16. February 18, Friday #3
If she kissed him, it wouldn't be her betraying Mitch, but Ilya would definitely think he was.
She couldn't let him hurt himself like that. I won’t hurt him.
Not like this. Ilya would never forgive himself for making the moves on someone he thought belonged to his best friend.
Even if it looked like he wanted it as bad as Zoey did.
Zoey pulled back, heart pounding, cheeks warm, suddenly aware of consequences, of the messiness they were both navigating. Her hand dropped across his chest, the closeness leaving a residue of longing and restraint.
Ilya didn’t move.
Not closer. Not away.
His eyes searched hers—deep, steady, conflicted. Like he was standing on the same cliff she’d just backed away from and didn’t know whether to jump or retreat.
“Zoey,” he said softly, her name rough in his throat.
That almost broke her. She shook her head quickly, words tangling in panic and embarrassment and the sharp sting of wanting too much.
“Uhh…sorry about that…” She forced herself to look at him, forced herself to see the confusion written plainly across his face before her gaze dropped again. “I…uh…got carried away.”
Her fingers spun the rings on her hand faster, faster, like she could rewind the last thirty seconds and crawl back into safe and normal, not about to kiss my ex-husband’s best friend on a terrace at a work event territory.
God. What was she thinking?
Ilya’s jaw flexed. He looked…torn. Regretful. Like he was replaying the moment too and wishing he’d done something differently. Or nothing at all.
Maybe he regretted bringing her out here. Asking her to dance. Letting things shift.
Heat crawled up Zoey’s neck.
Not only had she turned herself into an emotional disaster, she could practically hear Nina’s voice sharpening in her ear.
Optics. Whispers.
And the foster process—stability, boundaries, safe choices. She hadn’t even told him the news yet, and now? Now it would sound insane.
Hey, I might be adopting a kid soon and also almost kissed you. Thoughts?
Idiot. Absolute idiot.
Ilya opened his mouth, something unreadable flickering across his expression—
—A loud, sharp shout burst from inside the ballroom.
Both of them jerked toward the terrace doors.
Another voice followed. Raised. Angry. Male.
Zoey’s stomach dropped. “Oh no,” she breathed, already moving. “Please don’t let that be…”
They pushed through the doors together.
The warm noise of the ballroom slammed back over them, but near the bar, a tight circle formed. Guests turning. Watching.
Not good.
Zoey’s pulse kicked into event-coordinator panic mode as she hurried forward, already scanning for damage. Drunk donor? Media? Fight? Broken glass? Viral disaster?
Then she saw who stood in the middle of it.
Jason.
His face flushed, jaw tight, arguing in low, heated bursts with the Coach and GM. Coach’s posture was rigid, voice controlled but sharp. The GM looked furious in that polished, quiet way that screamed this will be handled later and you will not enjoy it.
A few players were starting to make their way over, tense shoulders belying the smiles they gave to people they passed. Guests pretending not to stare were absolutely staring.
Zoey’s heart dropped into her stomach.
Optics.
“I’ll handle it,” Ilya said quietly beside her.
She turned toward him, worry tangling with the leftover ache still humming in her chest. “Ilya, if this blows up in front of donors—”
“It won’t,” he insisted, voice calm but edged, Captain, fully back online. “Do not let it ruin your night.”
Her breath caught.
Did he mean Jason?
Or the terrace?
His expression flickered to annoyance, restraint, and something deeper he wasn’t saying. For one suspended second, it looked like he might speak again. Like he might step back into the unfinished space between them.
Instead, his hand lifted.
His fingers brushed her cheek—light, warm, grounding.
Then he turned and strode toward Jason. No hesitation. No softness. Pure captain.
Zoey watched, heart tight, as Ilya reached the center of the circle, said something low and sharp, then grabbed Jason by the back of his suit collar—firm, controlled, unmistakably in charge—and steered him bodily toward the nearby waitstaff door leading to the kitchens.
Jason didn’t fight him. Didn’t argue. Just went, jaw tight, tension crackling off him as the doors swung shut behind them.
The room exhaled. Music resumed. Conversations restarted.
But Zoey stood frozen.
Frustration twisted with worry, regret, and the ghost of his hand still warm against her cheek.
The terrace bubble burst and reality rushed back in. And yet… the almost-kiss lingered, buzzing against her lips.
Had she ruined the special bond between them?
Had she imagined that he looked like he wanted to close the distance?
Had she imagined his…friend…pushing against her hip as they waited, pressed close, breathing each other’s air?
How was she supposed to look him in the eye again?
And worse, was Ilya going to go full-Ilya and somehow twist the whole thing into his fault and beat himself up for his perceived betrayal, Illuminati style?
“Zoey?” Nina’s strained voice came from behind her and Zoey stiffened before taking a deep inhale and turning to brace the firing squad.