“Liam, this is Kate Steel. Kate, Liam LeClerc.”
Kate extends her hand with freshly manicured nails. Her handshake is expertly calibrated, firm enough to establish dominance and brief enough to establish disinterest.
“Nice to meet you,” I lie, because that’s what you do at these things.
“You two make quite the pair,” she observes, which could mean anything from “you look good together” to “I’m surprised either of you can maintain a relationship.”
The air between them has the quality of a demilitarized zone: technically peaceful but we all know it’s littered with landmines.
Kate takes a deliberately slow sip of champagne. “It’s been quite the year for you, hasn’t it, Petra?”
“It has,” Petra responds as she takes a sip as well.
Kate’s eyes flick to me like I’m evidence in a case she’s building. “And Liam, what an impressive return to the ice. I saw the headlines. Everyone’s talking about you again.”
“Appreciate that,” I say.
Kate tilts her glass, watching champagne swirl like she’s divining the future from bubbles. “I have to say, I never would’ve pictured you with a ballerina. Or pictured Petra with a hockey player for that matter. Then again, Petra always did have a way of keeping people guessing.”
I feel Petra’s posture shift into what I’ve learned to recognize as pre-combat positioning.
“Well, Liam isn’t exactly predictable either,” Petra counters.
Kate laughs. “Is that right? Funny, because if there’s one thing I know about you, Petra, it’s that you like to be in control.” Another calculated sip. “And yet, some things always seem to slip through the cracks.”
The temperature drops about ten degrees. We’re in full psychological warfare now, and I’m just a civilian caught in the crossfire.
“I don’t let things slip, Kate,” Petra says with the kind of controlled fury that makes me grateful she’s on my side. “That’s more your style.”
Kate’s faux smile doesn’t change, but something behind her eyes sharpens like she’s just scored a point in a game only they understand. She studies Petra.
“Well,” she murmurs, setting down her glass, “I suppose some of us just know how to play the long game.”
Before Petra can respond with what I’m sure would be a devastating retort, Kate’s attention shifts to the entrance with the attentive eye of someone who’s been tracking arrivals.
“My boyfriend should be arriving soon. He was just finishing up photos on the red carpet.” She scans the room then lifts her hand in an airy wave, her voice dripping in satisfaction. “Ah, here he comes now.”
I follow her gaze, and there he is: Gavin Bradford.
Chapter Twenty-One
Gavin strides toward us in a dark blue tux, exuding a confidence that comes from never having been picked last for anything. There’s a post-photoshoot glow to him, a gleam that says, “I’ve just been professionally admired for twenty minutes.”
He greets Kate with the intimacy of someone who’s been coached on public displays of affection, pressing a kiss to her temple that’s executed for maximum visibility and minimum actual emotion.
I feel Petra go still beside me, her fingers tightening on her champagne flute like she’s considering it as a weapon.
Kate turns back to us and smiles. “Petra, I believe you two know each other.”
Petra, maintaining the kind of composure that makes you understand why she can balance on her toes for hours, exhales through her nose. “Gavin. It’s been some time. How’re things?”
His smile emerges slowly, like he’s savoring each moment before it arrives. “Good, Petra.” His eyes then dart back to me, and the smirk deepens. “And Liam, right? Nice to meet you. Great game the other night.”
“Thanks,” I say. “Nice meeting you, too.”
There’s a silence as Gavin slides his arm more firmly around Kate’s waist. “So, how’s everyone enjoying the evening?”
Kate’s smile is all teeth, like a shark that’s learned to wear lipstick. Petra’s is a masterpiece of controlled grace. I’m pretty sure mine looks like I’m passing a kidney stone.
