“That is not what I asked,” Claudia says sweetly. “It may be too much for him.”
“Bronski is PR gold. You two having him as found family? That is the kind of narrative people fight to protect. It makes your engagement look like fate. Like healing. Like stability. Sponsors love that. Fans love that. And Kyle and Emma will not want to touch that with a ten-foot pole.”
Claudia exhales slowly. She looks relieved, scared, and hopeful all at once. “This could really work.”
“It will work. I do not deal in hypotheticals.” I state firmly. “And the holiday rollout will seal everything. With Deacons ‘secretive Santa giving’s, the Bears' annual holiday events. Toy drives. Paul, in a Santa hat, holding Savannah. You two giving back. That narrative becomes your armor.”
“I’d hate for it to be twisted as me being an opportunist.” She all but whispers.
Deacon wraps an arm around Claudia. “It protects our family.”
“Exactly,” I say. “You two are the story. You just needed someone to package it.”
Claudia reaches for my hand. “Sofie… thank you.”
I squeeze her hand gently. “We met three months ago, and you became one of my people. KET girls stick together. Also, I love hockey, so this is fun for me.”
Deacon grins at that. “Then let’s do it.”
“Oh, we are doing it,” I say, closing my computer. “I need your calendars, your patience, and at least a promise of excellent Thanksgiving dinner pictures with your families.”
“Of course.” Deacon nods.
“Oh, and one more thing,” I say as I stand to leave. “I want a Christmas Eve wedding.”
“What?” Claudia gasps, but I do not turn and address this.
“We’ll talk at the game.” I open the door. “Love yous.”
The elevator doors close, and I get thirty seconds of silence. Thirty seconds when I do not have a call to answer or a meeting to schedule or reschedule. Tonight, I get to pretend I’m not owned by everything around me; I get to go to a game with my friends and do something ‘normal’. Then tomorrow is ‘No Fucks-given’ and the realization that this is the second year I have called it that. Why? Because, regardless of what I do to try to make the holiday special, my siblings will undoubtedly give no fucks, and I will have given more than they deserve.
Yet still…
The elevator dings, slows to a stop, and the door slides open.
Six foot five. Two hundred forty pounds of bruised, stupidly hot, trouble. Collar length, dark blond, thick waves pushed back like he just ran a hand through them. Blue eyes too bright for the lighting. One hand shoved into his jacket pocket. Lip split. Knuckles bruised. Shirt rumpled. Post bar fight glow like he is fresh out of a cage match. Number 21, right defensive man for the Brooklyn Bears, Aleks Kilovac.
He steps in, lip-twisting in the corner, that cocky kind of smirk that’s hot enough to trigger a migraine.
“Rough night, AK? Get lost?”
Aleks presses the elevator button. “Why? They send you to come look for me?”
“No,” I say flatly as I take him in again against my better judgment. “How did you end up here and not at the Puck Pad where you live?”
His eyes lock on me, and I swear he’s visually undressing me with no shame or effort. Like he knows exactly what he looks like and exactly what women think when they see him.
He smirks again. “Nope.”
“Nope?”
“Nope, I did not go home.”
“Obviously,” I say. “You look like you crawled out of a bar fight and chased a bad decision.”
“Bad decision was the bar fight,” he says, flexing his bruised hand. “Everything after was great.”
I raise a brow. “Do I want to know?”
