Page 17

Gracie

"Ugh, what's with you today? You're staring at that report like it owes you money," Allison quips from the doorway of my office, her eyebrows knitting together.

I glance up, caught off guard. "Oh, hey, Allie." I muster a half-smile, but it probably looks more like a grimace. My heart isn't in it, and apparently, my face can't lie for beans.

"Gracie, spill. You've got that look." Allison plants her hands on her hips, the universal stance of a friend who's not buying the 'I'm fine' act.

I sigh, feeling the weight of the last few weeks pressing down on me. "Take a seat, would you?" I motion with a flick of my wrist towards the chair opposite my desk.

Allison perches on the edge of the chair. She's practically brimming with readiness to dive into whatever personal crisis I'm about to unload.

"Remember Bennett?" I begin, picking at the corner of a note that reminds me, 'You are enough.' The irony isn't lost on me.

"Hot hockey guy? How could I forget? You've been grinning like a Cheshire Cat whenever you mention him." She leans forward.

"Was grinning," I correct her, swallowing the lump forming in my throat. "I ended it."

"Wait, what?" Her mouth hangs open for a split second before she regains composure. "Why? I thought things were going great."

"Long story short," I begin to explain, "we're on different life pages. He's... he's amazing, really. I just… have to focus on me right now, you know?"

"Oh, Gracie, I'm sorry. That sucks." Allison reaches across the desk to squeeze my hand.

"Yeah." I nod, grateful for her friendship. "It does."

"Are you gonna be okay?" she asks.

"I have to be," I reply, though my heart doesn't quite match the conviction in my voice.

I trace a line on the laminate surface of my desk, avoiding Allison's gaze for a moment. "It's just... I can't figure out why I'm so gutted about Bennett," I confess, finally mustering the courage to meet her concerned eyes. "We were barely a thing, you know? No grand romance, no tearful goodbyes."

"Sometimes the short stories stick with us the longest," Allison says, tilting her head. "Maybe it's not about the length of time, Gracie. Maybe it's about what could've been."

"Could've been." I taste the bittersweetness of those words. They resonate somewhere deep within me, where I've packed away dreams and desires in favor of practicality and protection. Protection from heartache.

"I guess..." My voice trails off as I grapple with the idea. Why should the loss of something barely begun weigh so heavily on me? I shake my head, trying to dispel the fog of confusion.

"Talk to me, Gracie." Allison's voice is gentle but insistent.

So, I do. I tell her about the ghost of a relationship past, the one that left scars so deep they might as well be part of my DNA now.

"My ex-fiancé," I start, feeling the familiar twinge of betrayal, "he was supposed to be my forever. However, forever turned out to be just another empty promise."

"Gracie, he was an idiot," Allison interjects.

"His parting gift," I continue, ignoring the urge to laugh off the pain, "wasn't a returned engagement ring or some cheesy Hallmark card. It was trust issues and a first-class ticket to Abandonmentville."

"Population: too many great women who deserve better," she adds with a sigh.

"Exactly," I murmur. "And now, every time someone even remotely like him shows up, walls up. Heart on lockdown."

"Is Bennett like him, though?" Allison asks.

I pause, considering. Bennett, with his easy smile and eyes that crinkle when he laughs. Bennett, who showed me simple affection and a true effort to communicate, expecting nothing in return.

"No. He's not. That's what scares me the most,” I admit. “Now, back to work. We’ve got a lot to get done before the end of the day.”

“Yes we do, but, Gracie, holler at me if you need to talk again,” Allison says as she gets up and walks off.

Fingers tapping anxiously on my desk, I stare at the screen. Numbers and figures blur together. My mind's a whirlwind, thoughts of Bennett tangling with line graphs and quarterly reports.

The truth is, I can't afford another misstep—not in love, not in life. It's always been about climbing higher, about proving that despite everything, I'm more than just the sum of my failed relationships. My career has to be enough, has to be everything. It's the only thing that's never walked out on me.

"Gracie?"

My heart rate picks up, not because the voice startles me, but because I know who it belongs to—Rose Halliday.

"Yes, Ms. Halliday?" I answer, swiveling in my chair to face her image on my phone screen.

"Dear, I have box seats for tomorrow night's Miami Kings game. New Year's Eve celebrations on ice," she says, her tone warm yet somehow still authoritative. "I'd love for you to join me."

"Ms. Halliday, that's really generous, but—" I hesitate, the words catching in my throat as the thought of being surrounded by all things Bennett sends a shiver down my spine.

"Consider it a thank you for your hard work this year. Also, it’s a chance to unwind. You've been pushing yourself too hard." Her voice softens, coaxing.

"Okay, I'll be there." I breathe out, surprising even myself.

"Marvelous!" She sounds genuinely pleased. "Wear something blue and white to show some team spirit. See you at eight!"

"Blue and white," I repeat, my voice barely above a whisper as the call ends.

The Miami Kings' colors. They might as well be the colors of my own tangled emotions. Blue for the melancholy that's been my shadow since Bennett and I called it quits; white for the fresh start I keep promising myself.

A new year and new beginnings, who knows what will come of it. I close my laptop with a decisive click. Tomorrow night, I’ll be rink side, watching life play out on ice.

Stepping into the VIP box at the downtown Miami Kings arena, I'm hit with a wall of warmth and the excitement of the game that’s about to start. Cerulean and white banners hang around the room to show past championship wins. Ms. Halliday is there, regal in her Kings scarf, and she greets me with the kind of smile that's reserved for old friends or family.

"Gracie, sweetie, you made it!" she exclaims.

"Thank you for the invite," I reply, though my insides are a tangle of nerves.

Bennett’s brother, Cole, and his girlfriend Amber, along with his other brother, Weston, and his little family of Presley and their son Sawyer, are already here. They're all so lovely and welcoming.

"Nice jersey," Cole nods approvingly as I slip past.

"Thanks," I manage, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks.

"Really brings out your eyes," Weston adds, and his fiancée giggles, nudging him playfully.

"Let's grab a seat before the puck drops," Ms. Halliday suggests, steering me gently by the elbow.

The game is a mixture of sticks clashing on ice, the puck a black dot darting between players. Yet it's Bennett I watch, number twenty-seven, moving with a grace that belies his size.

Then it happens—our eyes meet across the expanse of ice and cheering fans. His gaze finds me, holds me, even from a distance. Without thinking, I pivot, pointing to his name emblazoned across my back. The jersey he gave me, a token from a game I missed because I was drowning in work, deadlines devouring any chance at a personal life.

I turn back, my heart hammering against my ribs, and there it is. The biggest smile splits Bennett's face, bright enough to light up the arena. It's like a shot of something straight to my core.

"Go Kings!" someone shouts, and I join in, clapping, cheering, letting the noise wash over me. Although inside, I'm holding onto that smile, that look, like a lifeline.

I'm leaning over the railing, my eyes fixed on Bennett as he maneuvers around his opponents with a kind of focused intensity that makes everyone else on the ice look like they're just skating in circles.

In the chaos of the game—the shouting, the collisions, the sharp scrape of blades against ice—I can still pick him out, as if there's a spotlight following only him. The way he ducks and weaves through the other players, it's not just skill, not just training; it's compassion, it's heart, it's... kindness. Yeah, kindness on the ice—a fierce, protective kind of care for his team that tells me more about who Bennett really is than any rumor ever could.

I can't help but think back to my ex, whose idea of teamwork involved taking all the credit and leaving a mess for others to clean up—during games, in relationships, everywhere. Yet Bennett, he's nothing like that. He's passing the puck when a teammate has a better shot, tapping gloves with the goalie after a close save, throwing a quick thumbs-up to a kid pressed to the glass with wide, admiring eyes.

Watching him now, I understand that this man isn't about showboating or scoring off the ice. He plays life like he plays the game: giving it everything, looking out for his people, and doing it all with a heart that's been misunderstood by so many. Including me.

God, it's sexy. Not in the drop-your-panties kind of way—though, let's be real, the man could make a saint swear—but in a deeper, pull-at-your-soul kind of way. It makes me want to know him, in every sense.