Chaos ensues all around me.
A firm hand lands on my shoulder. I turn to face Zed. He’s massive, in his usual black, but his pale green-blue eyes crinkle and his mouth tilts.
Zed is smiling.
It’s not big, but it’s a smile. It takes a second and a few blinks to recognize my old friend — the curve of his mouth, the smile lines, the faint glint in his eyes. Little Z is still in there.
“Congratulations, D,” he says, clapping my shoulder once.
“Thank you.”
He nods and wipes the faint smile off his face. Even five seconds of that is enough. I’ll fucking take it.
The boardroom door opens behind me. Alton steps out, trying to sidestep the bouncing chaos.
“Dominic,” Alton says, shaking my hand again, amused. “Congratulations once more.”
“Thank you.”
Then he turns to Zed. “And thank you, Mercer, for your generous investment. Your support will make atremendous difference in the long-term viability of the program.”
Wait. What?
Zed bows his head slightly as Alton and Delgado walk off with the others.
I blink and look at Zed, who reads my expression instantly.
“I read the proposal,” he says.
“You funded it?” I ask.
“Part of it,” he replies. “Didn’t want to say anything until it was real.” He glances at the guys around us. “Kids should have more places to go than we did.”
The hallway noise fades, even though I can still hear the boys behind me.
“Why?” I ask, shaking my head.
“Because I believe in it,” he answers simply. “Ever since I read the proposal, I’ve been thinking about it. You put your money into it as well. So I figured… maybe I should too.”
Zed and I both have more money than we need. We don’t play hockey because we need the money; we play because we love it and because we both havesomething we’re running from. I know Jace invested, but Zed backing me up like that? It means something.
I step closer, hand resting on his shoulder. I feel the strength there, but also the weight he carries. I know what I found online. I know what happened. I know he’s been carrying it on those shoulders ever since.
I look at him, realizing how much I miss the kid I used to know.
“Z,” I say, voice low. “I’m really sorry.”
His brows dip as he registering my words. He inhales sharply. My fingers tighten where they rest on his shoulder. He looks at me for a long moment, then gives the smallest nod.
Jessica’s atelier is tucked away where you wouldn’t find it unless you were looking — a quiet street near the water, the breeze louder than the traffic.
I’m standing out front, holding a bottle of Dom Pérignon in one hand and two flutes in the other. The blinds are pulled back and I can see inside.
She’s in the zone: high ponytail bouncing, one hand on her hip, the other wielding a pencil that dances furiously across a massive pinned sketch. Her mouth moves like she’s arguing with whatever dress is in front of her, a measuring tape draped around her neck like a scarf.
She looks radiant.
Goddamn. She made it happen. The Youth Academy was my idea, my fight, my pitch, my push, but she’s the reason it landed.
