8. Dash
EIGHT
DASH
The hotel room is quiet except for the hum of the heater and the faint thrum of traffic below.
Koa’s sleeping in the bed on the other side of the hotel room.
I can’t sleep. All I can think about is Noelle’s dress getting to her before she leaves for Lauren’s wedding, and the fact that it felt damn good helping her out and real fucking bad knowing she doesn’t have it now.
Koa told me last night, after our win, that Nalani tried talking her out of going to Lauren’s wedding, that Noelle had a crush on Louie back then, and Lauren knew it when she went after him.
Guy’s a nerd, but smart as hell and has been involved in tech start-ups from the get-go.
She did that shit to Noelle. Sweet, pretty, smart Noelle.
When my phone lights up with Sal’s name at seven a.m., I head to the bathroom and answer on the second ring. “What’s up, Sal? Dress good to go?”
Sal sighs, and I know something isn’t right.
“That dress that you and that very sweet, too good-for-you girl brought me? I did what I could, but there’s a stain near the hem and another just below the zipper.
Protein stains that have clearly been there for years.
They went unnoticed because our focus was on the coffee stains. ”
I slouch against the wall. “You’re sure?”
“Kid, I could spot a coffee stain in my sleep. And let me tell you, this one’s not coffee; it’s protein, and it’s permanent.”
My gut twists when I think of Noelle’s face when she talked about the way the dress made her feel—it lit up like she’d won the cup.
“All right,” I say, pacing now. “What do we do?”
“That’s why I’m calling. Elena’s got an eye. Better than mine. She can find you something that’ll make your book girl shine brighter than this one ever could.”
“Can you put her on?” I demand then shake my head and amend my assholery. “Please.”
“Give me a minute,” Sal says.
“Noelle’s dress is fucked?” Koa asks from the room.
I walk out. “Didn’t mean to wake you, man. I’ll figure it out.”
He sits up and looks at me, his look telling me he is also vested in Noelle’s dress situation.
I like that he gives a shit about her, but not as much as I should. It rubs me the wrong way, which also … rubs me the wrong way.
There’s some muffled shuffling, then a new voice, warm, confident. “Dash, it’s Elena. Send me a picture of her. I need her coloring, her lines, the way she carries it.”
“I got one,” Koa says, grabbing his phone from the nightstand and airdropping me a … video? “Nalani screen recorded this.”
“Why do you have it?” I ask with a bit of an edge to my voice.
His eyebrow raises like he’s questioning me about why I’m asking.
“Whatever,” I grumble as I watch the clip showing the dress, and then her face, cheeks pink, smile so wide it nearly breaks me. I fire it off to Elena. “Let me know when you?—”
“Got it.”
“I want her in something that makes her feel as stunning as she is.”
Koa clears his throat, and I clarify, “In this dress.”
“Give me a few minutes,” Elena says. “And a budget.”
“Whatever it takes.”
“The budget is whatever it takes ?” Elena clarifies.
“Plus, shoes. Red bottoms.”
“Do you know her size?”
Fuck.
I look back at Koa, who has a shit smirk on his face, looking at his screen, pretending he doesn’t know exactly what is going on. I hate that I have to ask because he’ll take it as a win.
I clear my throat just like he did, and he looks up. “You wanna ask Nalani, or should I?”
“About?” he asks, and I glare at him. “Noelle wears a size eight shoe. Size, ten/twelve bottom and a medium top, but sizes up to a large. She likes them baggy because she’s self-conscious about the size of her?—”
“Great, all I asked was for her shoe size.” I manage to keep my voice somewhat even.
Giggling, Elena asks, “Size eight then?”
“Yes, thank you, Elena, and I’d love it delivered to her and to make sure any alterations necessary are made to fit her perfectly.”
“I’m on it,” she says with a smile in her voice.
“Thank you. I’ll do some searching, too.”
“Send me links,” she says. “Talk soon.”
I hang up with Elena and flop onto the bed, laptop open before I’ve even had a sip of coffee.
Chuckling, Koa heads to the bathroom as I start my search.
High-end red evening gown , spits out a hundred options in less than a second. Half of them look like costumes; the other half like something my mother would’ve worn to a fundraiser. Not Noelle.
Koa plops down beside me, towel draped around his shoulders, hair damp from his shower. He peers at the screen like it’s a game tape. “Shopping for your girlfriend?”
I don’t even look up. “She’s not my girlfriend.”
“Make sure you don’t put her in the position to think she is then,” he says.
“What is that supposed to mean?” I snap.
“You’re combing through couture sites at seven thirty in the morning on an away trip, so …” He lets it hang there.
I click past another gown, this one with more sequins than fabric. “She deserves a dress she feels good in. That’s it.”
“Right. Because you just buy dresses that cost five figures for women who aren’t your girlfriend.”
I grit my teeth, scrolling faster. “You’re not helping.”
“Didn’t say I was.” He nudges me with his elbow. “But if you want my opinion?—”
“I don’t.”
“—she’d look incredible in?—”
“Red,” we both say at the same time.
I stop, finger hovering over the trackpad.
“Keep scrolling,” he says, smug now. “She’s a ten, Dash. Don’t half-ass it.”
I want to tell him to shut up, but the bastard’s right again. Noelle deserves better.
The suite door creaks open, and Alex Kilovac stumbles in, shirtless, hair sticking in a dozen directions, like he lost a fight with static. Behind him comes Lenox Faulker, chewing on a protein bar, his phone in his other hand like it’s glued there.
“Why are you two up so early?” I mutter, snapping the laptop half-shut.
Alex narrows his eyes, and then his mouth twists into a smirk. “Better question: why are you up so early? Wait …” He steps closer. “Are you—” He leans over the bed. “Holy shit. Are you dress shopping?”
Lenox practically dives onto the mattress, peering over my shoulder. “Sterling’s looking at gowns?” He laughs so hard crumbs fly out of his mouth. “What is this—prom?”
Koa doesn’t help. He just grins and says, “Not prom. Wedding. He’s finding the perfect dress for Noelle Pembrooke.”
That shuts them both up, just long enough for Alex to let out a low whistle. “The book girl? The one you overlooked in college?”
“I didn’t overlook her. She introduced me to her best friend,” I snap, and they all just stare at me as realization hits.
“She did.” Koa chuckles.
Heat crawls up my neck, and I slam the laptop shut, but Koa flips it open again, scrolling to the gown we’d landed on.
Alex chuckles. “Damn. Pembrooke in red? That’s … yeah. That’s dangerous.”
Lenox smirks, folding his arms. “Better keep her close, Sterling, or the whole team’s gonna notice she’s wearing our color, try to put their number on her. You know how many guys dream about a girl who reads instead of scrolling all night for their next fix?”
Alex elbows me, grinning. “And one who’ll look like that in silk? Man, she’s out of your league.”
The laughter that follows is all teeth, good-natured, but sharp enough to get under my skin.
I want to tell them to shut the hell up. I want to knock the smug grins off their faces. But the worst part? Every damn one of them is right.
Noelle Pembrooke in that dress would stop the room cold. And maybe I’m not ready for everyone else to notice how amazing she is, because I’m finally doing it, too … again .
Doesn’t matter, I want her to see herself with clarity.
For the next twenty minutes, we’re shoulder-to-shoulder, dissecting fabric and cuts like four women in a bridal salon.
They toss out comments that dig under my skin— too matronly, too Vegas, too bridal —but every time I want to snap at them, I can’t, because they’re not wrong.
They’re only saying what I’m already thinking.
Finally, one catches my eye. Sleek silk, bias-cut, with a plunging neckline that strikes just the right balance of restraint, and cap sleeves. Red like fire. Red like courage. The kind of red you don’t just wear, you become. Red, like my jersey.
“This one,” I murmur, pulse ticking faster.
“Finally,” Koa says, leaning back like he’s just coached me to victory.
Before I can hit send on the link and pass my message to Elena, my phone buzzes.
I open it and swear under my breath.
It’s the same goddamn dress.
Koa leans over, grinning when he sees it. “Guess you’ve got taste after all.”
I ignore him, sending Elena a thumbs-up and the link anyway.
Me:
Just landed on that one myself at a different shop. I can have it delivered to you.
Me:
But Noelle can’t know it’s new ….
Elena:
We’ll come up with a story, and no, don’t have it delivered; it’ll take me less time to go pick it up.
A second later, another ping. This time, it’s the shoes. Scarlet leather, glossy as fresh paint, the iconic red sole flashing with every step.
I click, and it’s as if the dress has found its perfect match.
Killer whistles low, leaning over my shoulder. “Christ. Those are murder weapons. Straight-up fuck me heels.”
Faulker cracks up. “Not just fuck me, man—wreck me, leave me for dead, and I’ll still thank you. You’re not dressing her, Sterling; you’re unleashing her.”
I ignore them, and the desire to bitch-slap them both, heart thudding as I send Elena another thumbs-up.
Me:
Perfect. Both. I’ll place the order. Deliver them together.
Noelle won’t just get her dress—she’ll get the dress.
And when she steps into it, I won’t be the guy who almost saved a stained Halston. I’ll be the man who “unleased her,” and that settles in my stomach like a twenty-pound roast. Because she’ll be the woman who makes every head in the room turn and wonder why they didn’t notice her sooner.
I can’t focus on anything as I wait for Elena’s call. Not film review, not the guys chirping in the group chat, not even the protein bar in my hand. So, when Elena texts me an hour later— Walking in now —I hit FaceTime before I can second-guess it.
Noelle answers after the third ring, hair clipped up haphazardly, cardigan slipping off one shoulder.
She squints at me. “Why are you calling me?”
I lean back against the headboard, trying to look casual when my chest is tight as hell. “I wanted a front-row seat.”
Her brows pinch. “To what?”
And then the bells jingle in the background of her screen, and Elena steps in, a garment bag draped over her arm and a smile on her face.
“The Noelle Pembroke show,” I say, feeling that tightening ease, knowing she’s going to be all right.
Noelle turns, startled. “Uh … hi?”
“Hello, sweetheart,” Elena says smoothly. “This might sound strange, but we had a dress left behind at the cleaners over a year ago. The policy states it belongs to us now. The second I saw it, I thought of you.”
“Hey, Elena, you might want to give her the reason behind the dress switch.” I chuckle.
Elena hooks the hanger on a shelf, and the other bag, the one with the green dress, comes into view—it was under the new one.
“My husband, Sal, and I got every bit of coffee out of this.” She hangs the bag and unzips it, and Noelle sets the phone down.
“Hello, I’m still here,” I call to … no one.
Someone picks up the phone and holds it so I can see.
Elena pulls the dress out, and Noelle holds her hand to her heart. “It’s perfect.”
“Well …” Elena turns it around, showing her the back.
Noelle gasps. “Oh, oh my?—”
“Protein stains that have set in that long don’t come out,” Elena whispers like it’s a secret.
“I have no idea how I missed this,” Noelle says, the sadness in her voice fucking wrecking me.
“Noelle.”
She turns, and only when she sees me does she remember I was even sorta/kinda there. Ouch.
“It’s all good. You’re going to look stunning in red.”
Elena takes the dress down. “And we’re going to make sure it fits like it was made for you.”
Helmet strapped, stick in hand, I wait at the boards, legs bouncing with that restless rhythm the first shift brings. The crowd’s a wall of sound behind me, but my head isn’t here. It’s back at Pembrooke Books.
Her.
Noelle in that dress. Red, liquid silk, clinging and flowing all at once. She looked like every spotlight in the world was chasing her, and she didn’t even know it. And then she looked into the phone—looked at me—and instead of saying “win” like anyone else would’ve …
She smiled, wide and real, and said,“Make it count.”
It wasn’t just words. It was the change I swore I saw in her. Hope has always been there in those big brown eyes, but right then, I saw grit and that quiet fire she doesn’t even realize she could tap into, but that dress brought it out in her.
And now it’s stuck in my head. Make it count. Make it count.
The whistle blows. Coach D barks. Our line vaults over the boards, blades biting the ice.
I should be locked in, eyes on the puck, ready for contact. But all I can see is the way that dress hugged her curves, the way her lips curved around those three words.
Make it count.
It punches me in the chest, hard and deep. And lower—yeah, it hits there, too. The kind of ache no cup or jock can dull.
“You good?” Theo Rivera, our center, asks as he takes position.
“Let’s make this count.” I tap his fist.
Koa’s in position, left wing, jaw set, leaning into the intimidation only players of his stature can bring to this game before the puck even drops. Me? I take my spot, right wing, stick down, heart hammering.
Behind us, Deacon Moretti slams his stick once against the post, his way of saying, I’ve got your backs. Don’t make me bail your asses out early.
The puck drops.
Theo wins the draw, snapping it back with that speed he’s known for, and I’m already moving, blades cutting deep into the ice. Koa scoops it, muscles his way past the blue line, and I break wide, ready for the feed.
The play’s tight, fast. Theo threads through traffic like he’s got the puck coming his way, drawing defensemen just enough to open a lane. Koa flicks it my way, and the puck kisses the tape of my stick.
I don’t think—I just fire.
The slap echoes, the puck screaming toward the net, and in that heartbeat before it hits the goalie’s glove, all I hear is her voice.
Make it count.
And then the fucker drops it.
Brooklyn 1- Utah -0