And she’s mine. Or pretending to be. She sees me watching and falters slightly. “Is it too much?” she asks, glancing down at the dress. “I feel like I’m in someone else’s dream.”
“You’re not,” I say, stepping toward her slowly. “But you are missing something.”
Kate blinks, confused, looking down at herself. “Oh no—what? Is it too tight? Too short? Too—” She lowers her voice and leans in with aconspiratorial whisper, “I’m not wearing underwear. The stylist said it’s a thing with this kind of dress.”
Then she straightens and shrugs a little, then grins. “But Iamwearing the red-bottom heels, so that counts for something, right?”
My laugh is low, a rumble of amusement. She is unassuming and perhaps naive, but I love that about her. It makes her real.
I shake my head and pull a box from the inside pocket of my jacket.
Her eyes go wide as I open the box. Inside, sitting on velvet, is a sapphire necklace. Elegant. Simple. Stunning.
I hold it up. “Now it’s perfect.”
She turns without a word, brushing her hair aside. I fasten the necklace around her neck, letting my fingers linger just a second longer than necessary. Then I place the matching earrings in her hands.
She looks at them like she’s afraid to breathe.
“I can’t?—”
“You can,” I say, firmly, “And you will.”
She meets my gaze in the mirror, and something silent passes between us. A question. A promise. A warning? I’m not sure, before I can articulate it, a horn sounds outside.
“The Bentley’s here,” I say, stepping back. “Time to go.”
We walk toward the front entrance together. Her heels click against the polished floor, and each step is purposeful and confident.
I open the door. The evening air wraps around us like anticipation.
The car door opens. Flashbulbs already begin to spark just beyond the gates.
I offer my arm. She takes it.
God, I hope this night goes off without a hitch.
The gala is a whirlwind of champagne flutes, shimmering gowns, and forced smiles. Cameras follow us, guests stare, and I feel her fingers tighten slightly on my arm every time someone whispers our names as we walk past them.
But then the guys spot us.
Kal whistles loud enough for the entire ballroom to hear. “Damn, Callahan. You didn’t tell us your wife was royalty.”
Victor grins and claps me on the back. “Congrats, man. She’s...wow.” Luc raises his glass and nods with that knowing smirk. They mean well. They always do.
These guys—my teammates, my brothers—they’ve seen me at my worst and my best. But mostly, we’ve fought together and sweated together because we claimed every inch of the ice that made our dreams come true. And because of that, their approval matters more than I care to admit.
And tonight, they look at me like I’ve won something bigger than the Cup.
I should feel proud. Instead, all I feel is guilt. Because I know this might not last. Because they believe we’re real.
And God help me, I’m starting to wish we were.
I turn to catch the magnificent vision of my wife, standing amongst women with a flute of champagne in her hand. She’s regal and elegant in ways she can’t comprehend.
She’s mine. And I’m jealous when I see the men in the room checking out my wife, and that tells me this isn’t pretend, not for me.
I swear, if one more woman looks at her like she doesn’t belong, I’ll intervene. They should be whispering pleasantries; that’s the protocol for events like this. But instead, I see envy.
