My stomach does something involuntary as he clocks the room in one sweep, and his blue eyes flare a little when they land on me. His gaze stills and holds mine, followed by a slow perusal to my heels and back again.
I swallow my nerves and make my way through the crowd, catching him before someone else does.
“Hey.”
His eyes drop to my dress, then snap back up again.
“You… you’re in a dress,” he mutters.
The corner of my mouth quirks. “That your version of a compliment, Hutchison?”
“That’s me trying not to stare.” My pulse skips, and he clears his throat, stepping in close enough that I can hear him without shouting. “You good?”
Absolutely the fuck not.
“Yes,” I say, then swallow. “I think so.”
He nods once. “Anything you need?”
Maybe for you to stay here beside me, just a little while. Or tequila. Or a mild sedative.
I shake my head.
“I didn’t expect—” I gesture at the sea of athletes. “All of this.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “Figured it couldn’t hurt.”
It’s so understated it almost makes me laugh. He doesn’t linger or hover by me for too long, which I appreciate because there’s a distinct chance I’d become a blithering idiot under his gaze.
He checks in with Levi, talking animatedly about blocker saves, and then trades a few words with Moreno. Claps Jake on the shoulder. Murmurs something to Chase that has him barking out a laugh.
I internally cringe when I realize I’ve been watching him, and now he’s circling back to me, holding two flutes of champagne.
“You eaten?” he asks.
I hesitate, and he waits.
“Not really.”
He hands me one. “Pace yourself, Havoc.”
I take it, our fingers brushing for half a second longer than necessary. “You’re bossy.”
“Observant,” he counters.
I watch him step away again, seamlessly slipping back into the room, somehow everywhere without ever making it about himself.
And the lie I’ve been telling myself cracks just a little more.
Because this isn’t boredom, this isn’t him doing something to fill in the rehab time while he’s off the ice.
This is intentional.
A few other surgeons mill nearby, including Levi’s oncologist, Dr. Branson. Brilliant and kind and absolutely terrible at smalltalk. She waves at me with the hand that isn’t clutching a wine glass and immediately turns back to her clipboard.
“Don’t tell me you’re still stressed,” Heidi says from behind me.
“I’m not,” I lie.
