Chapter Fourteen
Tessa
By the time the clock hits noon on the day after Christmas, we’re already getting ready for the charity gala.
Mom’s been up since sunrise, running on caffeine and Christmas spirit. Double-checking lists and giving orders, she acts like she’s managing a corporation instead of a fundraiser. Dad’s been hauling donation boxes to the truck, calling vendors, and checking the weather every hour.
Every year, our family hosts a Christmas fundraiser with the Barlowes. It’s a big deal—fancy dresses, live music, and a silent auction where people spend more money in one night than some families see all year.
This season is about giving back, and I know that’s true. But this year feels… different. I don’t know how else to put it, but my mind has just been in another place.
Yesterday didn’t help.
Evan surprised me with a gift. We haven’t talked in over a year, other than exchanging birthday texts followed by a couple of brief “how are you’s,” so the present caught me off guard.
Inside was a silver tennis bracelet. He said it reminded him of one I used to wear back in high school. I’d lost it in the move to Kolmont when I started college. I thanked him, but the whole thing felt strange. Like he was trying to reach for something that isn’t there anymore.
And I didn’t know how to tell him it’s not going to happen.
Then there was Clay.
He’d been quiet all day, somewhere else in his head.
I tried to talk to him, but he barely looked at me.
I kept hoping he’d come to my room after everyone went to bed, that we’d talk, or maybe I could find a way to pull him out of whatever was bothering him.
But he didn’t. And I fell asleep waiting.
I stand in front of the mirror, fastening my earrings, trying to look like I belong at a Christmas event when I mostly just feel off.
The red velvet dress fits tighter than I’m used to, the neckline dipping low enough to make me second-guess it.
Still, it looks good. I look good. And even if I don’t totally feel it, I can fake it for tonight.
Mom appears in the doorway. “You ready, Tess? We need to leave soon if we want to make it there on time.”
“Yeah,” I say, grabbing my clutch. My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
By the time we arrive, the ballroom is already buzzing with music and laughter. Everyone’s dressed up and smiling, and I’m doing what I can to play along.
I’m helping at the donation table when I overhear a conversation that pulls me from my thoughts.
“Did you see Clay’s here?” It’s just loud enough for me to hear. “Do you know if he’s seeing anyone?”
I can’t make out the answer, but it doesn’t matter. The question alone hits harder than it should. I set down the stack of envelopes and exhale a breath, before anyone can read what’s written all over my face.
Across the room, Clay’s deep in conversation with one of the sponsors, his expression unreadable. For a second, I swear he feels me watching him, but then his gaze flicks past mine, and he turns away. I hate how familiar the distance between us feels.
All I can think about is how badly I want to stop pretending.
Evan’s standing near the bar, beer in hand, that easy grin plastered on like always. He catches me looking and lifts his glass in a silent hello. A few people nearby follow his line of sight, turning to see who’s got his attention. Perfect. Just what I need.
My skin prickles. I tell myself it doesn’t matter, that I don’t care, but it still stings. Because no matter how much I try to move on, things like this drag me back into a version of myself I’ve tried to leave behind.
I take a sip of champagne, hoping to distract myself, but it doesn’t help. All I can hear is the whispers that never seem to stop.
“They always said Evan and Tessa were meant to be,” a woman nearby says, her voice cutting through the noise.
“Wouldn’t be surprised if they found their way back,” another adds, like it’s harmless.
My stomach knots. Heat crawls up my neck. I know they don’t mean anything by it, but it still feels like no matter what I do, I’ll always be tied to a version of myself I’ve already outgrown.
I keep my head down, focusing on the auction table, flipping through the bid sheet like I’m too busy to hear what’s being said around me. When my chest tightens to the point it hurts to breathe, I excuse myself and step away before anyone can notice.
By seven, the place is packed. A local band played earlier while people mingled, servers weaving through with trays of hors d’oeuvres and champagne.
Now the lights are lower, and guests start drifting toward their tables for dinner.
Everything runs smoothly—big names, big money, and plenty of photos to fill tomorrow’s paper.
And then there’s Clay.
He’s standing by the bar, talking with a few of his old teammates. From a distance, he looks happy with his easy smile, shoulders back, and a glass of whiskey in his hand.
But I see what everyone else doesn’t. How his jaw tightens when someone claps him on the back or mentions his NHL career. The flicker in his eyes before he hides it.
Then I hear it. The low voices cut through the hum of conversation around us.
“He never should’ve come back so soon,” one of them says.
“Yeah,” another adds with a snort. “He threw his whole career away by rushing it, only to blow it out worse than it was before. Some guys just don’t learn until it costs them everything.”
The distant look in Clay’s eyes tells me he hears them. He’s playing it off like he’s listening to whatever is being said around him, but I know he does.
“Could’ve been great,” a third voice mutters. “Instead, he ruined it all by trying to play hero.”
Clay doesn’t react. Doesn’t give them the satisfaction. He just lifts his glass and takes a slow sip, nodding along to something one of his teammates says. But I see the tightness in his shoulders, the white-knuckled grip around the glass, and the quiet effort it takes to hold it together.
I want to cut across the room. Tell those guys exactly what I think of them and remind them they don’t know a damn thing about Clay or what it takes for him to show up to places like this, having his past thrown in his face.
But before I can move, Evan appears beside me.
“Looks like it’s going well,” he says, nodding toward the crowd. “I’d say all the hard work our moms put into this was a success.”
He stands beside me, his arm hooked over the back of my chair like he’s marking territory. I force a smile, acting like I don’t notice, even though I can feel Clay’s eyes on me from across the room.
“Yeah,” I say, turning my focus back on the bid sheets. “They always do.”
Evan leans in, glancing at the display of baskets and framed certificates. “You’ve been stuck here all night?”
“Yeah, I promised my mom I’d take care of the auction stuff for her tonight. Trying to keep it all organized,” I reply, pasting on a practice smile.
“You want me to grab you a drink? Champagne? Wine? Something stronger?”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
He chuckles under his breath, bumping my shoulder like we’re still kids. “You’ve always been the responsible one, huh?”
I laugh too quickly, and it sounds all wrong, even to me. Clay notices, his eyes narrowing where Evan stands close to me, before his buzzing phone pulls his attention away once again.
He checks the screen as his dad leans over, and I hear him ask, “Did you ever hear back from Coach Sanders?”
Everyone knows who Coach Sanders is. He’s the head coach of the Kolmont Kings hockey team. The one who coached Clay when they led their team to a championship in his junior year.
Clay steps away from the table when he realizes I’ve heard them. His mom pauses mid-laugh, turning toward him.
“Everything okay?” she asks.
“Just work,” Clay says, his voice clipped. He turns, glass still in hand, and walks toward the hallway.
Before he disappears, Clay’s gaze flicks toward the bar. I notice the anger that flashes across his face before he tries to smooth it over. I’ve seen that look before. The one he wears when he’s only seconds away from something that could blow up in his face.
My stomach drops when I follow his line of sight. A man stands there, watching Clay as he crosses the room with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. I don’t know who he is, but something about his energy is off.
Then the man raises his voice, cutting through the music.
“Barlowe,” he calls, that smug grin still in place. “Heard your name’s been floating around for the coaching job. Kolmont must be getting desperate.”
The words hit like a slap, causing Clay to stagger for a moment, but he doesn’t react. Conversations around us turn to a nervous hum.
Whoever the man is, he’s not joking around. He’s trying to get a rise out of him.
Before Clay can take the bait, I cross the room in a hurry, stepping between them. My voice stays calm, even though my heart is beating out of control.
“Excuse me,” I say, polite but firm. “You’re a guest here tonight. If you can’t be respectful, we’ll have to ask you to leave.”
The man’s grin deepens. “Respectful,” he repeats, smirking. His gaze slides from me to Clay and back again. “You might want to be careful. People could start to notice why you’re stepping in to defend him. They might think there’s more to the story between the two of you.”
My stomach twists. He’s not just trying to provoke Clay anymore.
His smirk lingers as he takes a sip from his glass.
“It’s not hard to piece together with the way you both keep staring at each other, even with his brother right there.
Yet I’m the one being called disrespectful.
” He chuckles, draining the rest of his drink, and sets the glass on an empty tray as a server walks by.
His eyes flick toward Clay one last time before he turns and disappears into the crowd, leaving his words hanging in the air between us.
The noise slowly returns, but it all feels far away. Clay’s still beside me, every muscle drawn tight, hands flexing at his sides. His eyes stay locked on the spot where the man vanished.
“Clay,” I say quietly.
He doesn’t look at me. “Don’t,” he mutters. “Not here.”
I swallow hard, watching him fight to hold it together, watching the calm he’s been clinging to start to crack.
He’s holding it together for now. But not for long. And I’m afraid when he breaks, so will we.