Page 32

The gala smells like money and cologne and too many kinds of fancy cheese. I step through the entryway, suit jacket smooth beneath my hands, and immediately regret not bringing backup. Not Vic. Not Spags. Not—Sadie.

She’s here, somewhere. She told me her mama was helping with the planning and that she’d see me there. Something about going early to help. I pan my gaze over the ballroom, but I don’t see her.

My tie is hot pink.

Not only pink. Glittery pink. A sort of flamingo-meets-disco hybrid I only bought because I thought it might make her laugh.

She never told me what color she was wearing, but something about tonight was distressing her.

I didn’t want to press. Besides, I know Sadie.

Even if she thinks I don’t, I do. Pink is her favorite color.

She thinks dips and sauces are their own food group.

She puts the comfort of every other person ahead of her own.

I also know that I was wrong before. She’s not nearly as confident and social as I assumed.

Sadie would probably apologize. As if she assumed she’d led me wrong when I first asked for her help, but honestly, it makes her an even better support system.

She’s learned how to perform even when it isn’t second nature. It’s precisely what I need to practice.

Even if now I’m walking into a room full of black suits and muted elegance, looking like a Barbie accessory.

A very large, very Nordic Barbie accessory.

And honestly, I don’t even care. A color is a color.

A tie is a tie. I adjust the collar of my shirt, already missing the weight of my pads.

At least on the ice, I know what’s expected of me.

Out here, the rules are soft and slippery, a kind of social choreography I still haven’t mastered.

The room is full. Staff, players, trainers, donors, partners.

Everyone in their gala version of themselves—shinier, louder, more curated.

Quinn and Tristan are by the bar in jewel-toned dresses.

Maddie’s laughing at a table with a couple who look like they fund entire wings of hospitals.

Vic gives me a subtle nod from across the room, already halfway through a conversation with someone in a velvet blazer.

Velvet embroidered with jeweled flowers.

The blazer alone could probably be a donation.

I nod back. Keep moving.

But there’s no sign of Sadie.

I tell myself she’s probably not here yet. That she’s running late, or doing something for the event, or changing shoes in her car because she picked ones that looked good but felt like death.

Still, I scan the crowd twice.

People keep stopping me.

They smile too wide and say things like, “So glad you’re back!

” and, “If preseason means anything, you’re a shoo-in for the Vezina!

” One guy pats me on the shoulder like I’m a golden retriever.

Another tells me I look great, and then pauses, clearly unsure if that comment crossed a line.

I thank him with a smile and excuse myself.

Their mouths are moving, but I’m barely tracking the words. There’s too much of everything. Too many layers of perfume, too many flashbulbs, too many glasses clinking and polite laughter.

My suit suddenly feels a size too small.

I duck out of the conversation with a muttered excuse and find the nearest open door. Push it closed behind me and breathe.

Silence.

Or close enough.

It’s a side room. Something private—maybe a bridal suite or a quiet greenroom for VIP guests. The polished wood floor gleams under my shoes. A navy velvet couch and a small tray of untouched canapes prop up the wall on the far side of the room.

And she’s there.

Sadie.

Alone in front of the single full-length mirror, her reflection caught there like something out of a dream.

Her hair is down—long curls brushing her back—and it shines like obsidian.

No pink tonight. The black dress fits like it was made for her, hugging her top half and billowing into a flowing skirt that stops mid-calf.

It shines in the light, soft. Like silk or water.

. Her heels are ice-pick sharp and narrow.

Elegant. Impractical. I want them wrapped around my waist.

She looks like fire wrapped in silk.

And she looks like she’d rather be a million kilometers away.

And I’m standing here like an idiot, staring.

I clear my throat. “I-if you’re t-trying to outshine everyone here, you’ve s-succeeded, Sadie.”

She jumps a little, glancing at me in the mirror, eyes wide. Her shoulders shift slightly. The movement is subtle, but I catch it. A loosening. A breath released.

That’s right, I want to tell her. I’m here. I’ve got you Sadie Jones.

She turns, and I lean against the doorway, giving her a look from head to toe.

“Oh. Hey.” She clutches her small purse like it might shield her. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I d-didn’t mean to s-sneak up on you.” I shove my hands in my pockets so she won’t see them shake. “Though if I h-had, you in this d-d-dress would’ve stopped me d-dead, anyway.”

“You probably say that to all the girls.” Her cheeks flush. She rolls her eyes.

“No,” I say, voice low. “Y-you’re the o-only girl I talk t-to. I’m s-saying it because you l-look like something I’d n-never be brave enough to touch.”

Her lips part slightly, before she presses them together again. She looks down, fiddles with the clasp on her purse. “You clean up okay, too.”

I step closer. One step. I can’t let myself close the gap any more than that. Not right now. “J-just okay?”

“Well,” she says, flicking her eyes back up with a ghost of a smile. “I pictured you in a black-on-black tux with your hair slicked back. Maybe some Bond villain brooding.”

I smirk. “You p-pictured me, huh?”

She shrugs one shoulder. “I was curious.”

“M-me too,” I say, softer now. “About what you’d w-wear. Who you’d c-come with. L-leave with.”

That lands. Her smile falters. And my gut twists.

There’s something off here. She isn’t fixing her hair, or checking her lipstick.

She’s also not wearing what I expected. Not glitter or tulle or a pastel dress that bounces when she walks.

If I’m honest, I imagined her in something ethereal, magic. Colorful.

She’s hiding.

And I’m standing here like an idiot, staring.

“A-all black? Are y-you t-trying to match me?”

She arches a brow. “You’re not in black.”

“No,” I say, stepping closer. “A-apparently I m-missed the memo.”

Her gaze drops to my tie, my vest, flits back to my eyes.

Her mouth parts on a quick inhale, crinkles forming at the corners of her fathomless eyes. “You didn’t.”

I smooth a hand down the front of my shirt. “I did.”

“Why?”

“I thought the sp-sparkle would m-make you s-smile.”

She does. A small once accompanied by a strangled laugh, the sound short, sharp, but real. Her eyes crinkle slightly. But the laugh trails off into something softer, almost brittle.

“Are you o-okay?” I ask.

Her face shifts. A war of emotion flashes behind her eyes—panic, guilt, weariness.

“I wish…” she shakes her head, slamming her mouth shut. “I wish I were your date.”

It hits me square in the chest, but she keeps talking.

“I know it’s my fault. But my parents are here. And the team owner. And… and I couldn’t… I’m sorry.”

I don’t say anything at first.

Then, carefully, “A-are you embarrassed b-by me?”

She blinks. “What?”

“I’m a-an athlete with a s-s-stutter and n-no degree. You’re in g-graduate school. Your p-parents are doctors. You’re…” I motion vaguely toward her dress. “This.”

“Ragnar,” she says sharply.

“I-it’s ok.” I add quickly. “If it’s t-true, it w-wouldn’t change anything.”

It probably should, but it won’t. Not for me.

Her mouth opens, but no words come. She looks torn. Like there are fifty things she could say and none of them feel safe. After a beat, she turns and slips out of the room.

Gone.

I find a drink I don’t want and trail her through the party.

She’s masterful. Flawless. Polished like a gemstone.

She talks to everyone—trainers, executives, random women with handbags that match their shoes.

Her laugh is warm and musical. Her smile is the picture of charm.

She even thanks the waiter when he hands her a glass of champagne.

But I can see it. The exhaustion behind her eyes. The stiffness in her shoulders.

She’s playing a part.

I watch her navigate like someone moving through a field of landmines. She keeps her back to the wall. Keeps a drink in her hand. Keeps moving.

And always—always—avoids the same man.

Tall. Dark hair. Too-perfect suit. His smirk that makes my fists twitch. He lingers with her parents. All three look like they were cut from the same cloth. Clinical. Polished. A curated couple with perfect posture and cool smiles.

They don’t look like her. I wonder what that was like, growing up in a house where every mirror reflected something you weren’t. And it’s only the mirror. She’s smart, hardworking, beautiful.

The man follows her like a shadow. Circles. Waits. He moves like someone used to owning the space around him.

Christian, I guess.

The way Sadie stiffens every time he gets close makes something primal in me stir. I set down my glass and make a straight line toward her. If anyone asks, it’s just a dance. A polite moment with a trainer who helped me rebuild everything. My way of thanking her.

She’s not dancing. She’s cornered.

Christian has her backed against a decorative pillar, his arm braced casually near her shoulder. He’s leaning in, whispering something I can’t hear. Her arms are crossed tight, blocking her chest, her jaw set.

I walk straight up behind her, slide my arm around her waist, and pull her back into my chest.