We’re standing close. Closer than necessary. The room is filling up with people—family, wedding party—but I barely notice them. My heart is already pounding, and I haven’t even gotten to the scary part yet.
“You look beautiful,” Brody says quietly. His fingertips brush my arm, sliding into my palm.
Something in my chest expands, warm and bright and terrifying.
This is what love feels like.
“Thank you,” I manage. “You look pretty good yourself.”
“Dinner’s starting,” Maya calls from across the room. “Everyone, find your seats!”
Brody offers me his arm. “Shall we?”
I take it. Let him lead me to our assigned seats—next to each other, naturally.
The meal unfolds around us. Speeches from Derek’s dad about love and commitment. Toasts from the best man about hockey metaphors that mostly don’t land. Laughter and clinking glasses and the kind of warm chaos that comes from gathering people who love each other in one room.
And through it all, Brody, his fingers intertwined with mine under the table, holds on like he’s not planning to let go.
Between the main course and dessert, when people are mingling and the formal part is over, he leans close. His breath is warm against my ear.
“Can we talk later? After this?”
“Yes.” My voice comes out breathier than intended. “I need to talk to you too.”
“Good.” He squeezes my hand. “It’s important.”
“Mine too.”
We sit there with the weight of unspoken words between us, both of us knowing that something is about to change. That tonight, after this dinner, we’re going to have the conversation we’ve been avoiding for weeks.
That the contract ends tomorrow, but whatever this is between us—this real, terrifying, beautiful thing—doesn’t have to.
We just have to play it right.
fourteen
brody
In hockey,there’s a moment right before you take a shot when everything slows down. You see the angle. You know what you need to do. And you either take it or you miss your chance.
Walking back from the rehearsal dinner with Chloe’s hand in mine, more stars overhead than I’ve seen in months, I can see my shot. It’s clear as day. The perfect angle. The open net.
Just take the shot, Kane. Just tell her:I’m in love with you. This stopped being fake weeks ago. The contract ends tomorrow, but we don’t have to.Simple. Direct. Honest.
Except my throat feels like I swallowed sandpaper, and my heart is doing things that would concern a cardiologist, and every word I’ve carefully planned disappears the moment I look at her.
“So,” Chloe says, her voice soft in the cold air. “You wanted to talk?”
“Yeah. I did. Do.” Smooth, Kane. Very articulate. “What about you? You said you needed to talk too.”
“I do. I did. I mean—” She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, nervous. “Wow, we’re bad at this.”
“Spectacularly bad.”
She laughs. She’s beautiful in the starlight, her dress dark blue against the snow, her hair catching the light from the lanterns lining the path. She looks confident. Happy. Like the woman who talked about event planning this morning, passionate and sure of herself.
Like someone who deserves better than a guy who’s spent over a month pretending and is only now figuring out it stopped being pretend somewhere along the way.
