Chapter Twenty-Five
Minerva
The conference badge itches my neck. I’ve tried turning it around, loosening the lanyard, even stuffing a bit of Kleenex underneath the edge, but nothing helps.
I hate it. I also hate that I’m about to speak in front of approximately three hundred people, half of whom have probably published more peer-reviewed papers than I’ve read this year.
“You’re chewing your thumbnail,” Tristan says gently.
I yank my hand down. “It’s a nervous system self-soothing strategy.”
He grins. “I like all your strategies.”
He’s calm, of course. Towering beside me in that fitted suit with his arms crossed and his expression casual, like he hasn’t just watched me spiral four times in the last twenty minutes over whether or not my sparkly ferret earrings are ‘too much’ for a conference full of men named Brent.
Spoiler alert: I wore them anyway.
And the world doesn’t end. Nobody dies. Maybe taking up a square inch of visual real estate is allowed after all.
“Your slides are flawless. You ran the tech check twice. Your prototype is in the display case with the label facing out. You’ve already won, Min.” He leans in, lowering his voice just for me. “You just have to go up there and show them what brilliance looks like.”
Easy for him to say. He doesn’t have to talk about neural tension response latency curves with a dry mouth and sweaty palms. But there’s something raw under his smile—pride, yeah, but also this flicker of fear that I’ll rise so high he won’t be able to keep up.
God, if he only knew… He’s the reason I’m standing here at all.
I adjust my jumpsuit again. I thought black would be chic. Instead, I feel like a sad ninja. “Is it weird that I kind of wish Kepler was here?”
“Only because he’d try to crawl into the cables,” Tristan says. “Want me to sneak him in next time?”
I try to smile, but my face feels frozen. “They’re going to know I don’t belong.”
“You invented something that’s being used in professional leagues,” he reminds me. “You belong more than anyone here.”
My stomach flips. I could still leave. I could fake a migraine. I could pretend to faint. Or really faint. Honestly, I’m not sure I won’t.
Someone calls my name. My heart sits at the base of my throat.
“This is it.”
“You got this,” he says, and kisses the back of my hand. “Go be a star, Dr. Marino.”
“I only have a master’s degree,” I argue. “I’m not a doctor.”
“You are to me. And if you want to spend the next few years making it official, I fully support that.”
That makes me laugh, which helps more than it should. He gives me a gentle push toward the stage, and somehow, my legs work. I walk up the steps, blinking into the stage lights, past a row of dead-eyed executives in suits.
There’s a moment—right as I reach the podium—when I realize I’ve made a terrible mistake. I don’t belong here. My throat is dry. My slides might be out of order. My name tag is still itchy.
I grip the edge of the podium. My first slide appears on the screen behind me.
And then I say the dumbest thing I’ve ever said into a microphone:
“Hi. I’m Minerva Marino, and I hate this badge with every fiber of my being.”
The audience laughs.
I exhale.
Maybe I can do this.
Somewhere offstage, Tristan shifts his weight, and somehow I feel it—like he’s bracing the air beneath me. Like even if I fall apart, he’ll catch all the pieces.
A low ripple of laughter spreads across the room, warm and human. I blink at the brightness of the stage lights. They’re hot. Not “fun in the sun” hot—more like “oven preheating to 425” hot. I resist the urge to duck behind the podium and strip off my jumpsuit.
Instead, I take a breath. Reset.
“I promise I’m not here to complain about conference attire.” I click the remote to advance to my next slide. “I’m here to talk about brains. Specifically, how to keep them intact.”
That earns a hum of polite approval. Science people are weirdly into intact brains. I’m grateful for that.
I swipe to the data set, and my voice steadies.
“When I started working with the Vegas Venom, I tracked unreported head trauma in non-goalie hockey players. Next, I created a wearable sensor system that detected micro-concussive impacts with a 91% accuracy rate. What I didn’t expect was how many players were experiencing those impacts without ever showing symptoms.”
Now they’re quiet. Really listening.
I keep going.
“The initial test sample was small—just five players. But the data was compelling enough to scale. With support from the Venom organization”—I gesture to the logo in the corner of the slide—“and one incredibly open-minded team owner, I was able to pilot the device during regular season play. Within six months, we had longitudinal impact data on seventeen players, with ten showing signs of cumulative trauma before any formal diagnosis.”
I glance at the screen. The next slide is a chart. A beautiful, clean chart with red and blue bar graphs and tiny labels I spent hours aligning.
“This chart shows performance before and after implementation. Players had fewer headaches, better recovery time, and—in some cases—improved coordination and shot accuracy. Which was not an official goal, but…” I pause, letting the slide change.
“…is something Dante Giovanetti feels very strongly about.”
A few people laugh again. It’s not a big moment, but it tells me I’m safe here. They’re not sharks. Just engineers. With lanyards.
I grip the edges of the podium again, grounding myself. “This work is personal to me. Not just because I care about the science, but because I care about the players. One in particular. My amazing fiancé. You don’t need to have a PhD or an MD to protect someone you love.”
Someone near the front jots that down.
I’m doing it. I’m actually doing it.
Offstage, Tristan leans against the wall. I can’t see much through the lights, but I know his posture from memory. Despite his crossed arms, he’s smiling. He’s probably the only man here who isn’t watching my chest move when I breathe.
I lift my chin. “So I stopped trying to make this technology perfect. I made it useful. Comfortable. Scalable. I made it wearable. And now it’s being used by fourteen pro teams across three leagues.”
A smattering of applause. I pause. Let it land.
Then I add, “Also, it’s ferret-safe. Don’t ask me how I know.”
The laughter is louder this time.
I smile. This is going better than I ever imagined.
I wrap up the Q&A with a quote from Rosalind Franklin and step off the stage before the applause fully dies down. My knees wobble. My palms sweat. I may have blacked out somewhere around the concussion data, because how am I even still upright?
I scan the wings for Tristan.
He’s not leaning on the wall anymore.
He’s storming toward me with the singular focus of a man who’s about to propose all over again.
I open my mouth to say something—anything clever or professional—but he cups my jaw, kisses me square in front of half the world’s nerdiest engineers, and says against my mouth, “You destroyed that.”
“Tristan,” I whisper, eyes wide. “Thank you for supporting me.”
He nuzzles against my temple. “You literally just stood on a stage in front of a hundred tech bros and explained how you’re single-handedly saving the brains of professional athletes. You think I was gonna miss your public speaking debut?”
I should argue. Or deflect. Or tell him how the clicker lagged during my pie chart transition, and it still bothers me. But then his hand slides to the back of my neck and pulls me in, and my brain goes the way of his teammates’—soft, stunned, and grateful to be protected.
“I don’t know how to be the center of attention,” I murmur into his chest.
“You weren’t the center of attention,” he says. “You were the axis.”
My chest warms, a little stunned flutter. Axis. Not accessory. Not a background character. I’m starting to believe him—and that terrifies me in the best possible way.
God, he’s going to kill me. “I wish I had worn your hoodie over my outfit.”
“You wanted to wear my hoodie during your keynote?” he asks, voice lower now.
I glance down and realize how ridiculous that would have looked. “It’s the only thing that keeps me from getting chilled when I’m anxious. Or from disassociating completely. It smells like you.”
His eyes warm. “So I’m your emotional support hoodie?”
“Yes,” I say without hesitation.
He grins. “I accept.”
Someone clears their throat behind us. It’s the conference organizer, a woman with steel-gray hair and a clipboard that looks like it could kill a man if thrown hard enough.
“Miss Marino?” she says. “There’s a sponsor rep from the WHL who’d like to speak with you privately. They’re interested in adding your device to the women’s program.”
My heart weighs two tons. “Oh. Wow. Um—okay. Yes. I’d love that.”
Tristan squeezes my hand before I go. “Go get ‘em, future Mrs. Dubois.”
He’s teasing, but also… not.
Because even in this jumpsuit, with my half-pulled ponytail and the mascara that’s probably flaking under my eyes, he sees me. And not just the hockey data analyst version. Not the weird ferret mom or the science gremlin or the girl who doesn’t quite know how to smile in photos.
He sees all of me.
And somehow, that doesn’t make me want to run away.
It makes me want to run toward.
I expect the WHL rep to be polished, firm, and a little intimidating. I do not expect them to be a five-foot-two whirlwind in red glasses and sparkly boots who greets me with, “You’re the concussion girl! I’ve been dying to meet you!”
I blink. “That’s… technically accurate.”
She thrusts a business card into my hand. “Juliette Valdez. Player safety coordinator. We’ve been watching the NHL trials of your system for months. What you’re doing? It’s the future.”
The truth slams into me. “Thank you. That means a lot.”