She’s in a simple dark blue dress that hits her knees, nothing like the sequined, screaming gowns around her. Her hair is pinned up in a way that looks like she did it herself in a hurry, wisps escaping already.
She’s… wrong for this place. Too unvarnished. Too honest.
And I know, just by the set of her shoulders, how much she hates it. The noise, the crowd, the trapped feeling of a room with too many people and not enough air.
Why is she here?
Coach Addison leans down to say something to her, rubbing a hand over his face like he’s exhausted. He looks as trapped as she does. And then it clicks. He needed a buffer too. He brought her as a shield against the donors, the same way I use silence.
She came to save him. She’s standing in the middle of her nightmare just to support her dad.
Addison’s hand rests lightly on her shoulder in a way that’s protective, not possessive. She gives him a small smile, soft at the edges, and nods. It hits me harder than any puck ever has.
Colorful glass, polished stone, donors, money, noise—all of it goes a shade dimmer. My chest tightens.
Last night she was in my hoodie, thighs bracketing my hips, mouth swollen from kissing me. Tonight she’s in a dress and flats, standing beside her father in a room where I’m pretending to be someone else.
Her gaze sweeps the crowd. She’s ticking off exits, threats, patterns—I know that look now.
Then her eyes catch mine.
There’s a moment where everything just… stops.
Her face doesn’t change much. Her eyes widen the smallest bit, pupils darkening. Her lips part. That’s it. That’s all.
But inside, something tips.
She’s seeing me like this for the first time. Not the guy in the rink or the truck or the players’ box. The one in the suit with a diamond-wrapped woman on his arm.
Beside me, Beatrice tracks my line of sight. Of course she does.
“Oh,” she says, her voice dipping into something sharp. “Her.”
My jaw locks. “Drop it.”
“The coach’s daughter,” she goes on, ignoring me. There’s amusement in her voice now. Cruel. “Your father mentioned her. Said Addison dragged her along for sympathy points.”
Rage spikes, sharp and clean. “She’s not a prop.”
“Of course she is. Everyone here is.” Beatrice swirls the champagne in her glass, watching the bubbles dance. “Your father said she’s… a complication. That you’re easily distracted. And that it would be a shame if Coach Addison couldn’t focus on the program while he’s negotiating his contract.”
The implication lands like a body check.
Talia. Me. My father. Addison. Jobs. Contracts. Leverage.
“Don’t,” I say quietly. The word is almost a growl. “Don’t talk about her like she’s a bargaining chip.”
She smiles, all teeth. “Everything in this room is a bargaining chip, darling. That’s what money is for.” She glances at Talia again, her expression dismissive. “Just don’t let the hired help’s baggage cost your father a contract. We have a timeline, Declan.”
The word hits harder than I expect.
Baggage.
I want to tell her that Talia is more rooted than anyone here. That she’s the only one who doesn’t float from conversation to conversation trading favors. That she’s the only person I’ve seen in months who doesn’t want anything from me but quiet.
The photographer appears again, hovering. “Can I grab one more of the happy couple?” he asks, his voice booming over the jazz quartet. “The board loves these engagement shots. We want to run the announcement next week.”
Engagement shots.
