Chapter Eleven
Minerva
The Venom throws all sorts of charity events, and while my contract doesn’t stipulate that I have to attend, Tristan’s puppy-dog eyes say otherwise. Besides, I had fun at the last one despite the rough start.
The night of the Venom charity gala, I stand in front of the mirror, stare at my reflection, and seek out what’s wrong. On one level, I’m a master at this game because I’ve learned to spot countless personal flaws. Then again, I can never figure out how to fix them, so I always lose.
The dress is beautiful—Marley’s pick, not mine.
Deep emerald satin that catches the light and turns richer when I move.
It hugs my waist, skims my hips, and flares just enough to make me look like I have curves instead of angles.
The neckline dips in a soft V, nothing extreme, just enough to make my collarbones look intentional instead of bony.
My hair is pinned half-up, the loose waves falling over my shoulders in a way I could never achieve on my own.
I curled the pieces around my face until they framed me gently, making me look… softer. Almost elegant.
My makeup is light—glowy skin, a touch of blush so I don’t look like a shut-in, dark lashes, and a sweep of gold across my lids because Marley insisted my eyes should “sparkle under fancy lighting.” Even my shoes are pretty: strappy gold heels that make me taller and more capable-looking, though I still feel like a toddler in borrowed pumps.
Taken altogether, I look like a polished version of myself. A version that belongs at a gala. A version that could stand next to Tristan without feeling like a mismatched plus-one.
And somehow, that only makes the nerves run sharper.
I catch myself tugging at the hem of my dress and force my hands away, trying to remember what Marley told me when she helped me pick my gown. Don’t yank on your clothes or squirm too much. Do take deep breaths and hydrate. Relax and be yourself!
I mostly like this list, because the instructions are clear.
I understand the rules of this event. The last part seems oxymoronic, given that I can’t relax in public, ergo, any time I am myself in crowds, I am not relaxed.
Still, I appreciate Marley’s effort to simplify the otherwise rambling and contradictory rules of elite social gatherings.
“Min? You ready?”
“Coming!” I tear myself away from the mirror, make sure that Kepler is safely closed up in his cage, and go out to meet Tristan.
The moment I step into the living room, Tristan’s lips part. He looks me up and down, and I brace for the inevitable comment or critique. You forgot your earrings. Those shoes, with that dress, really? Your hair needs some work, there are too many split ends…
“You’re right,” I blurt. “I’ll change.”
Tristan holds up his hands. “Wait, no. What? Don’t change. I was just trying to soak it all in. Soak you in. You look…”
“Ridiculous in this dress.” I run my hands over my lack of cleavage, my lack of hips, right down to the hem, which I pull down, even though it’s against the rules. “Marley picked it.”
“You look gorgeous,” Tristan says. “Is everything okay? You seem more on edge tonight.”
“Yeah, I’m…” Freaking the fuck out. “My family is going to be there.”
His expression darkens. “The family who cut you off?”
“The very same.” I wish I could cancel, but I know Tristan wants me there.
Besides that, I don’t want to keep running.
I want them to see that I don’t need them, and that there are people out there who think my interests are worthwhile.
The trouble is, if I go, I’ll have to see them.
And then Tristan will see what I’m like in their presence. And then…
I don’t know what will happen then.
Tristan takes a protective step toward me, even though there’s no one to protect me from yet. “Don’t worry. I’ll be with you the whole night. If you want, I won’t leave your side.”
Something loosens under my ribs. Wanting company isn’t a burden to him—it’s an invitation he’s glad I made. “That would help. I just know Frankie is going to do something to mess with me. That’s her specialty.”
“And Frankie is…?”
“My sister.” A literal demon.
Tristan shakes his head. “Not with me around. You’ll see.”
“I don’t want to monopolize your night. She could be nasty to you, too.”
“What do I care? I play in the NHL, Min. Huge dudes are paid millions of dollars to be nasty to me.”
Good point. Frankie’s insults hurt because I want her to like me. Or I did, growing up. Her barbs will probably roll right off of Tristan’s back, though. Or, more likely, she’ll realize that she has no power over him, and she’ll be all sunshine and rainbows to his face.
“Galas are simple,” Tristan insists. “Paste on a fake smile. Have a drink. Kiss Dante’s ass. Nothing to it.”
“You forgot small talk. And meeting new people.”
“I’ll help you through it. Plus, Marley will be there, and lots of people you know. And, in case you haven’t picked up on it yet, the team…we’re all family. And you’re with the team. We guys may tease each other, but we also have each other’s backs. Always.”
I purse my lips. He’s probably right to assume that people will be nice to him. People won’t look at him and see prey.
“Do you want to stay home?” he asks. “If you’re that worried about seeing your family, you can bow out. Stay home, chill with Kepler, read about… I don’t know, New England granite quarries or Russian-made guitars or something.”
I appreciate the offer more than I can say, but I shake my head. “No, I’m already dressed. I don’t want to live in fear of my family anymore.”
“Alright, then.” Tristan holds out his arm toward me. “Then let’s get going. I promise I won’t leave you to fend for yourself. Say the word, and I’ll throw champagne in someone’s face.”
I loop my arm through his. “Deal.”
* * *
The first people we see when we enter the ballroom are Julie and Dante. Julie squeals and comes running, arms outstretched. “Minnie! You look amazing.” She pulls me into a warm hug that’s so unlike the way my mother would greet me, it’s disorienting.
“Thank you,” I tell her. “So do you.”
Dante strolls after his wife, less effusive but still warm. He kisses my cheeks. “Look at this. Being an assistant agrees with you, cupcake.” He points to Tristan. “Didn’t I tell you?”
He nods. “You told me.”
“And? Was I right or was I right? I was right… Right?” Dante spreads his hands wide. His rings and gold watch flash in the light.
Tristan nods again. “You were right, sir.”
“Good. Now you show her a good time, but not too good.”
Tristan’s throat bobs. “Did Renee really…?”
“Text me the gossip? Of course she did. Oh, and it probably goes without saying, but so we’re clear, I’ll say it anyway.” He leans in and beckons for Tristan to stoop to his level. “If you break her heart, I’ll break your career. Capiche?”
Tristan clears his throat. “Yes, sir. What if she breaks mine?”
Dante takes a step back. “In that case, you probably had it coming. Julie, my love, let’s mingle.”
Before he turns away, Dante pauses, his gaze flicking back to me. The shift is tiny, but the temperature drops from theatrical to genuine.
“You good, cupcake?” he murmurs, softer than I’ve ever heard him. “If this man gives you even a moment of doubt, you come to me. You don’t handle it alone, capito?”
“I’m good. Thank you for the opportunity.”
His thumb brushes my cheek in a brief, fatherly gesture he tries to disguise as adjusting my hair. “I’m proud of you,” he adds under his breath. “Don’t let anybody make you small again.”
Julie nods. “I agree.”
He grabs his wife’s hand. “Let’s get a drink, doll. The kids probably want to hang out with their friends.”
“I’m in my late twenties,” Tristan protests. “We’re not kids.”
“Off you go, my boy.” Dante waves a hand like a king dismissing his subject. “I have adults to speak with.” He and Julie move on to greet the next set of arrivals.
“That went better than I expected,” Tristan admits. He offers me his arm again. “Do you want to check out the buffet first? Dante always goes hard on the hors d’oeuvres.”
There’s a huge line at the buffet already. I shake my head, incapable of verbalizing my discomfort.
“Okay,” he says, like it’s not a big deal.
“You should go,” I croak.
“I said I’d stay with you. Besides, I have a meal plan to stick to.” He grins.
“I’ll be fine here…”
“I promised you I wouldn’t leave you on your own.”
“She can wait with us.” One of Tristan’s teammates walks over and extends a hand to me. “Minnie, can I introduce you to my wife?” I finally dredge up his name: Camden. He’s one of Tristan’s better friends on the team, though we’ve barely spoken to each other since I was hired.
“Dot’s an introvert,” he adds in a confidential tone. “She gets overwhelmed by all the WAGs and small talk, but I think you’d get along.”
Tristan waits for my response. I manage a nod. “I’ll wait with them. Go on. I haven’t seen my family yet.”
Tristan waits a beat before heading toward the buffet line. I let Camden escort me over to a standing-room-only table, where a pretty pregnant woman is sipping a glass of sparkling water with her eyes downcast.
“Dot, this is Minnie. Minnie, this is my wife, Dot.”
Dot’s hand lifts in a wave, even as I hold out my hand. I switch to an awkward wave of my own just as she tries to transition to a handshake.
Camden laughs. “I see how it’s going to be. I should warn you, Minnie, we don’t get out much. Dot’s neurodivergent as hell. But so am I. My job just shoves me out in the limelight more.”
I stare at him. How does he do that? Just… say it, in public, without shame?
Or maybe I should be asking myself why the household I grew up in treated differences and social awkwardness as something shameful.