Chapter 9
Chapter nine
I didn’t think it would feel like this
Carina
The dress zips up without a fight, which feels like the biggest win I’ve had all week.
It’s black. Strapless, but clean-cut straight across the bust. Structured and pretty, but professional enough to stand next to a donor without feeling like I’ve misjudged the dresscode.
My heels are high, my earrings subtle, and I smooth the fabric down over my hips to check my reflection, then do it again, adjusting the fall of it for the millionth time.
I’m not trying to impress anyone, but the mirror still says otherwise.
This is a hospital fundraiser. Patients’ families, colleagues, and donors will be there. I’m not dressing for attention.
Still, I hesitate longer than usual over my hair. Pull it back, then undo it and try again before settling somewhere in the middle—a small section up, but the rest tumbling down over my shoulders. It’s getting longer. I should probably book a trim.
I reapply lipstick I’ll inevitably forget to touch up, then exhale through my nose, trying to force the tightness in my chest to give.
I’m supposed to be there already to help with set-up, but my brain keeps stalling in neutral.
It’s not nerves—I’ve assisted in trauma surgeries with less prep than this. It’s more of a weird anticipation, like my body knows something’s coming but hasn’t told me what yet.
I grab my clutch from the kitchen counter and duck to look out the window to assess the weather.
Cold, but not raining anymore. I glance up at the sky, which feels as though it’s cleared too quickly, based on the faint rainbow fracturing through the light.
Then I double-check the notes I tucked into my purse, and pause when my phone lights up with a message.
REID HUTCHISON: You gonna be late, Havoc?
Me: Never been late a day in my life, Hutchison.
My mouth twitches before I can stop it, because he’s been doing this lately. Checking in. Never anything overtly personal—just updates, or questions and comments about the fundraiser. Always tied to the kid, the event, the fundraising goal.
But it’s consistent, and it’s not just the messages.
I’ve seen him at the clinic a lot over the past few weeks. Several times in the corridor after a session with Heidi, and once when he showed up early with my coffee order in hand. A double espresso with a dash of cream. Exactly right.
He softly knocked on my open office door, strolled in, and placed the takeaway cup down gently next to my keyboard.
“Did I order this?” I’d asked, squinting at it.
“No, just thought you’d like one.”
“How did you know what I drink?”
“Heidi mentioned it in passing during our last session.”
He’d said it so casually, with the shrug of a shoulder. As though he hadn’t knocked me completely off balance by remembering something so small about me.
And I don’t know what to do with that; him remembering things about me. I should probably be annoyed, or at least wary.
But instead, I keep catching myself wondering how he’ll look tonight. If we’ll get to talk much. Whether he’ll look at me the same way he did the last time I walked past him in the clinic hallway—as if I was someone he hadn’t figured out how to see more of, but was planning to.
God help me.
I shove the memory away and grab my coat.
***
The venue is already buzzing when I arrive.
Decorated to be modern in that carefully neutral way that makes everything feel expensive without leaning too far into it.
There’s a branded photo backdrop at the front entrance, a silent auction table lined with bid sheets, and a raised dais that will eventually become the stage for speeches and presentations.
It’s perfect.
And I should know, because I’ve been involved with it for the past month—liaising between the oncology unit, the Moreno Clinic, and the fundraiser coordinator while pretending I haven’t been emotionally unraveling every time someone mentions pediatric amputation rates.
I’m more invested in this than I should be, and I know it. But I can’t help it. I want Levi to get the funding for this trial.
I clock Moreno first in his signature navy suit, already mid-conversation with a donor he’s clearly trying to charm with the kind of charisma you can bottle and sell for six figures. He spots me and breaks off immediately.
“There you are,” Moreno says with relief. “You ready for tonight?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
I mean it. Mostly.
Jenny materializes at his elbow a second later, wearing red and smiling like she wants a write-up in a society column. Our civility is mutual but shallow, because she’s still convinced I’m sleeping with Dr. Moreno, while I’m still convinced she’s in love with his reputation.
“Dr. Park,” she says, nodding at me. “Everything looks wonderful.”
“The organizers did a wonderful job.” I nod politely and keep moving before she can attach herself.
Heidi is near the bar, already waving me over, a drink in her hand. She looks luminous as always—gold dress, glossy curls, the human embodiment of light and charm.
“You breathing?” she asks under her breath.
“Barely.”
She grins. “Good sign.”
Levi arrives not long after, bundled in a jacket that’s slightly too big, his parents flanking him with nervous smiles pulled tight. The second I see them, I make my way over. I crouch to his level to greet him properly, and ask how he’s feeling, whether he’s ready for a big night.
He nods so hard his beanie nearly slips off.
“My mom said there’d be hockey players,” he whispers.
The excitement in his eyes grounds me a bit, and I smile because that’s why we’re here tonight—for Levi and his happiness.
“Your mom might be right.”
His mom and dad gently wheel him through the crowd, greeting doctors and specialists as they make their way to a special table we’ve set up for them.
It includes all of his favorite snacks, as well as some merchandise from his favorite teams—including the mascot stuff.
He surprises me every time he mentions one of the mascots by name, by something funny they’ve done during an intermission.
The kid has a great recall rate for things he loves.
I start to mingle with a few colleagues, making small talk and talking shop. I’m expecting a respectable turnout—some decent donors and investors, a few athletes. Enough noise to feel supportive without being overwhelming.
I’m halfway through a conversation with one of the board members when the temperature in the room shifts. It’s subtle at first, like a swell in the volume.
But then they arrive.
Athletes. A lot of them. Not just from the Colorado Storm—though Jake Brooks is unmistakable, and Chase Walton is right behind him, along with Viktor Karlsson—but players from other teams, too.
The sound in the room shifts as though someone’s turned up the volume. A few phones come out, and heads turn. The energy lifts in a way I can feel in my chest, bubbling and hopeful.
Jake spots Levi immediately and makes a beeline for him, crouches down, and offers a fist bump. Levi’s eyes go wide, his grin stretching ear to ear, as he excitedly chats away to Jake like they’re old pals.
I stand there, slightly dumbfounded, as the room continues to fill with pro athletes.
The Colorado Storm players are loud as they greet players from other pro teams. The Denver Miners’ star forward strolls in, laughing loudly with two teammates in tow.
A pair of Denver Mustangs players follow, shaking hands like they’re working a room they’re already familiar with.
Someone murmurs when they spot the Denver Dynamite women’s captain here, too, and the buzz sharpens another notch.
My confusion turns slow, then sharp, because this isn’t just a fluke or due to a casual invitation. This was organized. I scan the room again, heart picking up speed, and that’s when I see him.
Reid arrives without ceremony or entrance. He slips in last while the others take the spotlight, mustache twitching as he smiles and nods at a few familiar faces, his posture easy but alert.
And it’s fucking unfair.
He’s not even doing anything, just standing there in a dark tailored suit, button undone at the collar, hands loose at his sides. He’s tall, towering, but unbothered.
My stomach does something involuntary as he clocks the room in one sweep, and his blue eyes flare a little when they land on me. His gaze stills and holds mine, followed by a slow perusal to my heels and back again.
I swallow my nerves and make my way through the crowd, catching him before someone else does.
“Hey.”
His eyes drop to my dress, then snap back up again.
“You… you’re in a dress,” he mutters.
The corner of my mouth quirks. “That your version of a compliment, Hutchison?”
“That’s me trying not to stare.” My pulse skips, and he clears his throat, stepping in close enough that I can hear him without shouting. “You good?”
Absolutely the fuck not.
“Yes,” I say, then swallow. “I think so.”
He nods once. “Anything you need?”
Maybe for you to stay here beside me, just a little while. Or tequila. Or a mild sedative.
I shake my head.
“I didn’t expect—” I gesture at the sea of athletes. “All of this.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “Figured it couldn’t hurt.”
It’s so understated it almost makes me laugh. He doesn’t linger or hover by me for too long, which I appreciate because there’s a distinct chance I’d become a blithering idiot under his gaze.
He checks in with Levi, talking animatedly about blocker saves, and then trades a few words with Moreno. Claps Jake on the shoulder. Murmurs something to Chase that has him barking out a laugh.
I internally cringe when I realize I’ve been watching him, and now he’s circling back to me, holding two flutes of champagne.
“You eaten?” he asks.
I hesitate, and he waits.
“Not really.”
He hands me one. “Pace yourself, Havoc.”
I take it, our fingers brushing for half a second longer than necessary. “You’re bossy.”
“Observant,” he counters.