Round tables dressed in linen, centerpieces trying too hard, and everyone pretending the food’s worth what the tickets cost.
I end up near the front with Ethan, Emma, a few assistant coaches, and, of course, the university PR team. Which means Sarah.
She’s across from me, one seat over, talking quietly with Ellie as servers set down plates. The lighting’s soft, the jazz slower now, steady as a heartbeat under the hum of conversation. It should be relaxing. It isn’t.
Miller takes the chair beside me, already halfway through his second drink. “You’ve got to admit,” he says, glancing at Sarah, “PR finally earned their keep this year. Nice to see the department handling fires before they start.”
Ellie lifts a brow, smiling over her wine. “You say that like you had any hand in it.”
A few people laugh, the kind of easy sound that loosens the table for a beat.
Sarah also laughs, polite but cool. “Definitely some of us more than others.”
I take a sip of water, letting the sound of her voice do what it always does—hit somewhere I don’t want it to.
Ethan leans in. “You two make it sound like you’re covering a crime scene.”
Ellie smirks. “Close enough.”
The table chuckles, tension slipping for half a second.
Then he opens his mouth and lets it spew.
His smirk is lazy, and his voice carries just enough to make sure people hear. “You know, some of us didn’t have to stay up all night fixing the department’s mistakes. Guess it pays to be in PR. Or to know the right people.”
Ellie’s brow arches, unimpressed. “Funny, I don’t remember you doing much besides taking credit for other people’s work.”
Miller’s grin sharpens. “Depends who you ask.”
The table quiets just enough for the tension to stick.
He leans back in his chair, fork spinning lazily between his fingers. “Gotta hand it to PR,” he says. “They’ll make anyone look good if the lighting’s right.”
A few soft laughs ripple around the table—half amusement, half discomfort. Miller’s smirk hardens.
Sarah doesn’t flinch. She sets her fork down neatly beside her plate and gives a polite smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Well,” she says evenly, “good lighting’s part of the job. Some of us just make it look easier than others.”
Miller shoots Sarah a glare but doesn’t say anything else.
Ellie shifts in her chair, cutting through the tension with expert timing. “So, did anyone see the silent auction lineup? Napa trip. We should all bid and pretend we can afford it.”
The laughter that follows is thin but grateful.
Sarah lifts her glass, fingers steady, eyes fixed on the centerpiece. She doesn’t look at me. Not once.
Ethan’s talking again, something about travel schedules and training camps, but it barely registers. My chest feels tight, like someone twisted a screw too far.
I tell myself it’s fine. That I deserve the silence. That this is what happens when you break something you can’t rebuild.
The music swells again, polite applause breaking somewhere near the stage. I smile when I’m supposed to. I even manage to laugh once. But every sound in this room feels like static, and every glance feels like a reminder.
By the time dessert hits the table, I’ve lost track of half the conversation. The only thing I’m aware of is her—the way she keeps her focus on everyone but me.
And somehow, that hurts worse than if she’d been staring at me all night.
When the speeches start up again, I stand, muttering something about needing air. No one stops me.
Outside, the rain’s finally stopped, leaving the walkway slick and glinting under the security lights. The night air’s cool against my neck, quiet except for the faint hum of jazz still bleeding through the glass doors. I take a long breath, trying to reset, to shake off the weight of everything unsaid.
