By the time we arrive, the ballroom is already buzzing with music and laughter. Everyone’s dressed up and smiling, and I’m doing what I can to play along.
I’m helping at the donation table when I overhear a conversation that pulls me from my thoughts.
“Did you see Clay’s here?” It’s just loud enough for me to hear. “Do you know if he’s seeing anyone?”
I can’t make out the answer, but it doesn’t matter. The question alone hits harder than it should. I set down the stack of envelopes and exhale a breath, before anyone can read what’s written all over my face.
Across the room, Clay’s deep in conversation with one of the sponsors, his expression unreadable. For a second, I swear he feels me watching him, but then his gaze flicks past mine, and he turns away. I hate how familiar the distance between us feels.
All I can think about is how badly I want to stop pretending.
Evan’s standing near the bar, beer in hand, that easy grin plastered on like always. He catches me looking and lifts his glass in a silent hello. A few people nearby follow his line of sight, turning to see who’s got his attention.Perfect. Just what I need.
My skin prickles. I tell myself it doesn’t matter, that I don’t care, but it still stings. Because no matter how much I try to move on, things like this drag me back into a version of myself I’ve tried to leave behind.
I take a sip of champagne, hoping to distract myself, but it doesn’t help. All I can hear is the whispers that never seem to stop.
“They always said Evan and Tessa were meant to be,” a woman nearby says, her voice cutting through the noise.
“Wouldn’t be surprised if they found their way back,” another adds, like it’s harmless.
My stomach knots. Heat crawls up my neck. I know they don’t mean anything by it, but it still feels like no matter what I do, I’ll always be tied to a version of myself I’ve already outgrown.
I keep my head down, focusing on the auction table, flipping through the bid sheet like I’m too busy to hear what’s being said around me. When my chest tightens to the point it hurts to breathe, I excuse myself and step away before anyone can notice.
By seven, the place is packed. A local band played earlier while people mingled, servers weaving through with trays of hors d’oeuvres and champagne. Now the lights are lower, and guests start drifting toward their tables for dinner. Everything runs smoothly—big names, big money, and plenty of photos to fill tomorrow’s paper.
And then there’s Clay.
He’s standing by the bar, talking with a few of his old teammates. From a distance, he looks happy with his easy smile, shoulders back, and a glass of whiskey in his hand.
But I see what everyone else doesn’t. How his jaw tightens when someone claps him on the back or mentions his NHL career. The flicker in his eyes before he hides it.
Then I hear it. The low voices cut through the hum of conversation around us.
“He never should’ve come back so soon,” one of them says.
“Yeah,” another adds with a snort. “He threw his whole career away by rushing it, only to blow it out worse than it was before. Some guys just don’t learn until it costs them everything.”
The distant look in Clay’s eyes tells me he hears them. He’s playing it off like he’s listening to whatever is being said around him, but I know he does.
“Could’ve been great,” a third voice mutters. “Instead, he ruined it all by trying to play hero.”
Clay doesn’t react. Doesn’t give them the satisfaction. He just lifts his glass and takes a slow sip, nodding along to something one of his teammates says. But I see the tightness in his shoulders, the white-knuckled grip around the glass, and the quiet effort it takes to hold it together.
I want to cut across the room. Tell those guys exactly what I think of them and remind them they don’t know a damn thing about Clay or what it takes for him to show up to places like this, having his past thrown in his face.
But before I can move, Evan appears beside me.
“Looks like it’s going well,” he says, nodding toward the crowd. “I’d say all the hard work our moms put into this was a success.”
He stands beside me, his arm hooked over the back of my chair like he’s marking territory. I force a smile, acting like I don’t notice, even though I can feel Clay’s eyes on me from across the room.
“Yeah,” I say, turning my focus back on the bid sheets. “They always do.”
Evan leans in, glancing at the display of baskets and framed certificates. “You’ve been stuck here all night?”
“Yeah, I promised my mom I’d take care of the auction stuff for her tonight. Trying to keep it all organized,” I reply, pasting on a practice smile.
