Page 15

Chapter 15

Garrett

I adjust my tie in the mirror and try to ignore the flutter in my stomach. It's been five days since I last touched Cyn, and the thought of being in the same room while pretending we're just colleagues makes my fingers clumsy with the silk knot at my throat.

"Damn it," I mutter, undoing the mess I've made and starting over.

My phone buzzes on the dresser. I glance over to see Cyn's name on the screen.

Cyn: Just got to the venue. Sophie's freaking out about her veil.

Me: You okay?

Cyn: All good. Looking forward to seeing you.

She adds a winking emoji that makes my body respond in ways I can’t control.

I finish with my tie and step back to assess the full picture. The charcoal suit fits well – one advantage of staying in shape after retirement. My hair is neat without looking too styled.

I check my watch. The ceremony starts in an hour. I want to give myself plenty of time to get there. Plus, I’m anxious to see Cyn.

Evan Daniels has been a good friend since I arrived in Chicago. As the team's veteran goalie, he took it upon himself to help me settle in, showing me around the city. I like his fiancée Sophie too – she's warm and genuine, and watching their relationship has made me wonder if I might be ready for something real again.

After my divorce eight years ago, I swore off serious commitment. Spent my time golfing in Palm Springs and dating women who wanted the same things I did – companionship without complications. It was fine. Easy. But empty, if I'm being honest with myself.

But Cyn...Cyn is different. She's challenging and direct and passionate about her work. She doesn't care about my former NHL status or the money I've made.

I grab my phone, wallet, and keys and head out of my condo. In the elevator, I straighten my tie again and rehearse how I'll greet her at the wedding. Casual. Professional. "Hi, Cyn, nice to see you." Maybe a brief hug if others are hugging too. Nothing that would raise eyebrows.

I start the car and pull out of the parking garage. Traffic is light for a Saturday in Chicago, and I arrive earlier than I expected.

I pull up to the valet at the Palmer House Hilton where the wedding is being held. Before I hand over my keys, I check my phone one more time. No new messages from Cyn and I feel unexpected disappointment creep in.

I enter the historic Chicago hotel and it’s buzzing with activity – hotel staff arranging chairs in neat rows, florists making last-minute adjustments to elaborate arrangements of white roses and greenery.

"Coach Hughes!" A booming voice calls from across the lobby. Ryan Sorensen, one of the Blades' defensemen, waves me over. "Didn't expect to see you flying solo today."

I shrug as I approach the small group of players. "Just me."

"No flavor of the month?" asked Marcus Webb, the team's center, with a grin that suggests he'd already had a drink or two.

"Not today." I keep my tone light. My dating life had become something of a running joke among the team – the retired player sampling Chicago's eligible women. If they only knew I hadn't so much as looked at another woman since meeting Cyn.

I quickly change the subject. "How's the knee, Ryan?"

As Sorensen launches into a detailed update of his recovery from a minor injury, I scan the room, looking for Cyn. She’s nowhere in sight and I assume she’s in a room with Sophie somewhere, trying to keep her calm.

I continue to talk with Sorenson and Webb until it’s time to take out seats.

I find a seat up near the front on the groom's side and settle in. The string quartet in the corner begins playing Bach, a gentle backdrop to the quiet murmur of conversation.

"Is this seat taken?"

I look up to find an older woman gesturing to the space beside me.

"It’s not," I reply, shifting to make room.

"You must be one of Evan's hockey friends," she said as she sat. "I'm Margaret, Sophie's aunt."

"Garrett Hughes. I coach with the team."

"So lovely to meet you," she pats my arm. "Are you here with anyone?"

"Just me today."

Margaret looked scandalized. "A handsome man like you? Alone at a wedding? We'll have to remedy that. Sophie's cousin Janice is single and?—"

The music changes, cutting off what promised to be an awkward conversation. The bridesmaids begin their procession down the aisle, each dressed in the same steel gray silk dresses. My breath catches when Cyn appears.

She walks with natural grace, her eyes fixed ahead, shoulders back. The dress hugs her figure perfectly, the color bringing out the green of her eyes. Her blonde hair is styled in loose waves that fall past her shoulders, different from her usual practical ponytail. She looks elegant, sophisticated, and utterly captivating.

As she passes my row, her eyes flick briefly in my direction.

The rest of the ceremony proceeded with traditional solemnity. Sophie appears in a classic white gown that makes her look like she'd stepped out of a fairytale, her face radiant as she moves toward Evan. I watch as Evan’s expression transforms at the sight of his bride – awe, joy, and a gentleness that few people ever see from the gruff goaltender.

The ceremony concludes with a kiss that prompts cheers and applause from the assembled guests. As the newly married couple makes their way back down the aisle, followed by the wedding party, I catch Cyn's eye again. This time, she allows herself a real smile – warm and private despite the public setting.

During the cocktail hour, I make small talk with team management, all while maintaining peripheral awareness of Cyn's location. She’s busy with maid of honor duties – organizing the receiving line, conferring with the photographer, making sure Sophie's dress remains pristine for photos.

"Quite the maid of honor, isn't she?" Coach Martinez says, following my gaze to where Cyn is directing the wedding party for a group photo.

I school my features into professional neutrality. "She's efficient."

"One of the reasons I hired her." Martinez sips his drink. "Good to see her enjoying herself outside of work. Girl works too hard."

"Yes," I agree carefully. "The whole medical staff does."

As the cocktail hour winds down, guests begin drifting toward the reception hall, an elegant wonderland of white and silver, with twinkling lights draped from the ceiling like stars.

I find my table and note the other names – Ryan and Jen Sorensen, Marcus Webb and his date, and two other couples I don’t know.

I settle into my chair and watch as other guests find their tables. The wedding party would be the last to enter, after their additional photos.

The conversation flows easily as the table fills, with everyone except the empty chair beside me.

Finally, the double doors to the reception hall swing open as the DJ announces the wedding party. My attention zeroes in on Cyn the moment she appears, her arm linked with one of Evan's teammates who'd served as a groomsman.

I take a sip of water, suddenly parched. I force myself to look away, to nod at something Webb was saying about the team's defensive strategy, but my eyes keep drifting back to Cyn.

The wedding party disperses to their designated tables after the introductions. Cyn approaches our table with measured steps, her professional smile in place.

"Look who's joining us," Webb calls out. "If it isn't the woman who tortured my hamstring last month."

Cyn laughs, the sound genuine. "That wasn't torture, Webb. That was saving your career." Her eyes flick to me, a brief acknowledgment before she greets everyone else at the table. "I hope you've all saved me some wine."

"Your glass is waiting," I say, gesturing to the empty seat beside me. "Along with approximately five hundred questions about when Sorensen can return to play."

"Shop talk at a wedding? You guys are hopeless." But she smiles as she takes her seat, the silk of her dress whispering against the chair.

"Beautiful ceremony," she says to the table at large, taking a sip of her wine.

"Not too long either," Jen Sorensen replies. "I was at a wedding last month that went on for nearly two hours."

"Sophie was very specific about keeping it under thirty minutes," Cyn said. "She said, and I quote, 'I want to be married and drinking champagne before anyone's butt falls asleep.'"

The table laughs, and conversation flows around them. I settle back in my chair, my leg brushing against Cyn's under the table. She doesn’t pull away.

"Earth to Coach Hughes," Webb's voice breaks through my thoughts. "Where'd you go?"

I blink, realizing I’d missed a question. "Sorry, long week. What were you saying?"

"I asked if you're coming to Carson's poker night next Thursday."

"Wouldn't miss it," I reply automatically, grateful for the years of media training that allowed me to recover smoothly from moments of distraction.

Beside me, Cyn takes a sip of wine, her lips leaving a faint trace of pink on the glass rim. Those lips curve slightly, the barest hint of a smile that tells me she knows exactly where my mind had wandered.

When she laughs at something Jen Sorensen says, the sound travels through me like good whiskey – warm and rich. Her laugh in public is measured, controlled. The uninhibited version is reserved for private moments, and I can’t wait to hear it very soon.

The caterers begin serving the first course, providing a welcome distraction. I adjust my position, careful to maintain a professionally appropriate distance while we are under observation. Still, beneath the table, I allow my knee to rest lightly against hers – a silent acknowledgment of connection.

The gray silk of her dress shifts as she leans forward to pick up her water glass, revealing the elegant line of her collarbone. I remember tracing that line with my lips, learning the taste of her skin. I force myself to look away, to focus on my plate, to remember where we are.

A wedding. Surrounded by colleagues. Playing the parts of coach and physical therapist, casual acquaintances thrown together by seating arrangements.

I glance up to find her watching me, understanding in her eyes. She knows exactly what I’m thinking. The corner of her mouth quirks up slightly – her real smile, not the polished one she's been wearing all day.

"Later," she murmured, so quietly only I can hear, before turning back to the group conversation.

The promise in that single word is enough to sustain him through the rest of the meal.

As dessert is served – individual lemon tarts with fresh berries – the DJ announces that speeches will begin in five minutes. I watch as Cyn discreetly retrieves a small notecard from her clutch bag and reviews it. Her leg remains pressed against mine, a constant point of connection amid the bustling reception.

"Nervous?" I ask quietly, using the general noise of the room as cover.

"Not really," she replies. "Public speaking doesn't bother me."

"You'll be great." I risk a final touch under the table, my fingers briefly squeezing her knee.

"Careful there, Coach," she murmurs, the sound of her voice making my pulse quicken.

Around them, guests are finishing their desserts and turning expectantly toward the head table where the DJ is setting up a microphone. The wedding coordinator appears at Cyn's elbow.

"We're ready for you whenever you are," she says. "Father of the bride will go first, then you."

Cyn nods and squares her shoulders, taking a final sip of water. As she prepares to stand, she leans slightly toward me, her voice low enough that only I can hear.

"Meet me on the terrace after the speeches? I need some air."

"I'll be there," I promise, equally quiet.

I watch her walk toward the front of the room, the gray silk of her dress catching the light. I find myself nervous for her, despite knowing she is more than capable of handling a wedding speech. Perhaps it’s because this is a side of Cyn I haven't yet witnessed – the loyal friend, the maid of honor, a role separate from either her professional persona or the woman I’ve come to know in private.

The microphone crackles as Sophie's father begins his speech. I settle back in my chair, listening politely while anticipating what might come later on the terrace. But my attention remains fixed on Cyn as she waits for her turn, poised and elegant, occasionally smiling at something in the father's speech while glancing at the notecard in her hand.

After Sophie’s dad’s sweet speech, Cyn approaches the microphone. She adjusts its height with a practiced motion, smiles at the assembled guests, and smoothes her dress with nervous palms. The room settles into attentive silence as she glances at Sophie and Evan, seated at the head table.

"For those who don't know me, I'm Cynthia Lockhart, Sophie's maid of honor and the person responsible for making sure none of the bridesmaids' embarrassing stories about the bride made it into any of the speeches tonight." Her delivery is crisp and clear, earning appreciative chuckles from the gathered guests. "I've known Sophie for four years, since she interviewed me for an article about women working in professional sports."

I watch her, struck by how naturally she commands the room's attention.

"What was supposed to be a thirty-minute interview turned into a three-hour conversation," Cyn continues, her smile warm with genuine affection. "By the end, I knew I'd found not just a great journalist, but a true friend."

"Sophie has many remarkable qualities," she goes on, her voice steady. "Her intelligence, her compassion, her ability to make anyone feel like the most interesting person in the room. But what I admire most about her is her honesty. Sophie never pretends to be anyone but herself, and she never lets the people she cares about get away with being less than their best selves."

Another ripple of agreement passes through the room. At the head table, Sophie beams, reaching over to squeeze Evan's hand. Cyn smiles at the gesture before continuing, though I notice she shifts her weight slightly, one hand briefly pressing against her stomach before returning to her side.

"When Sophie first told me about Evan, I was skeptical," she says, drawing a playful scowl from the groom that makes the audience laugh. "Not because of anything about him specifically, but because Sophie described him, and I quote, as 'grumpy, stubborn, and frustratingly perfect.'"

More laughter, louder this time. Evan shakes his head in mock offense while Sophie nods emphatically.

"I thought, this can't possibly—" Cyn stops abruptly, her face suddenly losing color. She swallows hard, takes a deep breath, and tries again. "I thought this couldn't possibly?—"

She pauses once more, placing a hand on the podium to steady herself. A murmur of concern ripples through the closest tables. I straighten in my chair, recognizing the signs of someone fighting nausea. I’d seen it enough times in the locker room after particularly grueling practices.

"I'm sorry," Cyn says, her voice strained. "Just give me a moment."

Sophie’s concern is evident on her face. Cyn gives her a small wave, as if to say she’s fine, and takes another careful sip of water. The room has grown quiet, guests exchanging uncertain glances.

"As I was saying," Cyn continues with determination, "I was skeptical until I saw them together. Anyone who's spent five minutes with Sophie and Evan can see they're?—"

She stops again, this time pressing her hand more firmly against her midsection. I feel a surge of concern, my body tensing as I consider getting up to help her.

Cyn visibly rallies, drawing a deep breath. "They're perfect for each other because?—"

Whatever she intended to say next is lost as her expression shifts from discomfort to alarm. She lurches away from the microphone, but it’s too late. In a horrible moment that seems to unfold in slow motion, Cyn bends over and vomits spectacularly across the nearest table.

Gasps and exclamations erupt around the room. The contents of Cyn's stomach splatters across their dessert plates.

"Oh my God," she gasps, eyes wide with horror. "I'm so sorry."

Before anyone can respond, she turns and flees, moving with remarkable speed despite her formal dress and heels. She disappears through the nearest exit, leaving shocked silence in her wake before the room erupts into concerned murmurs.