Chapter Nine
Old Friends, New Tension
Jace
The rain hasn’t let up. It leaves the pavement slick outside the university event center, catching the glow of the glass doors and the shimmer of every polished car that pulls into the loop.
Inside, the air hums with low jazz and polite laughter. It’s smooth and practiced, the kind that belongs to people who know what to say at fundraisers.
I’m not one of them.
My collar’s too tight. My tie’s already crooked. The assistant coaches beside me blend right in, loose smiles, handshakes, and confidence that looks natural. I manage a nod here, a ‘good to see you’ there, but it feels like wearing a suit that doesn’t fit.
A woman from the communications team waves us toward the check-in table. That’s when I see Sarah.
Clipboard in hand, name badge pinned neatly to the neckline of a dark green dress that catches the light when she moves.
It’s simple and elegant, and somehow it makes everything around her fade a little.
She’s laughing at something Ellie says, head tilted slightly, her confidence so effortless it hurts to look at.
Her lipstick’s darker than I remember, but her smile… that’s the same.
She looks like she belongs here. And somehow, that makes me feel like I don’t.
For half a second, her gaze flicks across the room and it almost stops on me. My breath catches, stupidly, like muscle memory. Then she looks away, her expression smoothing over so fast it could’ve been my imagination.
“Man,” one of the trainers mutters beside me, “they went all out this year.”
“Guess that’s what alumni donations are for,” I say, voice even.
What I don’t say is that she’s the reason the department’s reputation hasn’t tanked since the whole press-conference mess. She knows how to pull a team back from the edge, and if I’m being honest, I owe her one.
A few minutes later, Ethan’s voice cuts through the noise. “Well, I’ll be damned. You clean up nice, Prescott.”
Ethan is here as one of tonight's guest honorees, an alumni who’s living proof that the program’s pipeline actually works. He’s a prime example of what we can achieve.
I turn just as he and Emma are stepping through the doors, shaking off umbrellas. Ethan’s in a charcoal suit that probably costs more than my truck and Emma’s in a black dress. It’s simple and stunning. The whole room feels lighter when she smiles.
A year ago, none of this existed. Our wedding didn’t just change their lives, it cracked open a door that brought us all back as one. It forced us to acknowledge that time had reshaped our lives, instead of pretending it hadn’t. Making it somehow the beginning instead of the end.
Ethan claps me on the shoulder, grin wide. “Didn’t think I’d see the day you volunteered for small talk and tiny appetizers.”
“I didn’t,” I mutter. “Coach guilt-tripped me into showing up. Said it was penance for the stunt I pulled.”
“Same difference,” he says, snickering. “You need a drink. Where’s Sierra tonight, anyway?”
I clear my throat. “She couldn’t make it.”
Ethan flinches as Emma swats his arm. “Ow—what was that for?”
She shoots him a wide-eyed look that says drop it.
Realization dawns slowly. “Right. Got it,” he mutters, rubbing his arm. “Still think you need that drink, though.”
Emma moves in for a hug before I can answer. “It’s been too long,” she says, then leans back just enough to search my face. There’s something in her eyes, sadness maybe, or worry she won’t name. “You doing okay?”
I manage a small nod. “Yeah. Fine.”
Her eyes flick past me, across the room, to the registration table. I know exactly who she sees.
Sarah’s moving between tables now, checking name cards, adjusting a centerpiece. The light catches her hair when she turns. Emma’s hand tightens on my arm for just a second before she lets go.
Ethan, oblivious, waves a hand toward the bar. “C’mon, let’s grab a drink before someone drags me into a photo op.”
We weave through clusters of donors and board members, the kind of crowd that loves hearing themselves talk. The band in the corner shifts songs, playing something smooth, familiar, and slow.
At the bar, Ethan orders for the three of us. “Whiskey for us? And your usual, babe?”
“You know it,” Emma says. “Whiskey works,” I add
Emma doesn’t touch hers right away, distracted by Sarah waving at her from across the room.
“Okay,” Ethan says, raising his glass. “To good causes and free booze.”
“Classy,” Emma mutters.
He grins, unbothered, then winks at Emma and pulls her in for a kiss on the cheek.
I lift my drink, but don’t take a sip. Across the room, Sarah’s standing with Ellie and a few people from the department, smiling, composed, completely unshaken.
She glances this way again. This time her eyes land on me for half a heartbeat before she looks back at Ellie, saying something I can’t hear. Her smile doesn’t falter.
Ethan leans closer. “You look like you’re about to pass out. You good?”
“Fine.”
“Liar.”
Emma cuts in before I can respond. “Leave him alone.” Then, quieter, “Not tonight.”
The music shifts, a slow brush of jazz that barely cuts through the hum of voices. Someone at the mic starts thanking sponsors and polite laughter ripples across the room like background static.
I toss back the whiskey. It hits hard—sharp and smoky—but the burn fades before it can do anything useful. The glass is heavy in my hand, slick where my palm’s gone damp.
Across the room, Sarah moves through a cluster of donors, smile practiced, posture perfect. Every line of her looks effortless. She leans in to listen to someone’s story, nods once, then laughs at the right moment. The sound doesn’t reach me, but somehow I still feel it.
Ethan’s talking about networking, his voice steady and bright, and Emma’s smiling in that way she does when she’s being polite but watching everything.
I nod when I’m supposed to, but it feels mechanical, like my body’s still here while everything else has already drifted toward the woman I shouldn’t be looking at.
The crowd presses closer, applause rises somewhere behind me, and still the space around me feels hollow. Like I’m standing in the middle of a storm with no sound left in it.
The dinner portion of these things always feels like theater.
Round tables dressed in linen, centerpieces trying too hard, and everyone pretending the food’s worth what the tickets cost.
I end up near the front with Ethan, Emma, a few assistant coaches, and, of course, the university PR team. Which means Sarah.
She’s across from me, one seat over, talking quietly with Ellie as servers set down plates. The lighting’s soft, the jazz slower now, steady as a heartbeat under the hum of conversation. It should be relaxing. It isn’t.
Miller takes the chair beside me, already halfway through his second drink. “You’ve got to admit,” he says, glancing at Sarah, “PR finally earned their keep this year. Nice to see the department handling fires before they start.”
Ellie lifts a brow, smiling over her wine. “You say that like you had any hand in it.”
A few people laugh, the kind of easy sound that loosens the table for a beat.
Sarah also laughs, polite but cool. “Definitely some of us more than others.”
I take a sip of water, letting the sound of her voice do what it always does—hit somewhere I don’t want it to.
Ethan leans in. “You two make it sound like you’re covering a crime scene.”
Ellie smirks. “Close enough.”
The table chuckles, tension slipping for half a second.
Then he opens his mouth and lets it spew.
His smirk is lazy, and his voice carries just enough to make sure people hear. “You know, some of us didn’t have to stay up all night fixing the department’s mistakes. Guess it pays to be in PR. Or to know the right people.”
Ellie’s brow arches, unimpressed. “Funny, I don’t remember you doing much besides taking credit for other people’s work.”
Miller’s grin sharpens. “Depends who you ask.”
The table quiets just enough for the tension to stick.
He leans back in his chair, fork spinning lazily between his fingers. “Gotta hand it to PR,” he says. “They’ll make anyone look good if the lighting’s right.”
A few soft laughs ripple around the table—half amusement, half discomfort. Miller’s smirk hardens.
Sarah doesn’t flinch. She sets her fork down neatly beside her plate and gives a polite smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Well,” she says evenly, “good lighting’s part of the job. Some of us just make it look easier than others.”
Miller shoots Sarah a glare but doesn’t say anything else.
Ellie shifts in her chair, cutting through the tension with expert timing. “So, did anyone see the silent auction lineup? Napa trip. We should all bid and pretend we can afford it.”
The laughter that follows is thin but grateful.
Sarah lifts her glass, fingers steady, eyes fixed on the centerpiece. She doesn’t look at me. Not once.
Ethan’s talking again, something about travel schedules and training camps, but it barely registers. My chest feels tight, like someone twisted a screw too far.
I tell myself it’s fine. That I deserve the silence. That this is what happens when you break something you can’t rebuild.
The music swells again, polite applause breaking somewhere near the stage. I smile when I’m supposed to. I even manage to laugh once. But every sound in this room feels like static, and every glance feels like a reminder.
By the time dessert hits the table, I’ve lost track of half the conversation. The only thing I’m aware of is her—the way she keeps her focus on everyone but me.
And somehow, that hurts worse than if she’d been staring at me all night.
When the speeches start up again, I stand, muttering something about needing air. No one stops me.