Gordie follows me, sniffing around corners, clearly searching for her scent. He looks up at me with confused eyes when he can't find her.
"I know, buddy," I tell him, scratching his ears. "I miss her too."
In the kitchen this morning, I found a note propped against the coffee maker. A plastic baggy of marijuana—our stolen booty from Brad's apartment—sits beside it. I pick up the note, recognizing Lena's neat handwriting:
Don't forget to floss. - L
That's it. Just four words and an initial. As if this summer meant nothing more to her than a dental cleaning. Staring at itnow, I crumple the note in my fist, and unexpected anger rising in my chest.
Then, I smooth it out again and read the words once more. Is there something more here? Some hidden message I'm missing? Or is she really that detached, that clinical about what happened between us?
I shove the note in my pocket and grab my phone, my thumb hovering over her name in my contacts. What would I even say? "Come back"? "I miss you already"? "I think I might be falling for you"?
The last thought sends a jolt of panic through me. I'm not falling for Lena. I can't be. It's too soon after Adam. Too complicated with our professional relationship. What we had was physical, convenient, and mutual comfort during a difficult time. Nothing more.
I set the phone down without calling. It's better this way—cleaner. We had our summer fling, brief as it was, and now we move on. We focus on our careers. We are adults about the whole thing.
Gordie whines at the back door, and I let him out into the yard, watching as he half-heartedly sniffs around the grass. Even my dog is moping.
"Get it together, Stag," I mutter to myself. I have a charity gala to attend tonight, and I need to be professional, polished, and completely unaffected by the sight of Lena across a crowded room.
I can do this. I have to.
CHAPTER 28
ALDER
The Blackand Gold Charity Gala takes place at the Carnegie Museum of Art, where the grand hall is transformed with elegant lighting, ice sculptures, and enough flowers to fill a greenhouse. I adjust my bow tie for the third time as I enter, scanning the room automatically for familiar faces.
The event is a who's who of Pittsburgh sports—players from the Fury, the Black Sox, and the Forge, all in their formal best, mingling with donors, sponsors, and local celebrities. In years past, I've enjoyed these events, relishing the chance to dress up and socialize outside the locker room.
Tonight, I feel as if I'm wearing someone else's skin.
"A-Stag!" Banksy approaches, champagne in one hand, the other draped around his boyfriend. "Looking sharp, man."
"Thanks," I manage, accepting the glass he offers. "You too."
"Listen," he says, lowering his voice. "You good? Cam and I are here for you with all this anti-bi bullshit. You know we got you."
A wave of regret washes over me for not reaching out to Banksy after Brian came over. “Thanks, man.” I put an arm on each of their shoulders. “I really appreciate that. And I’m good. Really.”
Banksy looks at me and doesn't believe me for a second, but he's kind enough not to push. "Well, we’re in if you want to get a tattoo or paint your house with the bi-flag colors. Whatever."
I nod, not actually listening, as he yacks about potential line changes for next season. My eyes are too busy scanning the crowd for the woman consuming my thoughts.
"There you are." Gunnar appears at my elbow, Emerson resplendent beside him in a deep green gown that shows off her curves. "You look like someone shot your dog."
"Thanks," I say dryly. "You're looking lovely, Em."
She gives me a sympathetic smile. "How are you doing, Alder?"
Something in her tone tells me she knows exactly what happened with the press and with Lena. Of course, she does—she was shopping with her when she decided to ditch me. "I'm fine," I say, the words sounding hollow even to my own ears. "Great event."
Gunnar snorts. "Yeah, you seem thrilled to be here. Try to look a little less miserable, will you? You're scaring the wait staff."
Emerson elbows him gently. "Be nice. He's having a rough day."
"Doesn't mean he gets to sulk like a big baby," Gunnar softens the criticism with a brotherly punch to my shoulder. "Come on, I need you to help me schmooze the Wilkins Foundation people. They're funding our youth hockey camp this summer.”
