Chapter 3 — Lena
Lena
Lena Brooks had a clipboard, a schedule, a half-repaired balloon arch, and absolutely no business knowing what Carter Hayes tasted like.
Unfortunately, she knew.
Vanilla coffee.
Mint.
Trouble.
Mostly trouble.
She had kissed him behind the stage curtain.
Twice.
Technically, he had almost kissed her first, but she had closed the distance, which meant the blame was shared.
He had been standing there with his stupid cut lip and his stupid careful hand at her waist and his stupid quiet voice asking if she was pretending not to feel this because she didn’t want it or because she did.
What was a woman supposed to do with that?
Make a smart choice?
Lena marched across the student center ballroom like her knees were not still slightly unreliable and her mouth was not still tingling from the best bad decision of her college career.
Behind her, the curtain rustled.
Carter stepped out two seconds later.
She did not look at him.
Absolutely not.
She was an event coordinator.
A woman who had just made out with the team liaison behind a curtain while a fundraiser for sick children was being assembled twenty feet away.
Classy.
Very brand-aligned.
“Lena?” one of the freshman volunteers asked.
Lena snapped into focus. “Yes.”
The girl held up two signs. “Do you want the donation signs on the raffle tables or the check-in table?”
“Raffle tables first,” Lena said, grateful to hear her voice come out normal. “Then check-in. Tape them flat. Not angled.”
“Got it.”
“And make sure the QR codes are visible.”
“Okay.”
“Thank you.”
Normal.
See? Normal.
Lena could do normal.
Then Carter walked past her carrying a roll of tape, and his fingers brushed the back of her hand.
Didn’t say anything.
He just kept walking toward the silent auction table like he had not set a match to her bloodstream.
Lena stared at his back.
A hot disaster with shoulders.
She tightened her grip on the clipboard and reminded herself of several important facts.
Fact one: Carter Hayes flirted with everyone.
Fact two: Carter Hayes avoided sincerity like it was a campus parking fine.
Fact three: kissing Carter Hayes did not change facts one or two.
Fact four: she had kissed him back hard enough to drop office supplies.
Fact four was not helpful.
She crossed it out mentally.
“Brooks.”
Carter’s voice came from behind her.
Close.
Absolutely illegal.
Lena turned slowly.
Good things.
Dangerous things.
“Yes?” she said.
His eyes flicked to the clipboard hugged against her chest. “We need to write the speech.”
“We do.”
“Somewhere quiet?”
“No.”
His mouth twitched. “No?”
“Absolutely not.”
“We can’t write opening remarks in the middle of Mason asking if duct tape is a personality.”
“Mason should not be left unsupervised with duct tape.”
“Agreed. But we still need quiet.”
Kissing meant the collapse of civilization.
“We can write at the check-in table,” she said.
“The check-in table is beside the team.”
“That’s why it’s safe.”
His grin started slowly. “Safe?”
Wrong word.
Very wrong word.
Lena lifted her chin. “Efficient.”
“Sure.”
“Public.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Productive.”
“Whatever you need to tell yourself.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You are on thin ice, Hayes.”
His gaze moved over her face, soft and hot at the same time. “I play better there.”
Absolutely not.
She turned away before her face did something treasonous.
“Check-in table,” she said.
“Yes, boss.”
“Stop calling me boss.”
“After that kiss?” he murmured, close enough that only she could hear. “Not a chance.”
She spun around.
He had already stepped back, all innocent eyes and athletic arrogance, like he had not just whispered something that made her want to shove him into another supply closet.
“Speech,” she said, voice deadly.
“Speech,” he agreed, trying and failing not to smile.
They set up at the check-in table with two cups of coffee, Lena’s laptop, Carter’s half-crumpled player rotation sheet, and a silence that did not feel remotely professional.
Carter sat beside her instead of across from her.
Of course he did.
His knee brushed hers under the table.
Unlike her hormones.
“Okay,” she said. “We need to keep this short. Two minutes. Maybe three. Thank the hospital, donors, Ridgeview athletics, student volunteers, and attendees. Mention the children’s wing. End with a call to donate.”
Carter leaned back in his chair. “You sound like you’ve done this before.”
“I have.”
“Of course you have.”
She glanced at him. “What does that mean?”
“It means you’re annoyingly good at everything.”
Her fingers paused on the keyboard.
Too quietly.
She did not know what to do with it, so she typed Thank you for joining us tonight even though it was not tonight yet.
“I’m not good at everything,” she said.
Carter leaned forward, forearms on the table. “Name one thing you’re bad at.”
Trusting charming hockey players with dangerous mouths.
She did not say that.
“Delegating,” she said.
“True.”
“Accepting compliments.”
“Extremely true.”
“Letting idiots near glitter.”
“That one’s self-preservation.”
Carter saw it.
His expression softened in a way that made her chest hurt.
“See?” he said.
“What?”
“You do like me.”
“I smiled because you accidentally said something accurate.”
“I’ll take it.”
“You take too much.”
His smile faded slightly, but not in a bad way.
In a way that made the air tighten.
“Not from you,” he said.
Lena looked at him.
Carter held her gaze.
The room buzzed around them, but for a second, it felt like they were back behind the curtain. Close. Heated. One bad choice away from forgetting the speech entirely.
Lena forced herself to look at the screen.
“Opening remarks.”
“Right,” he said, voice rougher.
Carter watched her fingers move over the keys.
Everything felt intimate now.
The space between their chairs. The brush of his knee. The way he leaned close to read the screen. The quiet after every joke, filled with the memory of his hand at her waist.
“This is too formal,” he said.
Lena blinked. “Excuse me?”
“The speech.” He pointed at the screen. “It sounds like Denise wrote it after drinking unsweetened tea.”
“That is specific.”
“Denise is specific.”
“It needs to be professional.”
“It needs to sound human.”
Lena sat back. “Fine. What would you say?”
Carter stared at the screen.
His shoulders shifted like he wanted to dodge the question, skate away from it, make a joke and leave her holding the real part alone.
But he didn’t.
He tapped one finger against the table.
“I’d say…” He paused. “I’d say people think hockey players show up when there’s a scoreboard.”
Lena’s fingers hovered over the keyboard.
Carter kept looking at the screen, not her.
“But nights like this matter because there are kids at St. Mary’s who are fighting harder than any of us fight on the ice.
And they don’t get a crowd chanting their names.
They don’t get a horn when they win a round of treatment.
They just keep showing up.” His throat worked. “So tonight, we show up for them.”
Lena did not type.
She couldn’t.
Carter finally glanced at her. “Too much?”
“No,” she said softly.
His eyes searched hers.
“It’s good,” she said. “Really good.”
A flicker of discomfort crossed his face.
There it was again.
Carter could take insults all day.
Lena started typing before he could retreat behind a joke.
People think hockey players show up when there’s a scoreboard…
Carter watched the words appear, and something in him seemed to settle.
After a moment, he leaned closer, reading as she typed.
Their shoulders touched.
This time, Lena did not move away.
They worked like that for ten minutes, building the speech line by line.
She did not hate it as much as she should.
“Okay,” she said once they finished the first draft. “Read it out loud.”
Carter immediately leaned back. “No.”
“Yes.”
“I wrote feelings. That’s enough growth for one day.”
“You have to deliver this tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow Carter’s problem.”
“Tomorrow Carter is still you.”
“Debatable.”
“Read.”
He tilted his head. “You’re bossy after kissing.”
Lena’s mouth dropped open.
Carter’s grin flashed.
She slammed the laptop halfway closed. “Do you want to die before the fundraiser?”
“Not before the fundraiser. That would be inconvenient for your schedule.”
“You are impossible.”
“And yet.”
She glared.
He leaned closer, voice low. “You kissed me.”
Her pulse hit hard.
“I’m aware.”
“Are you?”
“Painfully.”
“Regret it?”
Carter’s smile was still there, but it wasn’t the shield this time. It was thinner. Waiting.
That mattered.
Too much.
“No,” she said.
Lena’s face warmed, but she forced herself to hold his gaze.
“I don’t regret it,” she said. “I just don’t know what it means.”
His eyes dropped to her mouth, then back up. “It means we’re in trouble.”
“That’s your interpretation?”
“It’s the cleanest one.”
Carter smiled then.
Slow. Relieved. Beautiful in a way that made her want to grab his hoodie again and make several more poor choices.
Under the table, his knee brushed hers.
The heat came back fast.
Lena’s fingers tightened on the edge of the laptop.
“Carter,” she warned.
“Yeah?”
“Read the speech.”
He leaned in, his mouth near her ear. “Make me.”
A stupid challenge.
A stupid, hot, effective challenge.
Lena turned her head.
Every rational thought in Lena’s mind stood up, collected its things, and left.
Lena jolted back so hard her chair squeaked.
Mason stood three feet away with both hands raised.
“I did not see anything,” he said quickly.
Carter slowly turned his head. “You are holding a hockey stick.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I needed a prop.”
“For what?”
Mason looked at Lena, then at Carter, then at the speech draft. “Honestly, I’ve lost the thread.”
Lena closed the laptop the rest of the way. “Mason.”
“Yes, terrifying event queen?”
“Go help Tank with the puck station.”
“He keeps asking if toddlers have waivers.”
“Then reassure him.”
“I don’t know if they do.”
“Mason.”
“Going.”
He jogged away.