Page 6

Dane

The music fades, and I feel Ivy start to pull away. Before she can, the groom grabs the mic, asking everyone to find their seats.

"Before we continue," Sean says, his voice carrying that mix of champagne and emotion that makes wedding speeches dangerous, "I want to thank a few people. First, my brother Mike..."

I try to fade into the background as Ivy and I find our seats, but Sean's not done.

"And my cousin Dane." The spotlight finds me, and I resist the urge to duck. "Most of you know him as the captain of the Snow Leopards, but I know him as the guy who taught me what loyalty means."

Ivy's head turns slightly.

"When I was struggling in college," Sean continues, "ready to quit everything, Dane showed me what dedication looks like.

He was fighting for his spot in the NHL, working two jobs, still making time to help me study.

That's who he is—the guy who shows up. The one who never quits on people he cares about. "

I feel Ivy's eyes on me, but I keep my gaze forward.

"So yeah, he's a great hockey player," Sean raises his glass. "But he's an even better man. To Dane!"

The room erupts in cheers. I lift my hand in acknowledgment, fighting the urge to disappear.

That's when I hear it—Jessica's stage whisper to Marcus: "Holy shit, massive upgrade!"

Ivy pretends not to hear, but I catch the slight curve of her lips.

The music kicks back in—something with a beat that has everyone moving toward the dance floor. Ivy surprises me by grabbing my hand.

"Come on, Captain," she says with a grin. "Show me your moves."

The next hour becomes a blur of ridiculous group dances. Ivy knows every step to the Macarena, which shouldn't be as adorable as it is. During Mambo No. 5, she actually laughs—head thrown back, totally free. The sound does something to my chest.

"You're not terrible at this," she says during a line dance.

"Hockey players need good footwork."

"Is that what you call whatever that was?" She mimics my attempt at the grapevine.

"I'd like to see you do a crossover on ice."

"I'd like to see you try."

Her smile hits me like a body check—unexpected, powerful, real.

The DJ launches into the Conga, and suddenly the floor is packed. Dorian—looking like he stepped out of GQ in his perfectly tailored navy suit—has somehow convinced an elderly lady to be his partner. He's adding Michael Jackson spins between the basic steps, making her laugh as she follows along.

A group of women at the singles table can't take their eyes off him. When he notices, he throws them an exaggerated wink and blows a kiss. One actually fans herself before her friend whispers something in her ear that makes her shoulders slump in disappointment.

"Poor things," Ivy mutters beside me. "They always fall for the pretty ones."

The Conga line snakes around us, and suddenly we're pulled in. Ivy's hands land on my waist, and I try not to focus on how right they feel there.

I catch my mother across the room, whispering something to Hortensia. Seconds later, Hortensia weaves through the dancers and smoothly inserts herself between us in the line.

"Dane," she says, her green silk dress rustling. "We haven't had a chance to catch up."

Ivy just moves with the flow, joining the line behind another couple, still dancing and laughing with the crowd. No drama, no jealousy—just easy confidence. Like she doesn't feel threatened at all.

And that... that does something to my chest.

Then the DJ announces it's time for the bouquet toss. Ivy stays put, but the bride has other ideas. The flowers arc through the air, missing the crowd of eager women entirely—and nail Ivy right in the head.

"Ow!" She catches the bouquet on reflex, then immediately tosses it at me like it's on fire. "Nope!"

I throw it to Dorian, who catches it with a theatrical bow.

"Thank you, darlings," he announces to the room. "I accept this blessing from the universe."

Ivy's still rubbing her head, but she's laughing. "Your cousin-in-law has scary good aim."

"She played softball in college."

"Of course she did." She touches the spot again. "I'm going to have a bump."

Without thinking, I brush her hair back to check. "You'll live."

She goes still under my touch. For a moment, we're too close, too real.

I drop my hand. "You know, you never asked."

"Asked what?"

"Who I was. What I did for a living." I study her face. "Most women would've had questions."

She shrugs. "It didn't matter."

"Didn't matter that I play pro hockey?"

"Should it?" Her eyes meet mine. "You were just a guy in a bathroom, listening to me cry. Then you were just... you."

Something shifts in my chest. Cracks. Because she's right—she never asked. Never wanted anything except what I freely gave.

"Dance with me," I say suddenly.

She raises an eyebrow. "Is that a captain's order?"

"Just a request."

The music's slower now, couples swaying together. I pull her close, one hand on her waist, the other holding hers against my chest.

"Your head okay?" I murmur.

"Probably bruised. Your cousin's aim is lethal."

"Want me to kiss it better?"

She steps on my foot again.

"Worth a try," I laugh.

We move together easily, like we've been doing this for years instead of hours. She fits against me perfectly, her head just the right height to rest on my chest if she wanted to.

She doesn't. But she could.

And that's the dangerous part.

Because she didn't ask who I was. Didn't want anything from me. That shouldn't matter.

I don’t know why, but somehow, it does.