Page 21

Tuxedos are just expensive straitjackets, and I’m about to choke on this bow tie when she walks in and stops my heart.

The Outlaws annual charity gala is everything I hate—forced smiles, small talk with donors, and pretending we’re civilized when we’re paid to hit people for a living. I’m nursing whiskey at the bar, counting minutes until I can escape, when the room shifts.

Chelsea.

She’s wearing midnight blue that pools at her feet and leaves her entire back exposed, held up by what must be physics and prayer.

Her hair’s swept up, showing the neck I’ve kissed, the shoulders I’ve gripped.

Diamond earrings catch the light when she turns, scanning the room, and then our eyes meet.

Time doesn’t stop. That’s movie bullshit. But it definitely stutters, skips like a scratched record, while my brain processes that Dr. Chelsea Clark—who wears blazers like armor and schedules her life in fifteen-minute increments—can look like this.

“Close your mouth,” Weston mutters beside me. “You’re drooling.”

“Shut up.”

“Just saying. Subtlety isn’t your strong suit.”

He’s right. I’m staring like she’s the Stanley Cup and I’m a rookie seeing it for the first time. Can’t help it. Every time I think I’ve got her figured out, she shows me a new side. Vegas Chelsea. Dr. Clark. And now this—elegant and untouchable and absolutely devastating.

Jake appears at her elbow with champagne, his hand finding the small of her exposed back with easy familiarity. Something violent rises in my chest, but I swallow it with whiskey. He’s wearing a basic black tux, looking like every other guy here. Safe. Appropriate. Everything I’m not.

“You good?” Weston asks.

“Peachy.”

“You know torture’s optional, right? You could just—”

“Drop it.”

He shrugs, wandering off to schmooze donors while I order another drink and definitely don’t track Chelsea’s movement through the room. She works the crowd like a pro—charming board members, laughing at their shit jokes, being the perfect coach’s daughter.

But I see the tells. The way she shifts weight off her right foot (new shoes, probably hurting). How she touches her earring when someone asks a too-personal question. The slight tension in her shoulders when Jake’s hand drifts lower than professional.

An hour passes. I do my duty—photos with sick kids, signatures for auction items, painful conversations about my “rehabilitation” and “growth.” The whole time, I’m hyperaware of where she is, like she’s magnetic north and I’m a broken compass spinning toward disaster.

The band starts playing. Couples drift to the dance floor, and I watch Jake lead Chelsea out, his hand possessive on her waist.

They look good together. Appropriate. Like a catalog page for “Young Professional Couple.” He holds her at the proper distance, leads with competent boredom, probably already thinking about his morning workout.

I turn back to the bar, signaling for another drink. This is good. This is what she needs. Someone who won’t destroy her career, won’t make her choose between desire and duty, won’t—

“Dance with me.”

Patricia Holbrook stands beside me, elegant in silver, with eyes that miss nothing.

“I don’t dance,” I lie.

“You do tonight. It’s good PR.” She sets down her champagne. “Besides, I need to talk to you about something.”

I let her lead me to the floor because refusing the GM would be career suicide. She’s a good dancer, confident in the way of women who’ve navigated boys’ clubs their whole lives.

“You’ve been different lately,” she says as we move. “Calmer. More focused. Even mentoring rookies.”

“Just trying to be better.”

“Hmm.” She spins under my arm with surprising grace. “Dr. Clark’s impact, perhaps?”

Every muscle in my body tenses. “What?”

“Relax. I’m not accusing anyone of anything.” Her voice drops. “But I’ve been in this business long enough to recognize when therapy is working. Whatever’s happening in those sessions, keep it up. The team needs you stable.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Now stop staring at her like a lovesick puppy and ask her to dance.”

“I don’t—”

“The song’s ending. Jake’s getting drinks. You have approximately three minutes before he returns.” She steps back as the music fades. “Use them wisely.”

She melts back into the crowd, leaving me standing there like an idiot. Across the floor, Chelsea stands alone, adjusting her earring in that nervous tell. The band starts something slower, sweeter.

Fuck it.

I cross the floor before I can think better of it. She sees me coming, eyes widening slightly, but doesn’t retreat.

“No,” she says when I stop in front of her.

“I didn’t ask anything.”

“You were going to ask me to dance. The answer’s no.”

“Actually, I was going to compliment your dress. But now that you mention it...” I extend my hand. “One dance. For charity.”

“Reed—”

“People are watching. Refusing would be rude. Unprofessional, even.”

She glances around, sees Patricia observing from the bar, several board members noting our interaction. Her jaw tightens.

“One dance,” she agrees, taking my hand. “And keep your hands appropriate.”

“When am I not appropriate?”

“Vegas. The laundry room. The equipment shed. Should I continue?”

I lead her onto the floor, pulling her in close but not too close. Professional but not distant. My hand finds her back, skin warm under my palm, and I feel her shiver.

“Cold?” I ask innocently.

“No.”

We move together, and muscle memory takes over. Her body remembers mine, falls into rhythm like we’ve done this a hundred times instead of once in a Vegas nightclub. She smells like expensive perfume and something uniquely her, and I have to focus on my breathing to keep control.

“You look beautiful,” I say quietly. “Jake’s a lucky man.”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what? Compliment you?”

“Don’t pretend this is easy for you.”

“Nothing about you is easy for me.” My hand shifts lower, just barely, testing. “But I’m trying to be good.”

“Are you?”

“Dance with your boyfriend and find out.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

The words slip out, and she immediately tenses like she’s said too much. I force myself not to react, to keep moving like this information doesn’t rearrange everything.

“No?”

“We’ve been on three dates. That doesn’t make him—” She stops. “Why am I explaining this to you?”

“Because you want me to know. Because it matters what I think. Because—”

“Because I’m an idiot,” she finishes. “And this was a mistake.”

She starts to pull away, but I hold on gently. “The song’s not over.”

“Reed—”

“Please.” The word comes out rougher than intended. “Just... finish the dance.”

She settles back into my arms, tense but present. We move in silence while around us, Chicago’s elite celebrate their charitable contributions and pretend we’re all civilized.

“I think about it,” I admit quietly. “That morning. What would’ve happened if I’d woken up. If I’d asked you to stay properly instead of mumbling it half-asleep.”

“Don’t.”

“I think about finding you at breakfast. Learning your last name over coffee instead of in a locker room. Having your real number. Having time to—”

“Stop.” Her voice cracks. “Please. Just stop.”

“Why?”

“Because it hurts.” She looks up at me, eyes bright with unshed tears. “Because thinking about what-ifs is torture when we both know the ending.”

“Do we?”

“Yes. You’re chaos, remember? And I’m—”

“Perfect,” I finish. “Controlled and scheduled and everything I’ll never be.”

“I’m not perfect.”

“No,” I agree, spinning her gently. “You’re better. You’re real.”

The song starts to fade, and I know Jake’s probably back, looking for her. These stolen moments are ending, like they always do.

“Thank you for the dance,” I say formally, stepping back to appropriate distance.

“Reed—”

“Go back to him.” The words taste like ash. “Be safe. Be smart. Be everything you’re supposed to be.”

Something flashes across her face—hurt? anger? —but before she can respond, Jake appears with champagne and easy smiles.

“Hendrix,” he says pleasantly. “Thanks for keeping Chelsea company.”

“My pleasure.” I nod to them both. “Enjoy your evening.”

I walk away without looking back, but I feel her eyes on me. At the bar, I order water because whiskey and wanting are a dangerous combination. Weston reappears, eyebrows raised.

“That looked intense.”

“Just a dance.”

“Right. A dance that looked like foreplay with clothes on.”

“Drop it.”

“Nic—”

“I said drop it.”

He studies me, then signals the bartender. “Water for me too. Got to drive home.”

We stand there, two hockey players in uncomfortable tuxes, watching the party swirl around us. Chelsea and Jake work the room, her hand on his arm, his at her back. They look like what they’re supposed to be—young professionals at a charity event.

But I see the way she keeps touching her earring. The careful distance she maintains when they stop to talk. The way her eyes find me in the crowd, just for seconds, before looking away.

Patricia was right. Whatever’s happening in our sessions is working. Just not the way anyone thinks.

“I’m heading out,” I tell Weston. “Early practice tomorrow.”

“Want company?”

“Nah. I’m good.”

I make my rounds, shaking hands and playing nice, before escaping to the valet stand. While waiting for my car, I loosen the torture device masquerading as a bow tie and breathe deep.

Behind me, the door opens. I know it’s her before turning—that same magnetic awareness that’s been driving me crazy all night.

“You okay?” Chelsea asks softly.

“Shouldn’t you be inside with Jake?”

“He’s talking to the team physician about CrossFit. I have about ten minutes before he notices I’m gone.”

“Lucky me.”

We stand there, not looking at each other, while valets fetch cars for other escaping guests.

“That wasn’t fair,” she says finally. “What I said. About the ending being decided.”

“Wasn’t it?”

“I don’t know. I used to think so. But lately...” She shivers, wrapping her arms around herself. “Lately, I don’t know anything except that this hurts.”

I shrug off my jacket, draping it over her shoulders before she can protest. She pulls it close, and something in my chest cracks at seeing her wrapped in my clothes again.

“It doesn’t have to hurt,” I say quietly.

“Doesn’t it? We’re impossible, Reed. Everything standing between us—”

“Is just noise. Fear. Other people’s expectations.”

“Those things matter.”

“Do they? Or do we just let them matter because it’s easier than admitting what we really want?”

My car arrives before she can answer. The valet holds the door, waiting.

“Keep the jacket,” I tell her. “It looks better on you anyway.”

I drive away, watching in the rearview as she stands there, drowning in my tux jacket, looking like everything I want but can’t have.

At home, I hang up the rest of the torture suit and collapse on my couch. My phone buzzes—a photo from the team photographer. Chelsea and me on the dance floor, lost in each other, looking like we’re the only two people in the world.

I should delete it. Instead, I save it to the folder labeled “Bad Decisions.”

It’s getting pretty full.