The pool area is pure golden hour pornography—sunset painting everything amber and rose, palm trees swaying like they're auditioning for a Corona commercial, beautiful people scattered around in expensive swimwear pretending they're not performing for each other.
I spot Blake immediately near the infinity edge, surrounded by groomsmen and bridesmaids who laugh at his jokes like he's actually funny instead of just rich. Natalie sits some distance away with her mom and sister.
And there, half-hidden behind a potted palm like a spy in a bad movie, is Jane.
She's changed into a sundress that bares her shoulders, hair loose around her face.
She's zoned in with the focused intensity of a sniper lining up a shot.
I move before I consciously decide to.
This woman is going to get herself killed.
She doesn't see me coming. Too focused on her target. Too convinced she's being subtle.
I bypass the pool entirely and position myself between herand Blake, using the crowd as cover.
She shifts left.
I shift to left.
She shifts right, trying to find a clear approach path.
I shift right, maintaining my blocking position.
She cranes her neck. I stretch an arm up as if adjusting my collar, blocking her view.
She huffs, loud enough I hear it over the jazz playlist.
It's almost funny, this dance we're doing. Like some ridiculous hockey drill where I'm the defenseman and she's the winger who can't figure out why she keeps running into the same wall.
I glance over, she's glaring at me. I study the architectural details of the pavilion roof with intense interest.
This is ridiculous. I'm a Stanley Cup champion playing goalie against a woman who looks like she'd trip over a welcome mat.
Finally, she gives up on subtlety and just starts walking.
Straight toward Blake. Straight through a gauntlet of resort staff carrying trays of champagne.
I see the disaster before it happens.
She's watching Blake instead of her feet. The staff member with the tray is watching the pool instead of the path. The trajectory is inevitable.
Jane's sandal catches the edge of a decorative tile.
She stumbles.
The tray of champagne glasses tilts.
I move.
Twenty years of hockey training means my body reacts before my brain finishes processing the situation. I close the distance in three strides, catch her around the waist with one arm, and use my other hand to steady the tray before the whole thing crashes to the ground.
The staff member exhales in relief.
Jane crashes into my chest instead of the marble tile.
Her hands fist in my shirt. Her weight presses against me—soft curves, warm skin through thin fabric, the scent of her shampoo mixing with sunscreen and something floral.
