Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Alycia
The Wednesday before the gala always feels like the universe is holding its breath.
It’s the biggest night of the season—short of the team making the Stanley Cup Finals.
It’s the night that funds Cooper’s entire partnership with the Boys & Girls Club: tutoring, after-school programs, youth hockey scholarships.
The city expects generosity. The team expects polish.
And PR is responsible for stitching both together with an invisible seam.
This year, Janine handed the entire event over to me. Every logistic. Every crisis plan. Every moving part. After eighteen months of being an intern—longer than anyone should have to be—this is my chance to prove I’m not a placeholder, but someone worth betting on.
So, yes, 7:45 counts as late.
The PR floor hums with caffeine and controlled panic.
Phones ringing, printers spitting out run sheets, someone muttering about a sponsor who does not understand the literal meaning of the word deadline.
The air smells like burnt coffee and toner and too many bodies in too little space.
It’s my battlefield. I shrug out of my coat and weave toward my office, dodging a rolling rack of sponsor banners and a social media intern juggling three tripods like a newborn giraffe.
“Morning,” Janine calls from her office, already with her headset on and a screen full of tabs.
“It’s barely morning,” I say, though the joke lands lighter than I feel.
She gestures toward her desk to a to-go holder of coffee. “Grab your fuel. You have about nine minutes before the staff briefing eats you alive.”
“I love a challenge,” I reply, taking the blessedly hot cup.
My office is small, windowless, and undeniably mine.
A plant that’s half-alive. A color-coded, four-page Gala Week schedule taped beside my monitor.
I set down my bag, hang my coat, and let my eyes sweep the grid—media training, sponsor interviews, security walkthrough, red carpet run-of-show, player arrival windows, owner photo ops.
Every minute slotted. Every risk accounted for.
My gala. My responsibility. My chance not to screw this up.
Janine appears in my doorway. “You ready?”
We both know she’s not asking about the briefing or the gala. She’s asking if I’m ready for the first big test of my fake relationship with Kyle. The coffee date and community skate went well, but the most we had to do was smile for a few selfies. The gala is a whole different level.
“No,” I admit. “But it’s happening anyway.”
Her smile says she expected that answer. “That’s my girl.”
The words land heavier than they should, threading through the ache under my ribs. I fuss with my skirt hem before I can stop myself.
“I went over everything again last night—talking points, boundaries, what to say if the media shows up, what he’ll ignore because he’s… him.”
“Alycia.” She steps closer, voice softening. “You don’t have to strategize every breath.”
“I know, but it’s the only way I know how to breathe right now.”
“Sweetheart,” she says gently, “you could show up barefoot, and that man would still look at you like you’re the whole damn show.”
Heat curls up my throat. “It’s not like that.”
“Oh, honey… even you don’t believe that.”
By the time I’m standing at the head of the table with a laser pointer and a stack of agendas, my heartbeat has settled into something functional.
The projector casts the gala’s timeline across the wall.
The owner wants another sponsor banner. The broadcast network wants an extra interview corner.
Security wants people to stop reinventing the plan every hour.
“Players arrive between six and six forty-five,” I say, pointing to a blue block on the run-of-show. “Families may arrive with them or separately, but everyone uses the north entrance. The media stays on the main carpet and in the interview corral. No exceptions.”
Hands shoot up: “What about donor photos?” “Can we shift family interviews earlier?” “What if the owner wants a solo shot?”
“The donor queue stays. Family interviews depend on schedules. If the owner arrives late, he goes straight to the ballroom photographer,” I say, the practiced calm in my voice smoothing over the flicker of tension I refuse to show.
My eyes skim the schedule and land on his name: HENDRIX, KYLE—ARRIVAL 5:45.
My stomach tightens, but I keep my expression immaculate.
Janine still notices. “Smart call, Alycia. Getting him in early will save us a ton of chaos.”
A few people murmur agreement. Then Phil, who never outgrew his fraternity era, lets out a low whistle.
“Early arrival, huh? So, you two get… extra prep time?”
He fucking winks. Ever since the news broke about Kyle and me, the comments from him have been getting bolder.
He thought the gala should’ve been his to run.
Of course, there was no way I would have gotten the job because I work harder than anyone—aside from Janine—in this department.
To him, it was because I was supposedly sleeping with the Timberwolves’ shiny new defenseman.
Before I can respond, Janine snaps her head toward him so fast he startles. “Phil, shut your mouth before you lose the privilege of using it.”
The room goes dead silent.
“Just kidding.” Phil laughs awkwardly and sinks lower in his chair.
“No,” she says, voice like a blade. “You weren’t.”
A few people look at me, waiting to see how I’ll react, and I give them nothing. Not a shift in posture or a blush, just the calm, polished neutrality I’ve mastered.
“We’re arriving early because it minimizes risk, that’s all.”
It’s the truth, but the truth doesn’t stop the heat pooling low and tight under my ribcage.
Being doubted for the job I earned is familiar.
Having my competence questioned because of a man is a ghost I thought I’d outrun.
I push that flicker of heat deep down where it can’t touch anything.
My face stays perfectly composed, my years of practice settling over me like armor, cool and seamless.
“Moving on,” I add, flipping to the next slide.
The rest of the briefing rips by in a blur of logistics and barely contained panic. Questions ricochet across the table like ping-pong balls. Everyone wants answers, and I give them, delivered with the effortless confidence I’ve trained like muscle memory.
The social media intern wants confirmation that the TikTok team won’t “accidentally wander” into the restricted press corridor again.
“They won’t,” I say, because I already scheduled a staffer to shadow them like a babysitter with a high-risk toddler. “Next slide.”
By the time the projector powers down and people shuffle out, I’ve regained every inch of my command. Externally, at least. But internally, the flicker from Phil’s comment hasn’t fully settled. It lingers low and tight, a pressure I refuse to name.
“You handled that well.” Janine’s tone is even but edged with approval.
“Just doing my job.”
“You’re doing more than that.” Her gaze homes in, sharp but kind. “Don’t let idiots like Phil get under your skin.”
“I wasn’t bothered,” I lie smoothly.
“Alycia, I’ve watched you handle a league-wide scandal with more composure than most executives twice your age. But you don’t have to white-knuckle your way through everything. Not anymore.”
I nod, pretending it’s an agreement.
“If you need support, tell me. Don’t make me guess.”
“I won’t,” I promise, even though we both know I will.
She nods once and heads for the door. “Breakouts start in ten minutes. Let’s keep the momentum.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The moment she’s gone, the weight slides heavier onto my shoulders—pressure and pride and fear, all knotted together so tightly I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
The schedule in my head scrolls forward automatically: social posts, sponsor approvals, three phone calls I’m already late for, five I haven’t scheduled yet.
Move, Torres.
I’m halfway to my office when male voices drift around the corner. Loud, easy, familiar. My body registers them before my brain does, recognition sinking into my muscles.
Kyle’s laugh lands first as he rounds the corner with Beau, hair damp from practice, cheeks flushed, quarter-zip unzipped just enough to be distracting.
He looks loose, the exact opposite of the knot living under my sternum.
He doesn’t see me at first, but when he does, something in his expression softens just enough that I feel it like a hand around my heart.
“Morning, Torres,” he says, voice dipping into something warm enough to melt the last of my composure.
I force my spine straight. “Morning.”
His eyes sweep my face, slow and certain, like he’s cataloging every sign showing that I didn’t sleep. Like he recognizes them. The air tightens between us for a heartbeat, just enough for Beau to groan.
“There are children in this building,” Beau mutters, disgusted, and keeps walking like he refuses to witness whatever this is becoming.
Kyle follows, steps slowing just enough to betray him. The connection stretches thin, taut, then snaps when he turns the corner and disappears. The loss is sharp, immediate, and irritatingly real.
A shaky breath slips out of me before I can stop it, betraying the low tremor in my ribs.
I smooth my blazer, pretending I can press myself back into the version of me who doesn't get rattled by a look and wants what she can’t have.
I have forty-seven emails, three meetings, and a department depending on me.
Work is predictable, and I cling to it like oxygen, because wanting him is the one thing I can’t afford to breathe in. Not now. Not ever.