I don't mention the thirty seconds I spent on the ice wondering if my shoulder was still attached to my body. Or the way my vision went fuzzy and I thought, for just a moment, maybe this is it.
Sigh.
Too old for the Olympics.
Still young enough to sell NHL jerseys.
Same body. Different spreadsheet.
The finance bros eat it up. They laugh and pound my back and buy another round, and I smile because this is what's expected. This is what I've always done. Be the steady one.The reliable one. The one who shows up and plays the part without complaint.
My phone buzzes again.
Aunt Milly:The wedding is next Saturday. Don't you dare back out. Penelope is lovely.
Right. Because at thirty-four, my primary value to my family is as a networking opportunity and genetic breeding.
I look up to respond to something one of the finance bros is saying—something about market volatility and hedge funds—but Blake's gone again.
Disappeared between one sentence and the next.
I scan the room. The blonde's moved on to someone younger, someone with better prospects. The finance bros are deep in their crypto argument, gesturing with their drinks like they're closing deals instead of repeating talking points from podcasts.
And I'm alone in a crowd of people who want something from me but don't actually see me.
Three years.
It's been three years since Caroline and the fake pregnancy test and the systematic destruction of my ability to trust anyone who looks at me like I'm a prize to be won instead of a person to be known.
Three years of keeping my head down. Staying disciplined. Saying no to parties and events and women who ask leading questions about my plans for the future.
Three years of believing that if I just stayed focused, if I just kept my nose clean and played my heart out, the Olympics would be waiting at the end of it.
For all the damn good it did me.
The bass from the main floor rattles the glass in my hand. Someone laughs too loud. Life keeps moving forward while I'm stuck in 2014, one game away from a medal I'll never get another chance to win.
I need air.
Or at least a break from the relentless performance of wealth and ambition that defines every surface of this place.
I head toward the back of the club, past the main bar where twenty-somethings are spending their trust funds on bottles they'll photograph and forget, past the dance floor where everyone is beautiful and ephemeral and none of it matters past last call.
There's a private alcove near the restrooms. Blake reserved it earlier—something about needing a quiet space to make calls about last-minute wedding details. Logistics. Seating charts. The kind of details that apparently require privacy and expensive scotch.
The door's ajar.
I hear it before I see it.
A woman's sound. Breathy. Wanting. The kind of sound that bypasses thought and goes straight to instinct.
And Blake's voice, low and rough: "That's it. Right there."
I should walk away.
Should turn around, head back to the main room, pretend I never heard anything. That's what the old West would do—the one who believed loyalty meant protecting your friends from their own mistakes, even when those mistakes were about to destroy innocent people.
But I don't move.
