It felt like the right ending to a day that had started uncertain and found its footing somewhere between banners and borrowed heroes. Our eyes met, and he stepped a little closer, never letting go of my hand.
Then we weren’t alone anymore.
“You’re up, Landon,” Holly said, sticking her head through the balcony door.
“Up?”
But he didn’t explain, simply led me back inside. The room settled the way it does when something important is about to happen.
Silverware quieted. Chairs shifted once, then stopped. The low wash of conversation thinned until it left a clean pocket of space around the stage. I stood near one of the cocktail tables, fingers wrapped around a stemless glass I’d barely touched, when Coach McAvoy stepped up to the microphone.
He waited until the room bent to him instead of the other way around.
“Alright,” he said, voice carrying without effort. “If you’ve been anywhere near this organization in the last year, you know we’ve got a rookie who’s been making things interesting.”
Laughter rolled through the crowd, easy and indulgent.
“He’s got a bright future,” McAvoy continued. “A strong arm. Fast feet. And an ego so big we had to move this party to a bigger venue after he RSVP’d.”
The laugh this time came louder, warmer, the kind that lands without cruelty. I felt my mouth curve before I could stop it, eyes already finding Landon where he stood off to the side of the stage. He shook his head, lips pressed together, hands shoved into his pockets like a kid trying not to grin in class.
McAvoy lifted a hand. “In his defense, he can back it up with real talent.”
Applause followed, generous and genuine. Landon took a breath, then stepped forward as McAvoy clapped him on the shoulder and yielded the mic.
The lights caught him differently up there and the noise faded again, replaced by expectation that hummed under my skin. Landon scanned the room once, then his gaze found mine. It landed and stayed.
The rush hit hard, sudden and unwelcome, like my body had skipped ahead without checking in with my better judgment. I tightened my grip on the glass, grounding myself in the cool edge pressing into my palm.
He didn’t smile when he spoke, moving to address the room.
“Most of you know,” he said, voice steady, “that one of our guys isn’t here tonight.”
The space shifted. A ripple of understanding moved through the crowd.
“Shawn should be standing right there,” Landon continued, nodding toward the empty space beside the stage. “He should be complaining about the food and pretending he doesn’t like all the attention.”
A few people chuckled, but it held a softer, more melancholy edge this time.
“He can’t,” Landon said. “Because he got hurt. And I need to talk about that.”
My chest warmed, then tightened with something like dread as his words settled. This wasn’t filler. This wasn’t a safe speech.
“Hockey comes with knocks,” he said. “That’s part of it. You accept that risk every time you step on the ice. But it’s never supposed to be your own guy taking you out.”
The room went still.
“That one’s on me,” Landon said. No qualifier. No deflection. “I played that game like it was about proving something instead of protecting the people wearing the same jersey as me.”
I felt my throat close as the image rose unbidden. Red against white ice. His face when it happened. I hadn’t flown out to watch the game because of a date with James, and had to sneak glimpses of it on my phone during dinner. I still felt a little guilty for not being there.
“I used to think Coach rode me because he liked hearing himself yell,” Landon said, glancing briefly toward McAvoy, who crossed his arms and didn’t interrupt. “Turns out he was trying to teach me how to last in the long game.”
A few nods spread through the room.
“I get it now,” Landon said. “This game isn’t about being the loudest name on the board. It’s about being someone your team can trust when it matters. I’m still learning that. I’ll probably be learning it for a while.”
He paused, fingers tightening around the mic.
