“Denton?” Paul answers, sounding wary.
“The trade, Paul.” My voice is flat. Final. “The San Francisco deal. I’m turning it down. Officially.”
I can picture Paul frozen, phone halfway to his ear, the lucrative commission on the Gold deal evaporating before his eyes.
“You’re… what?” he finally chokes out. “Denton, are you serious? That’s… that’s a four-year, top-tier contract! The signing bonus alone?—”
“The answer is no,” I cut him off, my voice sharp. “Make the call, please.”
Another beat of stunned silence. Then, a long, slow exhale. Disbelief. Frustration. Maybe a hint of grudging respect. “Okay. Okay, Denton. If that’s your final decision. I’ll… inform San Francisco. But the Blades… your contract here is up at the end of the season. You’re leaving yourself exposed.”
“I’ll handle the Blades.” My gaze drifts to the glittering lights of the city beyond my window. Exposed. Yeah. For the first timein years, I feel terrifyingly exposed. And weirdly, terrifyingly alive. “And Paul? I need a favor.”
“A favor?” He sounds wary, as if wondering what else I’m going to throw at him today.
“The Snowflake Gala tonight. I need a primetime slot on the mic. During the main program. Not the pre-dinner chatter. The slot right before the big auction item.”
“The mic? Denton, you hate public speaking. You usually beg me to get yououtof those slots!” Paul’s confusion is palpable. “What could you possibly need to say that’s so important?”
“Just get me the slot, Paul. However you have to do it. Call in every favoryou’vegot. I need that microphone.”
I don’t wait for his sputtered reply. I end the call.
The frantic energy of the afternoon condenses into a cold, hard point of focus. The legal threat is primed. The financial hammer is forged. The political pressure is cooking. The escape route is sealed shut.
All that’s left is the shot. The Hail Mary pass. The play that wins the game with seconds left on the clock.
Chapter 33
Holly
Charlie was right about one thing: this dress is perfection. It hugs curves I usually hide under flour-dusted sweaters and the deep green makes my eyes pop. It almost makes me feel like my life isn’t falling apart at the seams.
“See?” Charlie murmurs beside me, her own burgundy number shimmering like spilled wine under the lights. She nudges a fresh flute of champagne into my hand. “Told you we’d blend right in with the ice princesses and trophy wives. Now, drink up, my dear. Operation ‘Make Denton Regret His Decision’ is officially a go.”
I take a sip as my gaze skitters across the ballroom – a sea of sequins, sharp tuxedo lines, and forced smiles. The Chicago Blades’ Annual Charity Snowflake Gala.
Last time I was at a Blades event, Denton’s hand was a warm, possessive presence on the small of my back. He’d been my buffer, my shield against this alien world of hockey royalty.
“So, where is Mr. Tall, Dark and Terrifying?”
Panic, cold and sharp, pricks at the edges of my numbness. “Charlie, no. We don’t need to find him. We’re here to drink expensive booze and… watch all the drama around us. But from a distance. Preferably behind a very large potted tree.”
“Nonsense,” Charlie declares, looping her arm through mine. “Part of the fabulousness is being seen. Especially by him. Come on, let’s circulate.”
She steers me through the crowd. I keep my chin up, my smile pinned in place. I nod at vaguely familiar faces – players I’ve seen on TV and met at the last event, wives whose names I can’t recall.
We navigate towards a long table groaning under the weight of silver platters. We fill our plates with bites of delicacies, but I doubt I’ll be able to eat more than a couple of bites.
“Okay, here’s the update,” Charlie mutters, popping a crab cake into her mouth which she chews with fierce determination. “I don’t see him anywhere. But his mom is holding court near the silent auction tables. Tabby’s with her, looking… subdued.” She points subtly with her champagne flute.
My heart lurches at Tabby’s name and I look in the direction where Charlie pointed. Clarissa Blake stands tall and elegant in midnight blue, chatting animatedly with a small group. And beside her, is Tabby.
She’s wearing a dark green velvet dress too, a smaller, simpler version of mine. Her dark hair is brushed smooth, tied back with a velvet ribbon. But her usual spark is missing. She stares down at her shiny patent leather shoes, looking small and lost.
Clarissa catches my eye. Her expression is complex – sympathy, concern, and something else… She gives me a small, almost imperceptible nod. It feels loaded, but I have no idea what it means. Before I can process it, Tabby looks up. Her gaze sweeps the room, lands on me.
For a split second, her eyes widen. A flicker of something crosses her small face. Then, just as quickly, it’s gone, snuffed out like a candle. Her shoulders slump further. She looks back down at her shoes, scuffing the toe against the polished floor.
