Page 21 of Win Big

And I breathe. In . . . out . . . in . . . out.

It’s going to be fine. Details don’t matter. If there’s a flower arrangement missing from a table, nobody will care. If things don’t go perfectly, it’s not the end of the world. The only one who expects perfection is me.

It’ll be fine.

I think about Wyatt. I think about the feel of his mouth on mine, the taste of him. I think about his hands on my body. I remember how he feels under my hands, smooth skin over firm muscle, the big, hard bones of his shoulders, the insistent bulge at his groin that made my inner muscles squeeze and ache. The way I rubbed against him where I needed to be touched and it felt so good.

I’m still thinkingabout Wyatt the next night, but now it’s because he’s not here, dammit.

I’m in the Santa Monica Coliseum, in the thick of the Birds’ Banquet. All kinds of celebrities are here—pop singer Jordyn Banks, although her husband, Chase Hartman, who plays for the Chicago Aces, isn’t with her; several Hollywood actors; the Lakers even have a whole table. My parents are here, schmoozing with the Gretzkys, and Dan Diaz is here. He’s not really my date, but we’re sitting together for dinner. I had to be here early to oversee the setup and preparations.

I’m okay. I’m okay. Everything is going fine.

You’d think I’d be used to things like this, and I am, but I can’t help the butterflies and sweaty palms and fluttery heartbeats I’ve been enduring since yesterday. I only slept about two hours last night because my mind wouldn’t shut off, still thinking through every detail of the event in case I’d forgotten something. The harder I tried not to think about it, the more I thought about it.

Deep breaths. In . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five. Out . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five.

I do this a few times. Does it help? I’m not sure.

I survey ice level of the arena.

Twenty of the top chefs in Los Angeles are here, donating their time to cook amazing dishes for the guests, and the Condors players are here, dressed in tuxes and white aprons to serve the dinner. Right now, they’re mingling with guests for cocktail hour. Some of them seem to enjoy it, others are more awkward, looking like they’d rather be in goal with no equipment, facing Ovechkin on a breakaway. But at least they’rehere. Unlike Wyatt Bell.

I grit my teeth as I smile at the coach of the team, Dave Martin, and his wife, Mia.

“So nice to see you again,” I say. “How are your kids?” They have two teenage girls, if I remember correctly.

Mia smiles. “Growing up so fast! They’re in high school now. Both have boyfriends.” She grimaces.

I laugh. “That’s fun, though.”

We chat a bit, and then Matt and Honey Heller approach us. I greet them with hugs. “Hi! So great to see you!”

We have all kinds of connections. Matt used to play for the Condors; Honey’s dad, Steve Holbrook, and my dad were both owners of the team for a while, until Dad bought him out; Mom and Dad are friends with Steve and Sela Holbrook; and Honey used to work for the Foundation years ago. She still does some volunteer work for us, to help with fundraising.

“Hi!” Honey greets me with a hug. “You look amazing! I love your dress.”

“Thank you. You too.”

I greet Matt as well. He now owns a high-performance gym that a lot of pro athletes in L.A. go to during the off-season. He’s still very fit, with a boyish smile. “Hi, Everly. Good to see you.”

“How are the boys?” I ask them.

They have three boys, now teenagers, all playing hockey. They’re going to be another dynasty, like my family.

“Busy.” Honey rolls her eyes. “All I do is drive them around. We’ve been talking to the folks at Boston College. Erik’s going there next year.

“Ah.” I nod. “I’m sure he was in high demand by a bunch of colleges.”

Honey’s pride is evident, although her words are modest. “Yes, but we try to keep his feet on the ground. Or the ice. Ha.”

I grin. “Are your parents here?”

“Yes! They’re actually right there with your mom and dad.”

I glance over and Mom beams a smile at me as they move toward us. “You’ve done an amazing job, sweetie,” Mom says to me. “This is beautiful!”

“You’d never know we’re in the arena,” Dad adds, looking around.

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