I should argue. Or deflect. Or tell him how the clicker lagged during my pie chart transition, and it still bothers me. But then his hand slides to the back of my neck and pulls me in, and my brain goes the way of his teammates’—soft, stunned, and grateful to be protected.
“I don’t know how to be the center of attention,” I murmur into his chest.
“You weren’t the center of attention,” he says. “You were the axis.”
My chest warms, a little stunned flutter. Axis. Not accessory. Not a background character. I’m starting to believe him—and that terrifies me in the best possible way.
God, he’s going to kill me. “I wish I had worn your hoodie over my outfit.”
“You wanted to wear my hoodie during your keynote?” he asks, voice lower now.
I glance down and realize how ridiculous that would have looked. “It’s the only thing that keeps me from getting chilled when I’m anxious. Or from disassociating completely. It smells like you.”
His eyes warm. “So I’m your emotional support hoodie?”
“Yes,” I say without hesitation.
He grins. “I accept.”
Someone clears their throat behind us. It’s the conference organizer, a woman with steel-gray hair and a clipboard that looks like it could kill a man if thrown hard enough.
“Miss Marino?” she says. “There’s a sponsor rep from the WHL who’d like to speak with you privately. They’re interested in adding your device to the women’s program.”
My heart weighs two tons. “Oh. Wow. Um—okay. Yes. I’d love that.”
Tristan squeezes my hand before I go. “Go get ‘em, future Mrs. Dubois.”
He’s teasing, but also… not.
Because even in this jumpsuit, with my half-pulled ponytail and the mascara that’s probably flaking under my eyes, he sees me. And not just the hockey data analyst version. Not the weird ferret mom or the science gremlin or the girl who doesn’t quite know how to smile in photos.
He sees all of me.
And somehow, that doesn’t make me want to run away.
It makes me want to runtoward.
I expect the WHL rep to be polished, firm, and a little intimidating. I donotexpect them to be a five-foot-two whirlwind in red glasses and sparkly boots who greets me with, “You’re the concussion girl! I’ve been dying to meet you!”
I blink. “That’s… technically accurate.”
She thrusts a business card into my hand. “Juliette Valdez. Player safety coordinator. We’ve been watching the NHL trials of your system for months. What you’re doing? It’s the future.”
The truth slams into me. “Thank you. That means a lot.”
Juliette leans in closer. “I already talked to our medical board. We’re allocating budget for a full testing cycle next season. I just need a few samples for our review team, and then we’re off to the races.”
I scramble to remember my talking points. “The headband model is the most discreet, but we’ve found that the helmet sensors perform better in terms of real-time alerts. I also have a new calibration algorithm I’m testing for female-bodied athletes, because there’s a gender bias in the existing concussion scoring system.”
Juliette snaps her fingers. “Exactly! That’s the kind of forward thinking we need. You mind if I follow up with your team?”
“My team?” I parrot, mildly panicked.
She laughs. “Oh, honey, you don’t have a team, do you?”
“Kepler does emotional support,” I offer weakly.
“Then we’ll get you one.” She grins. “Seriously, Minerva. You’ve got something special. Don’t let the boys’ club scare you off.”
