly, already turning away.

We’re two steps gone before I mutter under my breath, “Tell me you never have to see that witch again and I’ll sleep better tonight.”

Lucy exhales, voice low. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

I keep a hand on Lucy’s lower back as we weave through the crowd, past the stage, the press wall, the glittering chaos of it all.

She doesn’t say anything, but her body leans into mine just enough to make my chest tighten.

I want to fix it. Rip the words out of Celeste’s mouth and shove them back down her throat. But Lucy?

She already did that in heels and satin, without raising her voice.

As we step outside into the waiting SUV, she exhales like she’s been holding that breath since we walked in.

And just like that, for the first time…

We get to keep our perfect night.