Chapter 13
Matt
The ballroom glittered like a jewelry store had exploded inside a hotel, all crystal chandeliers and tablecloths that probably cost more than my first car.
Third year in a row sitting in this room. Third year watching the White Hearts celebrate while we clapped politely and pretended the whole thing wasn't taking years off our lives.
Mason sat beside me, jaw locked down so hard I could hear him grinding from my chair.
Our whole table had the look of a team that knew what was coming and had decided to take it standing up.
Coach George held that practiced smile he'd perfected over thirty years of hockey.
Professional. Controlled. But I could read the tightness around his eyes, the jaw set a fraction too firm.
He was already calculating roster changes.
The host took the stage. Some retired player running on enthusiasm that came from not having played in the finals this year.
Best Goalie went to Viktor Petrov. The White Hearts' wall. Forty-two saves in the championship game alone. I'd studied his tape enough to predict his movements in my sleep, reading his angles, his positioning, the way he read plays before they developed. He was annoyingly, devastatingly good.
Viktor accepted the trophy in a dark gray suit, modest smile, thick Russian accent, thanked the team. The crowd ate it up.
Rookie of the Year went to Tyler Rodriguez, the White Hearts' nineteen-year-old who scored like he'd been in the league for a decade.
The kid stammered through his speech thanking everyone from his coach to a childhood neighbor who'd flooded a backyard every winter for skating practice. Even I had to admit he deserved it.
Then came Best Defensive Player.
"Jake Patterson, Boston!"
Our table erupted. Jake had blocked more shots than anyone this season. Played through a separated shoulder in the playoffs without a word. His speech was short and humble, and when he held up the trophy, something in my chest loosened a fraction.
At least we got one.
After that, the White Hearts ran the table.
Most Improved Player went to Ryan Cole, the defenseman who'd taken me out in Game Five with a hit so clean it was almost beautiful.
Best Playoff Performance went to their captain, Jackson Ward.
Six-foot-three, slap shot that could dent steel, fourth major award.
His acceptance speech was polished and practiced, grateful but calibrated.
"Here's to another great season next year. "
Their tables erupted. Ours clapped politely.
Best Coach went to Thomas Brennan. Best Assists Leader went to Danny Morrison, one of ours. Two out of ten. Better than nothing. Still felt like scraps from the winner's table.
Then Offensive Player of the Year.
This one went in like a blade, because it should have been Mason's. He'd led the entire league in goals. Thirty-eight. Three hat tricks. Scored in overtime twice. And the trophy went to Jackson Ward again, their captain collecting his second of the night.
I felt Mason go rigid beside me. His knuckles were white against the tablecloth.
"Mason—"
"Don't." Flat. Dead. "Just don't."
So I didn't.
The final award was MVP. Eli Brooks, the White Hearts' assistant captain. Fifty-six assists, hockey IQ off the charts. His voice cracked halfway through the speech talking about watching hockey with his dad, and the room went silent, and I looked away because I didn't need that right now.
When the awards ended, the host announced a break before the photoshoot. The lights came up. People started moving toward the bar, the exits, the bathrooms. Mason shoved his chair back hard enough to scrape the floor.
"I need air before I do something I'll regret."
He stalked toward the lobby, shoulders tight. I stayed in my chair, watching him go.
The photoshoot setup began near the stage.
White Hearts players gathered with their trophies, laughing, clapping each other on the back, posing like they'd already won next season too.
Coach George gestured for our team to move toward the photo area for the shots we were contractually obligated to take.
I didn't budge.
My drink sat on the table, ice melting into cloudy puddles. I stared at it like it might hold answers. It didn't. It was whiskey that had given up.
Then I saw her.
Carrie came through the side entrance, and the whole room tipped.
Black dress. The kind of black that doesn't ask permission.
It fit close at the top, every curve I'd traced with my hands now on display for four hundred people, then fell loose at the bottom in a way that moved with her like water.
Her hair was pulled up, a few strands loose around her face, and the candlelight from two weeks ago was suddenly right there, running underneath the ballroom lights like a second exposure.
I'd known she might be here. She worked for them. This was their night. But knowing it and seeing her walk through that room were two entirely different sports, and I was not prepared for the one I was playing.
Heads turned. I wasn't the only one tracking her across the room. Guys straightened up. Ties got adjusted. A couple of White Hearts players nudged each other.
She didn't notice any of them. Or if she did, she'd decided they weren't the audience.
Her eyes found mine across the room and locked.
She walked straight to my table. Every step deliberate, the dress moving with her, people stepping aside. My chest was doing something that had no business happening in a room full of my professional peers.
She stopped in front of me. Close. Close enough for her perfume to hit, something warm and floral that was going to live on my jacket for days.
She leaned in, lips near my ear.
"Meet me in the parking lot," she whispered. "Five minutes."
Then she pulled back. Flashed a small, knowing smile that made my stomach drop through the floor. And walked away.
I sat there for three of those five minutes trying to restart my brain.
Across the room, Mason had reappeared. He'd seen the whole thing. That slow, wicked grin spreading across his face said he knew exactly what was going through my head. He raised his glass slightly and mouthed one word.
Go.
I went.
The hallway outside was cooler, quieter. I walked past the coat check, past the bathrooms, toward the service exit. The parking lot was dimly lit, scattered overheads casting long shadows between rows of cars that cost more than most apartments.
She was near the far corner, leaning against a dark sedan, arms crossed. She saw me coming and straightened up. Those dark eyes watching me close the distance, unreadable, pulling me in the way she'd been pulling me in since a gas station in the rain.
"Took you long enough."
"You said five minutes."
"I lied."
I stepped closer. She didn't step back. My hands found her waist through the fabric of the dress, warm from her body, and her breath caught, and the sound of it undid something that had been holding all evening.
She put her hands on my chest. Not pushing away. Pulling closer.
"We shouldn't be doing this here," she said, not moving.
"Probably not."
"Anyone could walk out."
"I know."
Her fingers curled into my jacket. My mouth found her neck, just below her ear, and she tilted into it, and the small sound she made against my shoulder sent every rational thought I had toward the exit.
My hands slid down her hips and pulled her flush against me, and she could feel exactly what she was doing, and she pressed closer instead of pulling back.
My fingers went to my belt.
"Matt."
That wasn't Carrie's voice.
I turned. A man stood a few feet away. Fifties, graying hair, expensive suit that screamed money and power. He was smiling, one hand extended.
"Kyle Ashford. White Hearts Media Strategist." His smile didn't waver. "It's an honor to finally meet you properly."
I stared at him. Then at Carrie.
She was grinning. Not embarrassed. Not apologetic. A full, wicked grin that went all the way up to her eyes and made my stomach drop through the pavement.
"Sorry," she said, not sounding even remotely sorry. "Couldn't resist."
She turned on her heel and walked away, that black dress swaying with each step, leaving me standing there with my belt half-undone and her boss's hand still extended in greeting.
I stood there. Stunned. Played. Completely and thoroughly outmaneuvered by a woman who'd just run a play I hadn't seen developing until it was already over.
Kyle's smile never faltered.