Chapter 31
Cool. Great. My Heart Still Does That
The ballroom smells faintly like champagne and polished wood.
Soft gold lighting spills across crowded tables while a string quartet plays near the stage, half-buried beneath conversation and glassware and low laughter.
Sports charity gala, the kind of event that sounds glamorous in headlines and mostly feels like networking in uncomfortable shoes in reality.
I stand near the drinks table balancing a champagne flute in one hand while Maddie aggressively critiques the decorative centrepieces beside me.
"These flowers look expensive enough to pay off my student loans.
" "You don't have student loans." "I could if I wanted them.
" I laugh quietly. The sound comes easier these days.
It still catches me off guard occasionally, less because grief disappeared and more because it stopped sitting at the centre of every moment constantly.
A federation sponsor stops me halfway through the conversation to congratulate me on Worlds again.
Then another. Then a former Olympic ice dancer launches into an enthusiastic conversation about choreography interpretation while touching my arm every third sentence like she's physically incapable of emphasizing points normally.
The whole evening moves like that. Warm and busy and human.
People know my name now in ways that still feel slightly surreal, not celebrity surreal, just visible, wanted in rooms. I navigate conversations easily while waiters weave between groups carrying trays of drinks and tiny plated desserts nobody actually eats.
A few years ago, events like this would have exhausted me within twenty minutes, too many people, too much pressure to perform socially, too much awareness of my own body and voice and space.
Now I move through the room differently.
Not perfectly confident. Just less afraid of existing inside it. That distinction matters.
"Arabella." I glance up automatically. One of the junior skaters from Worlds smiles brightly while approaching with two others trailing behind her.
"Oh my god, congratulations again. The free skate was insane.
" Heat rises faintly into my cheeks. "Thank you.
" "No seriously," another girl cuts in. "I watched the step sequence like fourteen times.
" "Healthy behaviour from all of you." "Absolutely not.
" I laugh again while they crowd around enthusiastically.
The conversation shifts quickly after that, training, travel, competition disasters, easy.
The ease still surprises me sometimes. For a long time I genuinely believed emotional pain would permanently shrink my life smaller around it.
Instead the opposite happened. My world kept expanding.
I still miss Calder. That truth exists quietly underneath everything, still sharp sometimes, still immediate in certain moments.
But tonight he isn't sitting at the centre of my thoughts.
The event feels safe. Manageable. Almost normal.
I excuse myself eventually to grab another drink while the junior skaters get pulled toward a photo area near the stage.
The ballroom stretches wide around me, athletes, media people, sponsors, conversation overlapping warmly beneath soft music.
I reach for a champagne flute from a passing tray and glance absently toward the entrance at the far side of the room.
And freeze. Not emotionally first. Physically. Like my body recognizes him before my brain fully catches up.
Across the ballroom, Calder Hayes steps through the doors in a dark suit with one hand adjusting the cuff of his jacket while conversation and movement continue obliviously around him.
My pulse slams once violently against my ribs.
Everything inside me goes still and reacts at once — pulse, breath, muscle memory — so fast that my body recognizes him before thought fully forms around it.
Calder stands near the entrance scanning the ballroom automatically while people move around him, dark suit, broad shoulders, that same impossible hockey-player physicality that always makes him look slightly too solid for normal rooms. The sight of him hits like impact. Time did nothing to soften it.
My fingers tighten instinctively around the stem of the champagne flute hard enough that I worry briefly it might crack. Then his eyes find mine. And stop.
The reaction steals breath from my lungs.
Calder goes completely still in a way that feels worse than dramatic, instinctive, like his entire body locks around recognition before he can control it.
The ballroom continues moving around us, music, conversation, glassware, laughter, while the space between us narrows into something sharp and electrically charged.
My chest aches suddenly with the force of memory. Late-night drives, cold hands tucked inside his jacket sleeves, the rough scrape of hockey tape against my skin, Calder half-asleep against me after games. Everything returns. Not dulled. Not distant. Alive.
I hate how quickly my body still wants him. Because some reckless old version of me would already be moving toward him automatically, relief first, thought second. That girl no longer exists. I stay exactly where I am.
Across the room, Calder still hasn't looked away.
His expression barely changes outwardly.
I still see it, shock, relief, something dangerously close to hunger.
My stomach twists violently. He looks emotionally worn thin somehow.
I understand it before I can stop myself and feel something soft and painful move through my chest.
Then Calder shifts one step forward instinctively.
Like his body already decided where it belongs before his brain catches up.
He stops himself almost immediately afterward.
The movement is small, barely noticeable.
I still feel it like a physical touch. Heat climbs rapidly beneath my skin while my pulse keeps beating too hard.
The attraction between us survived everything.
A sponsor says something beside me. I don't hear a word.
My entire nervous system remains locked onto Calder standing across the ballroom looking at me like he forgot how to breathe properly for a second.
Then somebody approaches him from the side, one of the hockey executives maybe.
The interruption breaks the moment just enough for oxygen to finally reach my lungs again.
I exhale slowly. My body still wants to move toward him.
Still recognizes him instantly as safety and desire and home all tangled together.
But instinct no longer controls my decisions afterward.
I don't leave. I don't collapse emotionally either. I simply stand there in the middle of the ballroom with my heartbeat still uneven and the memory of Calder's eyes on me burning through my chest. Loving him survived. But access to me no longer comes automatically with it.
The ballroom slowly resumes normal shape around me, externally at least. Conversation slides back into place.
Music continues through the room. People move between tables carrying drinks and half-finished conversations like the entire axis of my emotional stability didn't just walk through the door ten minutes ago.
I force myself to breathe normally. Then I take a sip of champagne I can barely taste.
"You okay?" Maddie's voice arrives low beside me.
I glance toward her. Her eyes flick once across the room toward Calder before returning carefully to my face.
Apparently my expression gave something away.
"Yeah," I lie automatically. "You looked like you saw a ghost." Not a ghost. Something living.
Something that still knows exactly how to dismantle me physically with one look across a crowded room.
"I'm fine," I say again, softer this time.
The strange part is that I almost mean it.
Because yes, my pulse is still uneven. Yes, every nerve ending in my body remains painfully aware of Calder somewhere behind me. But I am not unraveling.
Maddie studies me another second before nodding slowly.
"Okay. Well. If you need me to fake a medical emergency or commit minor assault, let me know.
" A laugh escapes me before I can stop it, warm and quick and real.
I am still capable of existing normally while Calder is in the room.
Months ago, seeing him after a separation like this would have emotionally consumed everything else instantly.
Now the attraction remains overwhelming without erasing me alongside it.
Conversation pulls me back in before I can think too hard about it.
One of the sponsors asks about upcoming training plans.
Another athlete joins us midway through.
And somehow the evening keeps moving, not comfortably exactly, but functionally.
Every few minutes I feel Calder's attention catch against me again from somewhere across the ballroom.
The awareness is physical now. Heavy. Consistent.
I don't need to look to know when he's watching me. Still, eventually I glance up anyway.
Calder stands near one of the tall cocktail tables speaking to two men in suits while his focus remains visibly split, one answer, then his eyes flick toward me again automatically.
Like some part of him still organizes itself around where I exist in rooms without deciding to.
A few months ago, the awareness would have pulled me toward him without hesitation.
Now I simply notice it. And continue my conversation.