Chapter 27 The Price Of Gold Luna #2
The ballroom is stunning in the most obnoxiously expensive way.
Tall arched windows draped in deep burgundy, chandeliers throwing golden light across dark wood floors.
Waiters in starched white uniforms float around with trays of champagne and tiny hors d’oeuvres that probably look better than they taste.
Not that I’m going to test it out. I don’t think my stomach can handle any food tonight.
But it’s the people in the crowd that really kick my heart into overdrive.
Everyone here moves with the kind of confidence born from never having to worry about tuition payments or whether they have enough in their account to pay for groceries at the checkout.
I hold on to Beau’s arm like it’s a lifeline.
He leans in. “You good?”
“I’m about to be interviewed by three different private school moms about where I got my dress and what my horse’s name is. At least that’s what I assume happens at this kind of event.”
“Fuck them. They wouldn’t last five minutes on the ice with you. They’re just people. People with over-inflated egos and overflowing bank accounts, but most of them did nothing to earn either of those things.”
“That may be so, but it doesn’t change the fact that I don’t belong here.”
He turns to me, warmth suffusing my cheeks as he takes them between his hands. “You have every right to be here. And if anyone makes you feel less, you can tell them what a bunch of arrogant, entitled asses they are.”
My lips twitch at the corners, nerves dissipating at his callback.
He’s right. I had no problem calling him out on his assholery.
Why am I so afraid of a bunch of rich people in fancy dresses?
Probably because I’m not in my comfort zone.
I’m not on the ice. I’m not on a live or strategizing a social media plan.
This is their world. All I need to do is blend in.
Play by their rules for a couple of hours.
We share a soft, conspiratorial look, and it’s just enough to keep the panic at bay.
The strut in my walk remains until we’re surrounded.
It starts slowly. One woman approaches Beau with air kisses.
Another slips her arm around his back. And then he’s swept into a conversation with two boys’ club looking dudes.
They start throwing around words like “acquisition” and “portfolio” like we’re in a boardroom instead of a ballroom.
He throws me an apologetic look over his shoulder as he’s pulled away, and I nod, pasting on a smile that doesn’t go past the surface.
Now it’s just me. And a room full of people who think I’m a prop or a gold digger. It’s probably unreasonable to think they’re all staring at me, judging me, but I can’t help it.
“I’ll be back,” he mouths.
I nod, but there’s a strange hollowness blooming in my chest.
Left alone, I drift toward the edge of the room, looking for some corner to hide away in.
My heels are pinching my toes, and the champagne glass in my hand is slippery with condensation.
A waiter in a pristine, starched white shirt gives me an offended look when a laugh bursts out at his offering. A tray of crab cakes. Thanks, Beth.
I find a tall marble pillar and press my back against it, breathing shallowly. The music changes, softening into a familiar swell of strings and piano. A waltz. Do these people actually know how to dance to that?
“May I?” Relief floods through me at the familiar voice. Did past me ever picture that voice being the calm in my storm?
Beau stands in front of me, the strain on his face melting as he smiles at me, his hand extended. He takes my hand before I can protest, leading me toward the dance floor.
I guess I’ve danced with too many regular guys.
I’m expecting the stiff, awkward back-and-forth sway of a hockey player dragged out on the dance floor at their cousin’s wedding.
But he moves like he knows exactly what he’s doing, one hand steady on my waist, the other holding mine with surprising confidence. As if I weren’t intimidated enough.
“Did you take ballroom dance lessons?” I murmur as we sway together, the world blurring around us.
“Yes,” he says. “And I was forced to practice with my sister.”
My chest clenches. “That’s... unfairly cute.”
His eyes lock on mine, and everything else fades. He dips his head, lips brushing mine in a whisper of a kiss. It’s chaste enough to not draw attention, but it still sends a flush through my body.
When we break apart, we’re both a little breathless.
“That was...” I trail off.
“Yeah,” he says.
But the moment ends when someone taps Beau on the shoulder and murmurs something about a Mr. Hearst wanting a word.
Beau’s jaw tightens. “Give me a sec?”
I nod, lips still tingling. The music, the venue, the gown. It’s the perfect setting for a video, so I pull out my phone. It’ll be good to show my followers another side of myself. Good to see that you can be a tough hockey captain and still get dressed up for a ball.
“Ah,” says a cool, cultured voice behind me. “So, you’re the influencer.”
I turn slowly. The man facing me is older.
He’s got silver hair, and he’s wearing an immaculately tailored tux.
He’d be good-looking if his expression wasn’t carved from pure disdain.
If Beau’s jawline is chiseled, his dad’s looks like it could slice through a shoe like one of those knives I used to see advertised on TV at my grandma’s house.
“Mr. Whitaker,” I say, holding out my hand.
He takes it but doesn’t really shake it. Just a quick clasp and release. I’m sure that’s not the way he shakes hands with his cronies, but I guess I’m not worthy of a real shake.
“You’re Luna.”
I give a sharp nod. There’s not much else to say about that.
He hums. “You’re certainly not what I expected.”
“People say that a lot,” I reply, keeping my smile razor-edged.
He doesn’t even blink. “Tell me, do you actually play hockey? Or is it just for the content?”
“I’m captain of the Lakeview women’s team,” I say. “We’re ranked second in the division right now. I’ve been on the ice since I was five.” What a ridiculous question. Would he ask that if I were a guy?
“Hm.” His lips twitch in something that might be a smile if it weren’t so condescending. “I suppose there’s a kind of novelty in that.”
I squeeze the stem of my glass so hard it digs into my hand. “I’m glad you find my lifelong passion novel.”
The moment stretches. Then someone calls his name, and he excuses himself as if I’m not even worthy of his criticism.
After I roam around shooting brief anonymous videos for a day in the life post, I scan the room, searching for Beau. He’s across the room, close to the hallway leading to the restrooms. It’s like he was trying to escape his current conversation.
I’m skirting the edge of the room when his father’s voice catches my attention. It’s imprinted in my brain now, disdainful words echoing on repeat. He’s speaking in a low, confidential tone, talking to a man with a face flushed from too many drinks.
“... he’s always been good at hockey, but it’s a hobby. He knows that. He’s well aware of his duty. The family business is where he belongs. I’m already getting him ready to take over the GMH partnership as soon as he graduates.”
It takes me a second to breathe again.
Hockey? A hobby? Everything in me twists. I don’t even think. I just head in the direction I last saw him. A woman in a flowy black gown gives me a dirty look when I brush past her in my hurry.
Beau’s smile is strained, and his eyes keep flicking toward the hallway as he talks to a small group of people. I tug on his arm.
His annoyance shifts to relief after he turns to spot me. “Luna?”
“Take me home.”
“What?”
“I want to leave.”
His smile falters. “I can’t just bust out of here like that. I’ve got to stay at least until my father makes his speech.”
I step closer. “Did you know your dad is telling people that hockey’s just a phase for you?”
His whole body stiffens. “He is? What a dick.”
“He said you’ll fall in line. That the game is beneath the Whitakers.”
His jaw tightens. “That is what he thinks. It’s not what I think, though.”
“So, you’re going to declare for the draft?”
He swallows hard. “It’s complicated.”
“No. It’s really not. Either you love this or you’re pretending.
Do you know what I’d give to be in your shoes?
To be able to make hockey my professional career?
But as a woman, I don’t get that opportunity.
A startup pro women’s league with only six teams is a pipe dream.
But you have the talent and the opportunity. ”
“I love hockey, but I also have responsibilities.”
“To who?” My voice cracks. “To the family that doesn’t even respect you enough to take your dreams seriously?”
“Luna.”
“No. You don’t get to shut me down with a vague tone and sad puppy eyes. Do you want this life? Really?”
He rubs a hand over his jaw. “It’s not about what I want. It’s what I have to do.”
My stomach drops, and I wonder if I was wrong about him. “I want to go home.”
He watches me for a beat. Then nods.
The atmosphere in the limo is the polar opposite of the ride here.
The air is chilled, and the silence is heavy.
I need some time to process this information.
How did I not know this before? I never questioned him.
I never asked whether he was planning to go pro.
I just assumed because if it were an option for me, I wouldn’t hesitate.
When the car pulls up to my house, he walks me to the door. “I can come in,” he says softly. “We can talk.”
I unlock the door, hand on the knob. “I’ll see you tomorrow. For the livestream.”
There’s a pause. I don’t turn around.
“Okay,” he says.
The door clicks shut between us, leaving behind unanswered questions.
And I just stand there, hand still gripping the knob.
I thought I knew him. I thought he was the kind of guy who would fight for his dreams. Who would tell his father to fuck off.
But he’s not. And if he can’t fight for his own dream, how can I trust he’ll fight for me?
I don’t want to be someone’s temporary distraction until he goes off to fulfill his family obligations.