Page 49 of Huge Pucking Play

I find my table and note the other names – Ryan and Jen Sorensen, Marcus Webb and his date, and two other couples I don’t know.

I settle into my chair and watch as other guests find their tables. The wedding party would be the last to enter, after their additional photos.

The conversation flows easily as the table fills, with everyone except the empty chair beside me.

Finally, the double doors to the reception hall swing open as the DJ announces the wedding party. My attention zeroes in on Cyn the moment she appears, her arm linked with one of Evan's teammates who'd served as a groomsman.

I take a sip of water, suddenly parched. I force myself to look away, to nod at something Webb was saying about the team's defensive strategy, but my eyes keep drifting back to Cyn.

The wedding party disperses to their designated tables after the introductions. Cyn approaches our table with measured steps, her professional smile in place.

"Look who's joining us," Webb calls out. "If it isn't the woman who tortured my hamstring last month."

Cyn laughs, the sound genuine. "That wasn't torture, Webb. That was saving your career." Her eyes flick to me, a brief acknowledgment before she greets everyone else at the table. "I hope you've all saved me some wine."

"Your glass is waiting," I say, gesturing to the empty seat beside me. "Along with approximately five hundred questions about when Sorensen can return to play."

"Shop talk at a wedding? You guys are hopeless." But she smiles as she takes her seat, the silk of her dress whispering against the chair.

"Beautiful ceremony," she says to the table at large, taking a sip of her wine.

"Not too long either," Jen Sorensen replies. "I was at a wedding last month that went on for nearly two hours."

"Sophie was very specific about keeping it under thirty minutes," Cyn said. "She said, and I quote, 'I want to be married and drinking champagne before anyone's butt falls asleep.'"

The table laughs, and conversation flows around them. I settle back in my chair, my leg brushing against Cyn's under the table. She doesn’t pull away.

"Earth to Coach Hughes," Webb's voice breaks through my thoughts. "Where'd you go?"

I blink, realizing I’d missed a question. "Sorry, long week. What were you saying?"

"I asked if you're coming to Carson's poker night next Thursday."

"Wouldn't miss it," I reply automatically, grateful for the years of media training that allowed me to recover smoothly from moments of distraction.

Beside me, Cyn takes a sip of wine, her lips leaving a faint trace of pink on the glass rim. Those lips curve slightly, the barest hint of a smile that tells me she knows exactly where my mind had wandered.

When she laughs at something Jen Sorensen says, the sound travels through me like good whiskey – warm and rich. Her laugh in public is measured, controlled. The uninhibited versionis reserved for private moments, and I can’t wait to hear it very soon.

The caterers begin serving the first course, providing a welcome distraction. I adjust my position, careful to maintain a professionally appropriate distance while we are under observation. Still, beneath the table, I allow my knee to rest lightly against hers – a silent acknowledgment of connection.

The gray silk of her dress shifts as she leans forward to pick up her water glass, revealing the elegant line of her collarbone. I remember tracing that line with my lips, learning the taste of her skin. I force myself to look away, to focus on my plate, to remember where we are.

A wedding. Surrounded by colleagues. Playing the parts of coach and physical therapist, casual acquaintances thrown together by seating arrangements.

I glance up to find her watching me, understanding in her eyes. She knows exactly what I’m thinking. The corner of her mouth quirks up slightly – her real smile, not the polished one she's been wearing all day.

"Later," she murmured, so quietly only I can hear, before turning back to the group conversation.

The promise in that single word is enough to sustain him through the rest of the meal.

As dessert is served – individual lemon tarts with fresh berries – the DJ announces that speeches will begin in five minutes. I watch as Cyn discreetly retrieves a small notecard from her clutch bag and reviews it. Her leg remains pressed against mine, a constant point of connection amid the bustling reception.

"Nervous?" I ask quietly, using the general noise of the room as cover.

"Not really," she replies. "Public speaking doesn't bother me."

"You'll be great." I risk a final touch under the table, my fingers briefly squeezing her knee.

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