I clocked every reporter, the ones furiously scribbling or typing, and the ones live streaming from their phones. I noted their expressions, which varied from shocked and disappointed to absolutely riveted.
And then my eyes found Ari.
She was standing off to the side, her back against the wall like she wished she could disappear into it. She was dressed modestly in a navy-blue pencil skirt and white blouse, the cuffs and lapel of which were lace. Her hair was fastened into a secure bun at the nape of her neck, her makeup light and flawless.
She looked sad.
I couldn’t place why I felt that way. She was smiling, her hands folded demurely in front of her hips, her eyes sparkling as she watched her husband like he had hung the moon. One of our PR interns stood next to her, and when she leaned in to whisper something, it made Ariana laugh.
But there was something under the surface, something she was hiding.
As if she felt my gaze burning a hole into the side of her head, her smile faltered. She blinked, frowning, and then her eyes snapped to mine.
My next breath burned a little as I tried to smile at her, the corner of my lips ticking up before falling again. I wondered if it would ever pass, the strange sensation of both pain and longing that seared me when she looked at me. Decades had passed between us, and yet I could blink and still see her at twenty-years-old, wearing my hoodie, a pen chewed to bits between her teeth as she pinched her brows in concentration over a sociology book.
I thought she’d tear her gaze away, but perhaps Ariana was taking this stolen moment we had to let herself linger. Everyinteraction we’d had until now had been rushed, but in this moment, neither of us had anywhere else to be — and no one was paying attention to us.
Her lips quirked up, just marginally, and the prettiest flush crept across her cheeks.
The sight was enough to make me pant. I wanted so badly to get her alone, to ask her the millions of questions that had been plaguing me since her arrival.
But as quickly as that small smile had come, it was wiped away, her gaze turning cold. And I knew it without needing confirmation.
She’d just remembered that I’d left her when she needed me most.
I felt the ice she shot my way with that glare, the accusation, the hurt. I had only done what I thought was right, what I felt would be best for both of us — most of all her.
But now that I was older, I looked back at that young decision I’d made, and I didn’t see a hero. I didn’t see a man acting out of love.
I just saw a selfish, scared little boy.
And I hated him just as much as she did.
“Listen, I know it can be hard having a fresh face and new blood making decisions,” Nathan said beside me. My focus was still on Ariana, who was watching me in return, though with more wariness now than anything. “We’re making a few changes here at the Ospreys this season, yes. New faces, fresh energy — but we’re also keeping the same values this organization, and this city, have always been built on. In fact, I’m proud to announce that my wife, Ariana Black, will be heading our Sweet Dreams Initiative this year.”
Ariana jumped as though she’d been caught stealing a signed jersey from our trophy case when the attention of the roomswung to her. She recovered quickly, her smile wide and lovely as she held up a hand in a polite wave to those looking at her.
But again, I swore I saw it — a slip in the performance, the mask faltering just long enough to glimpse the woman beneath it.
“It’s a program near to our hearts, focused on rest and mental health for our city’s youth. Thanks to a generous donation from one of our longtime partners, we’ll have an expanded budget to reach even more families in need.”
Cameras flashed again, a murmur breaking out among the crowd. Someone murmured, “Wow, that’s great,” as Nathan nodded with a beaming smile.
I looked to Ariana once more, and wondered why the joy looked performative to me. If anything I used to know about her remained true, this would be a dream for her. She loved to work in the community. It was all she’d ever wanted.
That only sent more questions swirling through my head. Had she ever finished her degree? Did she go into social work like she’d planned? Was that what she did now — or was this it? The fact that Nathan had her positioned front and center on this project made something uneasy twist in my gut. Did she have a job at all, or was she just another extension of him?
“We’re not just building a winning team,” Nathan added, his voice booming. “We’re building a legacy — on and off the ice.”
I felt my jaw lock as he continued, heat rushing sharp and fast through my blood. It took real effort not to react — not to shift, not to say something reckless, not to knock that polished grin straight off his face. I curled my fingers into my palm, nails biting into skin, grounding myself in the sting of it.
Then his hand came down on my shoulder, firm and proprietary, and I had to fight the sudden, vivid urge to shrug him off — or worse, to see how easily his fingers would break.
He squeezed, all smiles for the cameras, like we were allies instead of adversaries. “Me and this guy,” he said, flashing the room that same confident grin, “we’re going to bring the Cup home to Tampa this year.”
I forced the best smile I could muster as the room erupted with more questions, but our PR team called the end of the conference, instructing the press where they could go for further information.
I stood instantly, fastening the button on my suit jacket before shaking hands with Nathan and posing for a few photos. Then, we were ushered out the back to the next room over, where staff waited to debrief.
