Page 70 of Left-Hand Larceny

“You’re also not cleared.”

“I feel f-fine, Sadie.”

“You want to redo your rehab schedule?” I’m acting like a bitch. It’s not his fault, but I can’t seem to pull back on the attitude.

His mouth twitches. “W-would it mean m-more time with you?”

My breath catches.

It’s not a joke. Not really. Not with the way he’s looking into the depths of my soul.

Ask him.My brain screams at me, and I want to. But all I can see is Saturday night. The flash of cameras. My parents’ proud faces. Christian’s smirk.

I clear my throat. “Just keep it under one-hundred-fifty pounds.”

Ragnar watches me for a second longer. Like he sees what I’m not saying.

Then he nods, and the moment passes.

As I turn to leave, he calls out, “B-bring me a t-t-tie option for S-Saturday.”

I don’t look back.

But my hands are shaking as I open the door.

The gala smells like money and cologne and too many kinds of fancy cheese. I step through the entryway, suit jacket smooth beneath my hands, and immediately regret not bringing backup. Not Vic. Not Spags. Not—Sadie.

She’s here, somewhere. She told me her mama was helping with the planning and that she’d see me there. Something about going early to help. I pan my gaze over the ballroom, but I don’t see her.

My tie is hot pink.

Not only pink. Glittery pink. A sort of flamingo-meets-disco hybrid I only bought because I thought it might make her laugh. She never told me what color she was wearing, but something about tonight was distressing her. I didn’t want to press. Besides, I know Sadie. Even if she thinks I don’t, I do. Pink is her favorite color. She thinks dips and sauces are their own food group. She puts the comfort of every other person ahead of her own.

I also know that I was wrong before. She’s not nearly as confident and social as I assumed. Sadie would probably apologize. As if she assumed she’d led me wrong when I first asked for her help, but honestly, it makes her an even better support system. She’s learned how to perform even when it isn’t second nature. It’s precisely what I need to practice.

Even if now I’m walking into a room full of black suits and muted elegance, looking like a Barbie accessory. A very large, very Nordic Barbie accessory. And honestly, I don’t even care. A color is a color. A tie is a tie. I adjust the collar of my shirt, already missing the weight of my pads. At least on the ice, I know what’s expected of me. Out here, the rules are soft and slippery, a kind of social choreography I still haven’t mastered.

The room is full. Staff, players, trainers, donors, partners. Everyone in their gala version of themselves—shinier, louder, more curated. Quinn and Tristan are by the bar in jewel-toned dresses. Maddie’s laughing at a table with a couple who look like they fund entire wings of hospitals. Vic gives me a subtle nod from across the room, already halfway through a conversation with someone in a velvet blazer. Velvet embroidered with jeweled flowers. The blazer alone could probably be a donation.

I nod back. Keep moving.

But there’s no sign of Sadie.

I tell myself she’s probably not here yet. That she’s running late, or doing something for the event, or changing shoes in her car because she picked ones that looked good but felt like death.

Still, I scan the crowd twice.

People keep stopping me.

They smile too wide and say things like, “So glad you’re back!” and, “If preseason means anything, you’re a shoo-in for the Vezina!” One guy pats me on the shoulder like I’m a golden retriever. Another tells me I look great, and then pauses, clearly unsure if that comment crossed a line. I thank him with a smile and excuse myself.

Their mouths are moving, but I’m barely tracking the words. There’s too much of everything. Too many layers of perfume, too many flashbulbs, too many glasses clinking and polite laughter.

My suit suddenly feels a size too small.

I duck out of the conversation with a muttered excuse and find the nearest open door. Push it closed behind me and breathe.

Silence.

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