Page 50 of Huge Pucking Play

"Careful there, Coach," she murmurs, the sound of her voice making my pulse quicken.

Around them, guests are finishing their desserts and turning expectantly toward the head table where the DJ is setting up a microphone. The wedding coordinator appears at Cyn's elbow.

"We're ready for you whenever you are," she says. "Father of the bride will go first, then you."

Cyn nods and squares her shoulders, taking a final sip of water. As she prepares to stand, she leans slightly toward me, her voice low enough that only I can hear.

"Meet me on the terrace after the speeches? I need some air."

"I'll be there," I promise, equally quiet.

I watch her walk toward the front of the room, the gray silk of her dress catching the light. I find myself nervous for her, despite knowing she is more than capable of handling a wedding speech. Perhaps it’s because this is a side of Cyn I haven't yet witnessed – the loyal friend, the maid of honor, a role separate from either her professional persona or the woman I’ve come to know in private.

The microphone crackles as Sophie's father begins his speech. I settle back in my chair, listening politely while anticipating what might come later on the terrace. But my attention remains fixed on Cyn as she waits for her turn, poised and elegant, occasionally smiling at something in the father's speech while glancing at the notecard in her hand.

After Sophie’s dad’s sweet speech, Cyn approaches the microphone. She adjusts its height with a practiced motion, smiles at the assembled guests, and smoothes her dress with nervous palms. The room settles into attentive silence as she glances at Sophie and Evan, seated at the head table.

"For those who don't know me, I'm Cynthia Lockhart, Sophie's maid of honor and the person responsible for making sure none of the bridesmaids' embarrassing stories about the bride made it into any of the speeches tonight." Her delivery is crisp and clear, earning appreciative chuckles from the gathered guests. "I've known Sophie for four years, since she interviewed me for an article about women working in professional sports."

I watch her, struck by how naturally she commands the room's attention.

"What was supposed to be a thirty-minute interview turned into a three-hour conversation," Cyn continues, her smile warm with genuine affection. "By the end, I knew I'd found not just a great journalist, but a true friend."

"Sophie has many remarkable qualities," she goes on, her voice steady. "Her intelligence, her compassion, her ability to make anyone feel like the most interesting person in the room. But what I admire most about her is her honesty. Sophie never pretends to be anyone but herself, and she never lets the people she cares about get away with being less than their best selves."

Another ripple of agreement passes through the room. At the head table, Sophie beams, reaching over to squeeze Evan's hand. Cyn smiles at the gesture before continuing, though I notice she shifts her weight slightly, one hand briefly pressing against her stomach before returning to her side.

"When Sophie first told me about Evan, I was skeptical," she says, drawing a playful scowl from the groom that makes the audience laugh. "Not because of anything about him specifically, but because Sophie described him, and I quote, as 'grumpy, stubborn, and frustratingly perfect.'"

More laughter, louder this time. Evan shakes his head in mock offense while Sophie nods emphatically.

"I thought, this can't possibly—" Cyn stops abruptly, her face suddenly losing color. She swallows hard, takes a deep breath, and tries again. "I thought this couldn't possibly?—"

She pauses once more, placing a hand on the podium to steady herself. A murmur of concern ripples through the closest tables. I straighten in my chair, recognizing the signs of someone fighting nausea. I’d seen it enough times in the locker room after particularly grueling practices.

"I'm sorry," Cyn says, her voice strained. "Just give me a moment."

Sophie’s concern is evident on her face. Cyn gives her a small wave, as if to say she’s fine, and takes another careful sip of water. The room has grown quiet, guests exchanging uncertain glances.

"As I was saying," Cyn continues with determination, "I was skeptical until I saw them together. Anyone who's spent five minutes with Sophie and Evan can see they're?—"

She stops again, this time pressing her hand more firmly against her midsection. I feel a surge of concern, my body tensing as I consider getting up to help her.

Cyn visibly rallies, drawing a deep breath. "They're perfect for each other because?—"

Whatever she intended to say next is lost as her expression shifts from discomfort to alarm. She lurches away from the microphone, but it’s too late. In a horrible moment that seems to unfold in slow motion, Cyn bends over and vomits spectacularly across the nearest table.

Gasps and exclamations erupt around the room. The contents of Cyn's stomach splatters across their dessert plates.

"Oh my God," she gasps, eyes wide with horror. "I'm so sorry."

Before anyone can respond, she turns and flees, moving with remarkable speed despite her formal dress and heels. Shedisappears through the nearest exit, leaving shocked silence in her wake before the room erupts into concerned murmurs.

Chapter 16

Cyn

Iwake to Oscar's wet nose pressed against my cheek, his warm weight curled against my side. My mouth tastes like something died in it, and my stomach churns with the memory of last night. The wedding. The speech. Garrett's concerned face as I bolted from the dance floor after projectile vomiting.

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