Chapter 32 #2
But Pavin’s words rang in my mind. I could call her first. I took a breath, dialed, and waited.
It rang … and rang … but no answer. Disappointment weighed my stomach down, but it was late.
She was hopefully asleep and not ignoring me.
Would she ignore me tomorrow? Would she flinch when she saw me, or smile and say this was fucking stupid and come back home?
I knew this much: I wasn’t walking into that room like a man half in and half out. Not anymore.
Lauren’s text hit our group thread at 6:48 a.m. sharp:
Foundation Gala. Black tie. Full team attendance required. No hats. No “I forgot.” Nate—you’re closing with a short speech about mentorship. Cassidy will introduce Cass Cares during the donation segment. You two present together at 8:10. Smile. Be charming. You’re professionals.
I stared at the last line like it was a joke. I fucking hated this corporate shit. My temple throbbed, like this email reduced everything I felt toward Cass into a memo.
Be charming. Be professional.
Like it hadn’t been four days since Cassidy told me we couldn’t do this anymore. Like I hadn’t pictured her every time I blinked.
She’d walked away so I wouldn’t give up my dream.
But what if she was the dream?
The hotel ballroom was already packed. Suits, gowns, glittering centerpieces, press badges flashing at the entrance. A low hum of piano music floated under the chatter of too much money in one room. Everything gleamed—polished, curated. Even the air smelled expensive.
I adjusted my tie for the fifth time and forced myself to move. Cameras were rolling, players giving scripted quotes about giving back. Pavin found the bacon-wrapped scallops and set up camp. Classic.
Lauren waved me over. “Seating change,” she said. “You and Cassidy are at table seven with a hospital rep and one of the sponsors.”
“Of course we are.”
She glanced at me. “You’ve got ten minutes before you present together. Cassidy’s backstage with her slides. I don’t know what happened, but whatever it was … fix it. She’s sad again.”
I nodded, pulse unsteady. I’d chickened out of saying what I needed to in a text. It had to be in person—just not before she announced her charity to a hundred people.
Backstage smelled faintly of her perfume, curling through the air like a thread pulling me forward. The light was dim, warm gold. Voices murmured beyond the curtain, polite laughter and rehearsed lines, but everything stilled when I saw her.
Cassidy stood near the far end, scrolling through her slides with quiet focus.
Her dress was navy, fluid, clinging in the places I remembered touching.
The fabric hugged her waist, dipped along her spine, a slit slicing up one leg like a dare.
Her hair was twisted up, a few curls escaping to brush her neck—the spot I used to kiss until she sighed.
I froze, not because I was hesitant, but because I didn’t know how to stand this close and not touch her.
Lauren’s voice broke the quiet. “Cass, Nate’s here.”
Cassidy startled, then smoothed her posture, calm on the surface. But I knew her too well. That wasn’t calm—it was containment. The face she wore for posts and press. The one I hated. I wanted her real smile.
“Hey,” she said, voice cool and practiced.
I stepped closer, eyes tracing her face before I looked away. “Hey.” My voice came out rough. I cleared my throat. “You look…”
Her brow lifted, expecting neutral professionalism.
“… beautiful,” I said anyway, because it was true, and because I wasn’t going to lie tonight. “You look beautiful, Cassidy.”
A flush crept up her throat, faint but there. She rubbed her lips together and nodded once. “Thank you. It’s not new. I—just pulled something that matched the vibe.”
“No,” I said, my voice lower now. “You’re stunning. No one in that room is going to be able to look at anything else.”
Her eyes flicked away, then back. She didn’t smile. Didn’t deny it. But she didn’t let it land either. The silence stretched.
“You ready?” she asked, lifting the iPad like a shield. “You’re closing with the mentorship section. I’ll hand off to you right after the Cass Cares part. We stick to the script, we’re in and out.”
I nodded. “Right. Script.”
Except I couldn’t stop staring at the dip of her collarbone or the way her hands curled around the tablet, steady, capable, like she wasn’t unraveling the same way I was. She turned toward the wing and I followed, keeping pace beside her, careful not to let our arms brush.
Because if we touched, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to let go.
Cassidy stepped into the spotlight with practiced ease, the mic already clipped to her dress. The room was quiet, expectant. She held herself tall, like every step was deliberate. But her knuckles were tight around the cue remote.
She glanced at the crowd, then at the projection behind her, and began.
“Good evening. I’m Cassidy Calloway, and I’m here to talk about something that came to me the last few months.
One thing I’ve learned is that grief changes people.
And when my dad passed, I realized that the moments I’d missed couldn’t be erased.
But maybe I could help other people show up for theirs. ”
The slideshow changed behind her. Kids in hospital beds. Families laughing in between appointments. Volunteers packing care bags.
“Cass Cares is about local connection. It’s about showing up even when it’s hard in the valley, with this wonderful community we have here.
It’s about making space in a busy world to say: you matter.
You’re not alone. And we’re with you. Whether it’s a hospital visit, a hand-delivered meal, or just a warm blanket during a cold week—this program is about people. ”
She paused, glancing briefly to the wings where I waited. Her voice didn’t shake, but her fingers twitched slightly before she set the clicker down. I should’ve been focused on the crowd, or the cue, or what I had to say next. But all I could think was that she was a fucking powerhouse.
And I’d never been prouder of anyone in my life.
“And sometimes,” she said, “showing up doesn’t have to be grand.
It just has to be real. It has to be enough.
And that’s why tonight, Cass Cares is proud to partner with the Gila Monsters Foundation to bring comfort kits to pediatric patients across the Valley.
Because being part of a team means showing up for the community that believes in you. ”
She turned, not to the crowd, but to me. “And speaking of team,” she added softly, “there’s no better example of mentorship and quiet leadership than the man closing tonight’s presentation. Nate O’Brien, everyone.”
I stepped into the light. My suit was suddenly too hot.
She handed me the mic, her fingers barely brushing mine, but I felt it like a hit to the chest.
“Thank you, Cass,” I said, then turned to the room.
“My name’s Nate O’Brien. I’ve been part of this team for ten years.
I’ve seen a lot of seasons. Some high. Some low.
But what’s never changed is the way this city shows up for us.
And what I’ve learned is that leadership isn’t loud.
It’s not about the cameras or the stats.
It’s about the moments no one sees. The talks in the bullpen.
The rides to chemo. The calls you make even when they’re hard. ”
I paused. Looked out at the room.
“Being a teammate off the field matters just as much as the numbers you put up on it. Sometimes more. And programs like Cass Cares remind us of that. They remind me of that.”
Cassidy stood at the edge of the stage. Her chin lifted slightly. Her eyes didn’t leave mine.
“I’m proud to be part of this partnership,” I said. “And I’m proud to be part of this team. Not just because of what we do on the field. But because of who we stand beside off it.”
The applause swelled. People rose. Flashbulbs went off.
But all I saw was her still standing at the edge of the stage like maybe, just maybe, she was waiting for me to cross it.