There’s this look Kate gets that I’ve learned to watch for.
It doesn’t show up on stage—she’s too in it there, too alive in the music, too busy setting herself on fire and dragging everyone else into the blaze with her.
No, it hits afterward, somewhere between the green room and her reflection in the mirror, when the adrenaline hasn’t figured out if it’s going to simmer down or explode.
Tonight, it explodes.
We’re back in the hotel suite, which right now feels more like a dressing room left in the path of a hurricane. She’s pacing in front of the mirror, lit up from the inside. Glowing.
I don’t know how she manages to hold it together. Maybe that’s her real talent—making chaos look like art.
She blew the roof off the terrace tonight, under strings of lights and a swollen moon that looked ready to fall into her lap. The show wasn’t even supposed to be that big, but she turned it into something electric.
Now, she’s shedding clothes like she’s burning up. One bootabandoned near the door, a band tee tossed onto the couch, her bra hanging from a lamp like a trophy. She hums under her breath, sipping from some fizzy cocktail the venue sent up—a “thank you” drink that’s already turned into a celebration.
“You’re on something,” I say, leaning against the closet door, arms crossed, watching her with a smile I’m not even trying to hide. “And it’s not just champagne.”
She twirls, bare feet sliding against the carpet, grinning like she’s the storm and I’m just caught in it. “It’s called nerves.”
I raise a brow. “Oh, that’s what this is?”
“This is everything,” she says, voice breathless, bright, electric. “Fear. Adrenaline. Panic. I don’t know how I’m supposed to be right now. Ray says I need to open up, share more of myself with the fans, and bepersonable. I can’t fail, Finn. I can’t return to Pine Hollow a failure. I just can’t.”
“You’ll never be a failure, Kate. Don’t you see that?”
She just shrugs, then she vanishes into the bathroom without another word. Then, I hear music spilling from her phone—some rough, fast track from the nineties, all sharp edges and rebellion. It fits her too well.
When she comes back out, I forget how to breathe. She’s poured herself into something tight and shiny—black mesh sleeves, a silver bralette that catches every bit of light, and boots that must be new, and a look in her eye that dares anyone to look away.
I let out a low whistle, and before I could say anything, she asked, “Too much?” She teases me as she spins slowly. She has no idea what a woman like her can do to a man. All her curves are in the right places. I hate the fact that she goes out without me, looking like this—like a meal I have to have after three overtime periods in a game.
I shake my head, and my voice is a growl. “Not even close.”
It’s not a lie. Do I want other men looking at her like this? No. Absolutely not. But this is her job, and I respect it.
She stops in front of me, hands on her hips, tilting her head as she studies me, like she knows exactly what’s in my head.
I know how I’m looking at her right now. Like I want to throw her over the back of the couch and make her forget her own name.
“You’re gonna make me blush,” she teases, and the way her voice drops is a come-on, making my pulse more deadly than an airborne puck.
I smirk. “No, you’re gonna make me call your girlfriend and warn her you need a warning label.”
She laughs—loud and unfiltered, the kind that fills the whole room. “She already knows. She’s meeting us downstairs. I told her I’m in a mood.”
Mooddoesn’t even come close. But she’s glowing, actually. She’s high on the aftershock of applause. Her skin is flushed, her eyes are wild.
Most people forget performers are addicts—not always to substances, but to this feeling. The high of being seen, heard, and wanted.
Kinda like me when I make the game-winning goal. And right now, Kate’s completely wasted on the euphoria.
Watching her in this element, it’s no wonder people get caught in her orbit. It isn’t just her voice, or her face, or even the way she moves. It’s this—the way she turns a hotel room into a pre-party runway without even trying.
She’s magic, and she doesn’t give herself enough credit.
“You coming with us?” she asks, breaking the spell.
My heart stumbles. I wasn’t expecting her to ask. I can tell it costs her something to offer that invitation, because Kate doesn’t ask anyone for anything.
