Twenty-Five #2
His mouth twitches. I catch it in my peripheral vision and glance at his hands. They rest on his thighs, fingers loose, one slow, unconscious flex.
I make myself look back at the window. Snow-dusted guardrails and dark spruce blur past, swallowed by the lights of Whistler Village smearing gold against the starry sky.
I focus on that glow and force my breathing to match the steady hum of the tires. Even, even, even.
Then his knee finds mine.
My careful rhythm shatters, my pulse kicking into a rapid, treacherous thrum against my throat.
He doesn’t move. Neither do I.
The silk is thin; I feel his warmth straight through it.
“So.” My voice comes out steadier than it has any right to. “You know what you’re going to say?”
A beat.
“No.”
I turn my head and finally look at him properly. The lights of oncoming traffic catch his face in long sweeps—the sharp jaw, the fading bruise, the eyes that are darker in here than they are in daylight, gone the color of whiskey left too long in a glass.
“Good.” I tip my chin toward his loosened tie. “Scripts are what got you here.”
He looks straight ahead.
I let that sit. I want him to feel the specific weight of no script, no PR line, no practiced deflection to hide behind—the same weight I’ve been carrying since I was seventeen and had no choice but to sign my own silence. Ten seconds of it. Twenty.
The back of his knuckles brush against the silk at my hip, barely there. He doesn’t pull back.
Neither do I.
“Just tell the truth,” I say quietly. “I’ll handle the rest.”
He looks at my mouth for a beat, then back up. “You sure about that?”
“No.” I let the corner of my mouth pull just enough. I refuse to be scared and voiceless on the same night. “But I don’t have any other choice.”
The Village arrives before either of us can say anything else.
The driver slows. Through the windshield, a red carpet stretches toward a set of glass doors.
Bright lights turn the snow into something glittering and fake.
A step-and-repeat wall catches the flash of cameras: the Whistler Wolves logo stamped directly next to THE SIN BIN LOUNGE in clean gold lettering.
A fresh spike of hot, bitter anger hits my chest. There it is. They postponed their mandatory holiday appearance at the Box just to play high-roller photo op for Westfield’s new empire. It’s a shiny, public slap in the face the night before my contract dies.
Beyond the photographers, a crowd of sequins and tailored suits cluster. Someone laughs too loudly. A camera flash fires.
The driver rolls to the curb and stops.
My pulse spikes.
Gabriel opens his door first and steps out into the cold. Turning, he offers his hand.
I take it.
Gabriel’s fingers feel steady. Warm. That annoys me more than it should.
He pulls me to my feet, and the cold bites my leg through the slit.
My coat shifts. For a second, his other hand stays at my waist, not gripping, just there like an anchor.
The heat of his palm seeps through the thin silk of my dress, sending a treacherous jolt straight up my spine.
My body leans into it on pure instinct before my brain can stop it.
Cameras swing.
A girl in a silver dress murmurs something to her friend and tilts her phone toward us. A guy in a velvet blazer snaps a photo before smirking appreciatively.
The back of my neck prickles.
We must look like a couple.
Gabriel leans in, voice tucked low. “Ready?”
I lift my chin. The carpet stretches ahead of us, bright and stupid and exactly the kind of thing built to make people feel small.
“Scorched earth. Let’s go.”
I tuck my hand into the crook of his arm. The wool of his coat is rough against my wrist. Solid.
As we walk, the doors open and cold air slides over my skin, conditioned to a perfect, expensive chill that has hints of ozone and cologne.
The place hits me in layers.
Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the mountains like a postcard you buy at the gift shop. The bar runs the length of the room—glossy black with brass fixtures that gleam under pendant lights. Wolves jerseys sit mounted in shadow boxes, lit like trophies from a hunt.
The DJ plays a remix of a song I loved in high school, except it’s sped up and stripped down like it’s begging to be used in a fifteen-second reel. The bass thumps through the floor in a clean, controlled beat that feels designed by committee.
Champagne towers sparkle under spotlights. Servers in matching burgundy vests glide through the crowd with trays held high, faces blank in that way people get when they’re told to look “premium.”
And influencers.
Everywhere.
Phones on gimbals. Ring lights. A girl in a sparkly dress spins in place, narrating a “room tour” while her friend adjusts her angle like they’re filming a nature documentary.
A guy with a podcast mic corners someone near the bar and asks about “Whistler’s nightlife evolution” like we’re all part of a case study.
It’s everything The Penalty Box isn’t.
Sleek. Expensive. Hollow.
Gabriel’s hand stays on the small of my back as we move forward.
“Smile,” he mutters without looking at me.
“Bite me.”
His mouth twitches, then he tips his chin toward a camera and gives them a practiced half-smile.
I copy it, baring my teeth. Nothing in my eyes.
We step into the crowd.
Investors in tailored suits. City officials I recognize from council photos. Sponsors with lanyards.
And the Wolves.
Ethan Holt stands near the bar in a dark suit, arms crossed, posture rigid like he’s holding back a penalty kill with his spine. Ryan O’Neill hovers beside him, laughing at something a sponsor says, but his eyes keep scanning the room like he’s looking for someone.
Holt’s gaze catches on me first.
For a heartbeat, I expect him to look away. Pretend he didn’t clock me. Pretend he didn’t know what my bar means to this town.
Instead, he gives me the smallest nod.
O’Neill follows Holt’s look. He lifts his glass in the barest of toasts, then turns back to the sponsor, grin fixed like duct tape.
I file it away.
Then I see her.
Delilah in a dark green dress, hair twisted up, standing at the bar with Brock Thompson. Thompson’s suit jacket hangs open, tie loosened, an easy grin at having my favorite girl on his arm.
Delilah meets my gaze from the bar. Her usual chaotic energy is gone, replaced by a stillness that looks terrifying on her. She tips her chin my way.
Before I can step toward her, the air changes.
Martin Westfield cuts through the crowd like he owns the space between atoms. And I guess in here, he does.
“Gabriel. Right on time.” His hand lands on Gabriel’s shoulder. Possessive. The kind of touch that looks friendly from a distance, but I now recognize the leash.
My stomach drops.
I’ve watched Gabriel take a full hit into the boards and get up, unbothered. I’ve watched him hold a press conference with a split lip and a bruised cheek and give them all the money shot. He is not a man who looks small.
Westfield’s hand makes him look small.
Something claws up through my ribs that I have no business feeling. A fierce, ugly pull. Get your hands off him, I want to snarl. Instead, I press my tongue to the back of my teeth and hold it down, aiming for stoicism.
Westfield’s eyes find me next. His smile doesn’t move. A small recalibration moves behind it—surprise, threat assessment, and then the practiced erasure of both.
“Ms. Hayes. This is… unexpected.”
“Thought I’d see what all the fuss was about.”
His gaze tracks over my dress, the slit, the red mouth. He recovers fast. “We like to think it reflects what Whistler hockey deserves. Modern. Uncompromising.”