Chapter 20 – Trace
chapter
twenty
Trace
The Grand Ballroom of the Peninsula Chicago was the kind of room designed to make people feel important. Thirty-foot ceilings, crystal chandeliers the size of my car, a jazz quartet in the corner playing something smooth that nobody was listening to.
Two hundred people who all knew each other’s net worth before they knew each other’s names.
I leaned against one of the marble pillars, nursing a scotch I couldn’t focus enough to drink. My whole body was still vibrating from the car ride.
I’m done pretending I don’t want this.
My own words. I’d said them out loud, in the Range Rover, with her right there in the passenger seat smelling like coconut and looking at me with those dark brown eyes.
And I’d just said it. All of it. I want you, Lena.
For myself. Fuck Trevor, fuck bro code, fuck anyone who has an opinion.
And then I’d given her the out. You can tell me no. And waited.
She hadn’t said no.
She hadn’t said yes, either.
She’d just looked at me and the highway had blurred past and everything between us was shifting, and then Aaron had called. Demanding our ETA, rattling off a list of people I needed to schmooze, killing the moment before she could answer.
And once I’d ended the call, Lena’s phone had started ringing. Her mother.
I rolled the scotch glass between my palms, remembering the way Lena’s whole face had changed when her mom started talking.
The tension drained right out of her shoulders, the first real grin I’d seen from her all day.
Details about the upcoming appointment. And I was grateful, actually grateful, for the Coulter name.
Using it to help someone instead of just getting me or my brother out of scrapes felt good.
Felt right. Like this was what the name should have been used for all along.
By the time the conversation ended, we’d arrived in Chicago.
But I’m going to get my answer.
The Peninsula had a valet who’d taken the Range Rover, and a lobby that smelled like stargazer lilies and leather.
Lena had been quiet as we walked in, her heels clicking on the marble, her hand tucked into the crook of my arm.
She fit there. She’d always fit there, and I was only just letting myself notice.
When the coat check girl took her jacket, I saw the rest of the dress for the first time.
From the front it had been devastating enough.
One bare shoulder, the burgundy satin fitted to every curve.
But the back. The back was just gone. Bare skin from her shoulder blades to the small of her spine, the fabric picking up again just above the curve of her ass.
Her braids were swept over one shoulder, leaving the whole expanse of smooth brown skin exposed.
I forgot how to walk.
She glanced back at me over her shoulder. “You okay?”
“Fine.” My voice came out like sandpaper. “Let’s go.”
You are so, so fucked.
Now I stood against this pillar like I had any business being casual while she worked the room thirty feet away.
The burgundy satin caught the chandelier light every time she moved, and I’d had to stop looking at the bare line of her spine before I did something stupid like trace it with my finger in front of two hundred people.
She moved through the crowd like she’d been doing this her whole life. These rooms weren’t usually kind to people who didn’t look like everyone else, but Lena didn’t wait for permission to belong. She just walked in and made it hers.
She knew her shit, too. I caught her shaking hands with the foundation director, tilting her head when she listened. Really listened, not the fake nodding half these people were doing. By the second sentence the director’s wife had her hand on Lena’s arm like they were old friends.
Every time her laugh hit me across the room, my grip tightened on the glass. I’d told her in the car. Laid everything out. And she hadn’t flinched, hadn’t pulled away, hadn’t told me I was insane.
She just hadn’t given me an answer yet.
“I have to tell you, kid, I was a bit surprised.”
Aaron materialized at my elbow, trailing Acqua di Gio and ambition. He adjusted his cufflinks and scanned the room the way he scanned everything, looking for leverage. “Why is that?”
“Honestly, I didn’t think you could pull this off. You know, find the right girl to make this work. But she’s a natural.”
I didn’t answer. Across the room, Lena was kneeling down carefully in her dress to talk to one of the younger athletes, a kid, maybe ten, with a prosthetic running blade and a grin that was missing two front teeth.
The diamond tennis bracelet on her wrist caught the light as she waved her hands around, making the kid giggle.
She’d tried to refuse the bracelet three times before I clasped it on her myself.
A loaner from the family collection. She was asking him about his times, whether he preferred the blade or the socket, and the kid was talking a mile a minute because someone was actually paying attention.
Not performing. Not networking. Just being Lena.
When she stood back up, the kid hugged her around the waist. She looked startled for half a second, then she hugged him back, one hand on his head, and over his shoulder her gaze found mine across the room.
She smiled. Not the polished one she’d been giving donors all night. The real one. The one that crinkled the corners of her eyes and showed the tiny gap between her front teeth that she was self-conscious about and I thought was the sexiest thing I’d ever seen.
I was so gone for this girl it wasn’t even funny.
Something had shifted in me this past week. Like I was finally seeing her. All of her.
“Yeah, she’s doing great,” I said. My thumb traced the rim of the scotch glass.
I’d told her the truth in that car. All of it. The movie night, carrying her to the guest room, sitting on the floor for twenty minutes like a coward. She’d said I thought you knew and those four words cracked something open in my chest that I couldn’t close back up.
Had feelings. Past tense or present? I still didn’t know.
Aaron clapped me on the back. “Good. Good. I’d like you guys to do a few more events.
There’s a couple more things around the draft in June.
You’re only a junior, but making the team before your senior year is what we need.
Obviously we won’t rock any boats after that either.
We don’t want to make it obvious that we polished you up just for the draft. ”
“You mean you want me to keep fake dating?”
It’s not fake anymore. Hasn’t been since the library.
He shrugged, adjusting his Italian silk tie. “Or make it real. She’s great. And, you know how people say hockey is very, very white? Not a speck of pepper to be found amongst the wags. If you can hold on to her, she’ll be a great addition for the league.”
The words landed like a punch. A great addition for the league. Like she was a commodity. Like the color of her skin was a tactical advantage we should exploit.
My stomach turned. I set the scotch on the nearest table, suddenly unable to hold it. “Aaron. I’m not using her for the league. She’s not a brand play.” I looked at him dead on. “I like her. Actually like her. So watch what you say next.”
Understatement of the century.
He rolled his eyes. “Fine. Whatever. Keep her as long as you can. Besides, this is good for her. She can build her profile you know? We can definitely do an event with your uncle Bryce and aunt Tammy. An event with Jason Cartwright too. Get her back on everyone’s radar.
She could have gone D1 right? All I’m saying is if she continues to scratch your back, I can scratch hers. ”
I looked at him. Really looked at him. Pressed suit, polished smile, an angle on everything. Aaron was great at his job. But right now, listening to him reduce Lena to a brand strategy, I wanted to put my fist through something for the second time this week.
My split knuckles throbbed under the tape, agreeing with me.
“Aaron.” I kept my voice level but my jaw was doing its own thing. “Lena is not a prop.”
He blinked, the smooth mask slipping for half a second. “Of course she’s not. I’m just saying, win-win, you know?”
I didn’t answer. He wasn’t wrong about how it started. But after the car, after everything we’d said to each other, hearing him reduce it to strategy made my skin crawl.
He read my face, decided he’d pushed enough, and drifted off to schmooze someone else. I stood there alone, my hands empty now that I’d ditched the scotch, the bass line from the quartet thumping under the noise around me.
Across the room, Lena was talking to a retired NHL defenseman whose name I should’ve remembered.
She had her hand on his arm. Light, not flirtatious.
She was laughing at something he’d said and the sound carried across thirty feet of ballroom and landed in my sternum.
I was standing in a room full of hockey legends and billionaires and the only person I could see was five-foot-six in a burgundy dress.
You’re staring.
Don’t give a shit.
Then Max Porter appeared. All bleached teeth and Ivy League haircut, making his way toward Lena. He leaned in close, his hand brushing her arm, and every casual touch made my neck hot.
Get your fucking hands off her.
I crossed the ballroom floor in six strides. Max was leaning in, one hand on her elbow, telling her something that got the polite smile. The one she gave strangers, not the one she gave me. The difference shouldn’t have mattered. It mattered.
When I slid my arm around her waist, she fit against my side and the silk of her dress was cool under my palm.
I could feel the curve of her hip through the fabric, the warmth of bare skin where the back dipped low, and my fingers pressed in before I could stop them.
She smelled like coconut and something warm underneath.
The same scent that had been on my pillow this morning when I woke up and she was gone.
She didn’t pull away. She leaned in. Her body softened against me and my cock stirred and I shifted my weight, angling my hips so half of Chicago’s donor class didn’t see what she did to me.
“There you are,” I said. Lower than I meant to. Didn’t care.
“Hey man. I’m Trace Coulter. Lena’s boyfriend.”
The word came out without a hitch. No stumble, no rehearsal. For the first time, it didn’t feel like part of the arrangement.
Max blinked and stepped back, holding out his hand. “Oh, hey there. I’m Max. Max Porter. Nice to meet you.”
I shook it. Firm. Maybe firmer than necessary. Then Lena’s hand came up and rested flat against my chest. Casual, proprietary. And my heart slammed against her palm so hard she had to have felt it.
She didn’t react. Just kept her hand there, warm through my shirt.
“Likewise,” I said, already looking back at Lena. She was looking up at me with an expression I couldn’t read but wanted to. Badly. In private. Without Max fucking Porter three feet away.
“We were just talking about tennis,” she said, easing the tension. “Max here used to play professionally.”
“Really?” I kept my arm around her. “I think I remember your name from the circuit with my aunt and uncle.”
He blinked rapidly. “Oh! You’re Bryce Coulter’s nephew?”
“Yep.”
“I guess I see the family resemblance.” Max gave an awkward laugh. “I miss playing. Had to quit due to an injury.”
“That’s too bad,” Lena said, and she meant it, because that was who she was. Kind to everyone, even guys who couldn’t keep their hands off her arm.
Max was grasping for something to say when Aaron appeared at my side with his patronizing event-coordinator face on.
“There you are, Trace! We’ve been looking for you. We need you at the press table. They’re ready for interviews.”
I looked down at Lena. She was already looking up at me with something unguarded in her face that hit me right in the chest.
“Go,” she said quietly. Her hand found mine and squeezed once. “I’ll be here.”
Three words. Nothing special about them. Except the way she said them. Not polite, not performative. Just steady and real. And my throat went tight.
I squeezed back. Held on a beat too long. Then let go and followed Aaron, my palm still warm where her fingers had been.
Halfway across the room I glanced back. She was still standing where I’d left her, Max long forgotten, looking right at me. For a second, everything else in that room went quiet.
Just her. Just me.
She told you she had feelings for you. You sat on a floor next to her bed and never said a word and today you finally did.
I sat down at the press table, somebody shoved a microphone in my face, and I started answering questions about my performance and the draft while my mind stayed fifty feet behind me with the girl who’d said I thought you knew and then let me hold her hand in front of a room full of strangers.
I’m done pretending I don’t want this.
All I had to do now was get my answer before she changed her mind.