She laughs — a short, breathless sound that’s not really a laugh at all. “Don’t joke.”
I don’t. I can’t. Because the reality hits fast and hard: more nights under the same roof, more mornings in this too-small kitchen, more fights that end with her breath on my skin.
Her phone buzzes again, but she doesn’t check it.
The silence returns — heavier this time. Her hand trembles slightly as she sets the phone down. Mine tightens around the towel at my waist.
She exhales slowly. “So… we’re stuck with each other.”
“Yeah.” I force a smile that doesn’t stick. “Guess so.”
But what I really mean — what I don’t dare say — iswe were already stuck the second you kissed me back.
Chapter 9
Speculation
Sage
The humof the dinner rush swells around me — clinking glasses, sizzling pans, the low thrum of conversation under dim lighting. Friday nights at Élan are a symphony of chaos, but tonight, something feels off-key.
Even though I should be behind the line with a chef’s coat knotted tight and a station to command, staffing shortages mean I bounce wherever I’m needed — plating, expo, even running orders into the dining room when the servers get slammed.
I spend half my shift navigating between kitchens heat and candlelit tables, tray balanced on my palm, smiling like I belong to the front of house as much as the back.
It starts with the whispers.
I catch them as I pass the hostess stand — two servers leaning in, voices hushed but animated. My name flickers in the air, quickly swallowed when they notice me watching. Then laughter, too quick, too forced.
I pretend I didn’t hear.
“Order up, Sage!” Marco calls from the pass window, his spatula clanging as he points toward the plates.
I slide into autopilot, collecting them, checking the garnish, forcing a practiced smile. It’s muscle memory — kitchen instincts colliding with customer-service polish as I step through the swinging doors and back onto the floor.
But every time I move through the dining room, I feel eyes on me that don’t belong to my tables.
It takes me a second to figure out why.
The bar TV — mounted over the shelves of liquor bottles — flashes a familiar face. Leo’s. The sports segment is muted, but the caption scrolls along the bottom:“Surge Captain Leo Voss Displaced After Flood: Will Off-Ice Disruption Impact His Season?”
My stomach drops.
Of course.
Even from across the room, the looped footage feels invasive — him at practice, skating drills, answering reporters. The clip ends with arena B-roll and dramatic music — sensationalist fluff, the kind networks love.
A few customers at the bar are already talking. One man elbows his friend, murmuring with a grin, “Man, can you imagine? That guy probably lives like a king. Bet his ‘flooded penthouse’ is still bigger than my entire house.”
Another chuckles, lifting his beer. “He’ll be fine. It’s Voss. Probably holed up in some luxury hotel.”
The words hit harder than they should. I keep my head down, pretending to polish a nonexistent smudge off my tray.
Maya slides up beside me with a tray of cocktails, eyes glittering. She bumps my shoulder playfully. “Hey, Sage. Guess you’re attracting a different kind of clientele now. Think any of these guys are single NHL players looking for a home-cooked meal?”
I snort, trying for casual. “Yeah, I’ll just add ‘sports agent’ to my résumé.”
Maya grins and winks. “Come on, don’t tell me you wouldn’t. Athletes are walking bank accounts, babe. Snag one while you can.”
