Chapter Three
Camden
The hospital waiting room hums like it’s alive—vending machine buzzing, someone’s ringtone leaking through a pocket, the soft mechanical sigh of the automatic doors that open but never seem to close fast enough.
Dot sits beside me, still in the dress from the Puck Drop, fingers locked around the cup she hasn’t touched. The ice inside has already melted.
Knova appears out of nowhere, arms loaded with coffee and takeout bags. The smell of sugar and grease shouldn’t make my stomach twist, but it does.
“I come bearing caffeine and carbs,” she announces, like she’s breaking good news.
Dot lifts her head, eyes swollen and unfocused. “What are you doing here?”
Knova falters. “I—well, our moms…” She clears her throat and sets the carrier on the table between us. “They’d both kick my ass if I didn’t show up.”
Dot’s mouth wobbles. “Were best friends.”
Knova freezes, then shakes her head hard. “Are. Always will be.” She doesn’t finish the thought, and the silence that follows is louder than anything else in the room.
Dot finally picks up a frozen latte, but she doesn’t drink it. She just holds it like a hand warmer that forgot its purpose. “Thanks for coming.”
“Of course.” Knova sits on her other side, rustling the bag open. “I grabbed sandwiches too, but no pressure.”
The smell of toasted bread and deli meat hits me. My stomach growls, but I can’t eat. It feels wrong somehow.
Dot’s voice cracks the quiet. “Mitzi and Moppet were on the bus.”
The words barely register. “The dogs?”
She nods, eyes shiny and far away. “Dad’s going to ask for them.”
I remember every mutt that’s ever lived in their house—blind, toothless, missing parts, but loved anyway. Coach’s got this soft spot for lost causes. I used to think he collected them because he couldn’t stand seeing something broken. Now I know he saw hope where everyone else saw hassle.
And then there was Nudacris—Nudie, for short.
A Chinese Crested with skin issues and small tufts of hair in unlikely areas.
Built like a stick figure with the personality of a golden retriever.
He was the first of Coach’s rescues that made it into family legend.
There are pictures of him taped to their fridge, his tongue hanging sideways like he’s in on a joke.
Cash actually let him piss and shit on his grass, and he cleaned it up without even a grumble.
Dot’s shoulders shake once, then stop. “He loved those dogs.”
“You all did.”
She nods, but her face collapses. Knova wraps an arm around her, murmuring something soft that I can’t hear. I stare at the ceiling tiles until my eyes sting, wishing there was a script for moments like this. Something to say that could make it hurt less.
But there isn’t. There’s just the hum of the lights, the thawed ice in her cup, and the weight of everything we can’t fix.
Dot’s shoulders quake once, and she folds into Knova’s side. “I’m going to have to tell him,” she whispers. “That they’re gone too.”
Knova holds her tighter. “Oh, sweetie.”
The words shatter something in the quiet. I grip my coffee, knuckles white against the paper. There’s nothing to say that doesn’t sound stupid or small.
Then the elevator doors open with a soft ding, and Dante Giovanetti steps out. No suit parade. No bodyguards. Just Dante—older, slower, shoulders still broad enough to fill the space. The years have carved him, but they haven’t softened the gravity around him.
“Dot.” His voice rolls through the room, rough and gentle all at once. “There’s my girl.”
Dot blinks like she isn’t sure she’s seeing him. He crosses the waiting room, hat in hand, and lowers himself in front of her. No handshake. No speech. Just a hug that swallows her whole.
“I’m so damn sorry, kid,” he says. “Your mom was one of a kind. Drove me crazy half the time, but she had fire. Vegas’ll be colder without her.”
Dot nods against his shoulder, her fingers trembling where they clutch his sleeve.
“Thanks, Mr. Giovanetti,” she manages.
He pulls back, eyes soft. “Dante, to you. Always has been.”
He looks past her, then finds me. I stand automatically.
“Thanks for coming, Dante.”
He arches a brow, a ghost of his old smirk tugging at his mouth. “It’s Mr. Giovanetti to you, Beck.”
“Right. Of course.”
He chuckles once, but it dies quickly. His gaze goes back to Dot.
“Listen, sweetheart. You don’t worry about a damn thing right now.
The team’s family, yeah? Your dad’s on payroll.
Whatever you need—rides, meals, house repairs, anything—you call me.
And if some reporter gives you grief, you send me their name. ”
“Thank you,” Dot says, barely above a whisper.
He squeezes her hand. “Your mother sang in the main bar at the Mona Lisa. I’ll never forget that. I’m going to make sure the whole city remembers her that way—light on a stage, not smoke on a screen.”
Her chin trembles, and for a second, I think she’s going to break again, but she nods.
Dante straightens with a small grunt and pats my shoulder on the way out. “Keep an eye on her, Beck. Don’t let me down.”
“Yes, sir.”
The doors close behind him, and the room feels smaller for it.
Knova hands Dot a sandwich. She holds it like she’s forgotten what food is, then forces herself to take a bite.
I do the same, so she won’t feel watched. The bread sticks in my throat. Eating gives my hands something to do besides shake.
By the time a nurse appears, the clock above the check-in desk says one a.m. Dot rises on autopilot when they call her name. Her gait is unsteady, like she’s walking through deep water. She doesn’t look back.
The door swings shut behind her, and the silence that follows is heavier than the waiting itself.
Knova rubs her temples. “What a fucking nightmare. Poor Dot. I wish I’d gotten to her faster.”
“When?” My voice scrapes out, hoarse from disuse.
“In the restaurant. She shouldn’t have seen that footage. I’ve seen plenty of bad shit in combat and flying Life Flight, and that one… It’s going to stay with me. To find out that way? In public.” She exhales, sagging into the chair. “I’m glad you were there. You’re a really good friend, Cam.”
I nod like it means something. Like being a good friend will keep her breathing through this.
But what I want is to be her safe place, not just her steady one.
“Yeah.” I swallow hard and chase the word with the last of my coffee. It tastes like burnt water.
She has no idea how bitter it sounds in my mouth.
Because Dot’s not just my friend. She never has been. She’s the girl I measure every other heartbeat against.
And sitting here, watching her world collapse while I can’t even touch her hand—it’s killing me. My hands ache to hold hers. To touch her knee, her back, her hair—anything. But I don’t get to do that. Not yet. Not unless she reaches first.
If I let myself move an inch closer, I’d give everything away.
If I spoke, the truth would crawl right out of my throat.
So I sit still.
I stare at the door she disappeared through and imagine every terrible thing she’s about to see on the other side. I want to take it for her—trade places, carry it.
I can’t.
All I can do is keep her purse by my feet and wait until she comes back.
It’s not enough.
But it’s what I’ve got to give her tonight.
* * *
Coach is still in the burn unit five days later during the funeral.
“They should have pushed this back,” Viktor gripes from one corner of the event. “He should be able to attend. Delilah was his wife.”
Knova disagrees. “Dot said that he’ll be in the hospital for weeks, if not longer. Putting this off will make it harder on everyone. Besides, you think the first thing Ranger will want to do after he gets out of the hospital is attend a funeral?”
Argument-loving Viktor is the kind of guy who will die on every hill, so I think we’re all a little surprised when he nods. “Fair. Funerals are supposed to be for the families, though. If it were my mom—”
Knova lifts a hand to cut him off. “Sweetheart, you know I love you, but don’t you dare try to make Dot’s loss about you.”
“Besides,” I cut in, “look at all this press. Does it look like this event is about the family?”
The Mona Lisa’s ballroom feels too small for the kind of grief packed inside it.
Cameras flash from the mezzanine, white bursts bouncing off the crystal chandeliers.
Outside, a sea of fans crowds the barricades—homemade signs, candles, people sobbing into each other’s shoulders while reporters shove microphones in their faces.
Delilah Shaw wasn’t just famous. She was beloved.
You can hear it in the way her fans chant her lyrics through the glass, like a prayer they’re refusing to stop saying.
Inside, it’s flowers on flowers—an entire wall drowned in lilies and orchids, their scent thick enough to taste. Dante handled most of the arrangements, but gifts keep arriving anyway: guitars, letters, framed photos from fans who never met her but swear she saved them.
And in the middle of all of it stands Dot.
She’s wearing black, but the kind that doesn’t try to be dramatic—simple, sleeveless, waves of thick chestnut hair trailing down her back. Every person who passes touches her arm, whispers condolences, then drifts away again, leaving her stranded in the noise.
I should go to her. Every cell in my body tells me to. But my chest locks up with the same thought on repeat: don’t make this about you.
Don’t ruin what she has left by needing her.
Viktor murmurs something about going to sit with her, and the relief I feel that he said it first is disgusting. I nod like it was his idea, and we gather the others.
Dot sees us coming and tries to smile. It doesn’t reach her eyes. When she steps into my arms, she smells like flowers and camera flashes and grief that won’t wash off. Her shoulders tremble once, and I smooth my hand over her hair because it’s the only thing that feels remotely safe to do.