Joy threads her hand through my arm. “Ready?” she asks.
“Always,” I nod, though I don’t know which Wesley she needs tonight. So I give her the one New York knows: the pretty, camera-proof defenseman who smiles fine and keeps his hands light.
The lobby glows—gold, glass, marble, sound bouncing in polite laughter. She moves through it like water slipping around stone. Nod here. Kiss-the-air there. I trail a half step behind, trying to reconcile the woman under my hand with the girl filming drills at practice and telling Sokolov to keep his elbows up.
“This way,” she murmurs, and pulls me toward the red-carpeted stairs.
We climb. My palm finds the small of her back automatically. At the top a quiet hallway curves away from the main house. Mahogany doors. Private boxes.
Joy stops at one. Her hand hovers on the handle. She looks at me. I nod.
She opens the door.
Six plush seats in two rows and a perfect sightline to the stage. Champagne on ice in a silver bucket. Programs laid out like invitations. And her family already standing.
Her mother turns first. Blonde hair swept into an elegant knot, pale eyes, emerald gown. Her smile is one you give donors, not friends. Polite, assessing, cool.
“Darling.” She air-kisses Joy’s cheek, not smudging lipstick. Then those blue eyes land on me, flick down and back up, cataloging. “And you must be Wesley.”
“Mrs. Preston.” I offer my hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
Her fingers touch mine for half a second. “Serena,” she corrects pleasantly. Her expression doesn’t warm. “We’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
A man steps in—tall, graying at the temples, wire rims, gentler mouth. “Robert Preston,” he says, and his handshake is real. “Good to meet you, Wesley.”
“Thank you, sir. The feeling’s mutual.”
Then a younger woman approaches: blonde, Joy’s features cut finer and held tighter, all clean lines and not an ounce of extra anywhere. She slides in with perfect balance, like her spine’s on a wire. “Lila,” she says, and pulls me into a hug without waiting for permission. “Ignore Mother. She’s already measuring you for the vault. No one passes on the first try.”
“Lydia Beatrix,” Serena chides mildly.
“Lila,” she corrects smoothly, then stage-whispers to me, “She pretends she named me after my grandmother. She actually named me after a yacht.”
Despite myself, I huff out a laugh.
And then I see him.
Silver hair, navy suit, holding a glass of champagne and chatting with Joy’s father.
Julian Rothschild.
Owner of the New York Defenders.
My boss.
My pulse spikes so hard, my vision tightens at the edges.
What the hell is he doing here?
Joy’s fingers squeeze my elbow. “Come meet my uncle,” she says softly.
Her uncle?
For a beat, my brain doesn’t process the words. Then it hits.
Her uncle. Julian Rothschild. Owner of my team.
Oh.
