Page 38

ALDER

The Black and Gold Charity Gala takes place at the Carnegie Museum of Art, where the grand hall is transformed with elegant lighting, ice sculptures, and enough flowers to fill a greenhouse. I adjust my bow tie for the third time as I enter, scanning the room automatically for familiar faces.

The event is a who's who of Pittsburgh sports—players from the Fury, the Black Sox, and the Forge, all in their formal best, mingling with donors, sponsors, and local celebrities. In years past, I've enjoyed these events, relishing the chance to dress up and socialize outside the locker room.

Tonight, I feel as if I'm wearing someone else's skin.

"A-Stag!" Banksy approaches, champagne in one hand, the other draped around his boyfriend. "Looking sharp, man."

"Thanks," I manage, accepting the glass he offers. "You too."

"Listen," he says, lowering his voice. "You good? Cam and I are here for you with all this anti-bi bullshit. You know we got you."

A wave of regret washes over me for not reaching out to Banksy after Brian came over. “Thanks, man.” I put an arm on each of their shoulders. “I really appreciate that. And I’m good. Really. ”

Banksy looks at me and doesn't believe me for a second, but he's kind enough not to push. "Well, we’re in if you want to get a tattoo or paint your house with the bi-flag colors. Whatever."

I nod, not actually listening, as he yacks about potential line changes for next season. My eyes are too busy scanning the crowd for the woman consuming my thoughts.

"There you are." Gunnar appears at my elbow, Emerson resplendent beside him in a deep green gown that shows off her curves. "You look like someone shot your dog."

"Thanks," I say dryly. "You're looking lovely, Em."

She gives me a sympathetic smile. "How are you doing, Alder?"

Something in her tone tells me she knows exactly what happened with the press and with Lena. Of course, she does—she was shopping with her when she decided to ditch me. "I'm fine," I say, the words sounding hollow even to my own ears. "Great event."

Gunnar snorts. "Yeah, you seem thrilled to be here. Try to look a little less miserable, will you? You're scaring the wait staff."

Emerson elbows him gently. "Be nice. He's having a rough day."

"Doesn't mean he gets to sulk like a big baby," Gunnar softens the criticism with a brotherly punch to my shoulder. "Come on, I need you to help me schmooze the Wilkins Foundation people. They're funding our youth hockey camp this summer.”

I allow myself to be led through the crowd, grateful for the distraction. For the next hour, I force smiles, make small talk, and pretend to be the charming, carefree hockey star everyone expects. It's exhausting, but it's easier than thinking about Lena.

As the evening progresses, I find myself ordering something stronger than champagne at the bar. The bartender is just sliding my whiskey across the counter when I hear a commotion near the entrance.

I turn, and the world seems to slow down.

Lena stands in the doorway, a vision in a wine-colored dress that hugs her curves perfectly. The sweetheart neckline showcases the soft swell of her breasts. Her hair is swept up, exposing the elegant line of her neck—the same neck I was kissing just a few nights ago.

She's breathtaking, and from the hush that falls over those nearest the entrance, I'm not the only one who thinks so.

Our eyes meet across the room, a brief, electric connection before she looks away, moving further into the crowd.

I watch as Coach Thompson greets her, introducing her to some donors with obvious pride.

She's an asset to the organization, after all—a skilled professional who belongs here just as much as any of us.

Just not with me.

I down my whiskey in one swallow, welcoming the burn.

"Well, well. If it isn't Alder Stag."

I freeze at the familiar voice, then turn slowly to find Adam standing beside me at the bar. He's immaculate in a tailored tuxedo, perfectly styled dark hair, and a press badge hanging around his neck.

"Adam," I acknowledge coldly.

“All day long,” he signals the bartender. Scotch, neat." He turns back to me with that smile I once found so charming. You're looking tense. Are you not enjoying the party?"

"It's fine." I focus on my empty glass, wishing I could order another without looking like I need it.

"I saw your dentist arrive. Quite the entrance." He accepts his drink from the bartender. "She seems to be settling in well with the team. Though I hear she's recently changed her living arrangements."

Of course, he knows. Adam makes it his business to know everything about everyone in Pittsburgh sports .

"Not your business," I say, my voice tight.

"Just making conversation." He takes a sip of his scotch. "Been seeing a lot of interesting comments from your fans online lately. The community never does like being used as PR."

I don't respond, but I can feel my jaw clenching.

"Tell me, how is life in the mainstream, straight guy?" Adam's voice is casual and conversational, but his eyes are calculating. "I wouldn’t know..." His smile turns smug.

The accusation behind his words hits like a body check that I didn't see coming. "I've never been straight."

"No?" He laughs softly. "Could have fooled me.” And then his demeanor changes. He’s predatory, almost. "Actions have consequences, Alder," Adam says coolly. "You compromised my professional reputation. Only seemed fair to return the favor."

My eyes widen. "I made a mistake," I say through gritted teeth. "You orchestrated a campaign to humiliate me."

Adam shrugs. "Consider it a lesson in the power of strategic PR. Something you should have thought about before running your mouth."

My vision narrows, and blood rushes in my ears. Before I fully register what I'm doing, my fist connects with Adam's jaw, sending him stumbling backward.

There's a moment of stunned silence, then chaos. Adam recovers, lunging forward with a drink tray he snatches from a passing server. The edge catches me across the face, pain surging through my bones.

Hands grab at both of us, pulling us apart. I hear shouting and see flashes of light that must be camera phones. Someone shouts my name, trying to get my attention, but all I can focus on is the throbbing in my face and the cold satisfaction of having finally punched Adam Lawson.

"Alder." A firm voice cuts through the noise. "Alder, look at me. "

I blink, focusing on the face in front of me. Lena, her expression professional but her eyes concerned.

"I need to check your jaw," she says, loud enough for others to hear. "Come with me."

She doesn't wait for a response. She just takes my arm and guides me away from the crowd through a side door into a quiet hallway lined with artifacts under glass.

"That was quite a statement," she says once we're alone, her tone caught between clinical and concerned. "Let me see."

Her fingers are cool against my skin as she gently probes my mouth. I wince when she hits a tender spot.

"Nothing broken," she declares after a moment. "But you're going to have a bruise." She steps back, creating distance between us. "What happened?"

"Adam happened," I say, the words coming out sharper than I intended. "He was running his mouth."

"About what?" she asks quietly.

"About us. Him and me. You and me." I sigh, the anger draining away, leaving only a bone-deep weariness. "Doesn't matter. I shouldn't have hit him."

"No, you shouldn't have." Her voice is soft but firm. "That's going to be all over social media in about five minutes."

"Add it to my list of poor decisions lately." I meet her eyes, finding them unreadable in the dim hallway lighting. "How's the new place?"

She seems startled by the question. "It's... fine. Small, but functional."

"Good." I don't know what else to say. There's so much and nothing at all.

We stand in awkward silence for a moment, both aware of how different this is from the easy intimacy we shared just days ago. She's so close I can smell her perfume, the same scent that lingered on my pillows this morning.

"You look beautiful," I say finally because it's true and because I can't help but say it. That dress... it's perfect on you."

A blush spreads across her cheeks. "Thank you."

I step closer, unable to help myself. "Lena, I?—"

"We should get back," she interrupts, taking a deliberate step backward. "People will talk."

"Let them," I say, the words escaping before I can stop them.

She shakes her head, a sad smile on her lips. "That's the problem, Alder. They already are."

She turns to go, but I gently catch her wrist. "I miss you," I admit, the words raw and honest. "I miss you in my house. In my bed. I miss waking up with you."

Her expression softens, vulnerability breaking through her professional mask. "I miss you too," she whispers. "But missing each other doesn't change anything."

"Doesn't it?" I ask, still holding her wrist, feeling her pulse race beneath my fingers. "If we both feel the same way?—"

"We can't, Alder." She pulls her hand from my grasp. "I'm sorry about your jaw. Ice it when you get home. Twenty minutes on, twenty off."

And then she's gone, back through the door to the gala, leaving me alone in the hallway with the phantom sensation of her touch still lingering on my skin and the certainty that whatever I felt for her before she left, it's only grown stronger in her absence.