“Jax.”
“Give me a second.”
“We’re going to be late.”
“We’re not going to be late.”
“You’re still staring.”
“I’m aware.”
She tilts her head. “You want to try being subtle, or is that not in the budget tonight?”
“I’m being extremely respectful.”
“You look one sentence away from a human resources complaint.”
“I look like a man with eyes.”
She huffs a quiet laugh.
I offer my arm.
She takes it.
I walk her to the car and spend the whole elevator ride thinking about cold showers, game tape, and literally anything else.
None of it works even slightly.
The gala is exactly what I knew it would be.
Canyon Bay money, Canyon Bay names—the kind of room where everybody’s performing and pretending they’re not. I’ve been doing this for years. I hate it every single time.
“You good?” she asks quietly as we walk in.
“Fantastic.”
“That was unconvincing.”
“I’m fine.”
“You look like you want to fight the canapé tray.”
“The canapé tray should be nervous.”
That gets a real laugh out of her. It lands somewhere square in my chest and stays there being inconvenient.
She moves off to work the room and I let her go because I’ve got people to talk to and things to say and a version of myself to put on for the next few hours.
I get to work. She finds her version in about four minutes.
I’m halfway through a conversation with a sponsor when I catch sight of her across the room. She’s with the retired defenseman—the one who’s been giving everybody else three minutes and a handshake all night.
He’s laughing.
Actually laughing.
She does something with her hands. Says something I can’t hear.
