Page 39 of Across the Boards

No pressure.

7

ELLIOT

“I’m only doing this because I love you,” I announce as I enter the event space, arms laden with Sarah’s emergency planning kit—three tote bags stuffed with supplies that apparently no charity gala could function without.

“And because I have photographic evidence of you doing karaoke to ‘Baby Got Back’ at my bachelorette party,” Sarah replies cheerfully, not looking up from her clipboard.

“That too.” I set the bags down on a table covered in seating charts and sample centerpieces. “Though I maintain I was drugged.”

“With two glasses of pinot grigio?” Sarah finally looks up, eyebrow raised. “You’re a lightweight, but you’re not that much of a lightweight.”

“Drugged by your enthusiasm, then. It’s infectious and possibly illegal in several states.”

Sarah snorts. “Just admit you secretly wanted to sing about big butts in front of strangers.”

“I’ll admit no such thing.” I glance around the ballroom of Phoenix’s most exclusive hotel. “So what exactly am I helping with? Because if it involves talking to hockey people, I’m going to need more than mild blackmail as motivation.”

“Relax.” Sarah hands me a stack of place cards. “You’re on table arrangements and centerpiece assembly. Minimal human interaction required.”

“Perfect. Just how I like my volunteer work.”

“Though...” Sarah’s innocent tone immediately puts me on alert. “The team wives committee might stop by later to approve the flower choices.”

“Sarah.”

“What? I didn’t plan it! They’re on the gala committee. It’s literally their job to approve things.”

I fix her with a glare that she blithely ignores, turning back to her clipboard. “Which wives exactly?”

“Don’t worry, all post-Jason era.” She makes a checkmark on her list. “None of them were around during... you know.”

“The Great Adultery Scandal?” I supply dryly. “You can say it. I won’t shatter.”

“Fine. None of them were around when your ex-husband decided to sleep with anything in a yoga outfit.” She looks up with a grimace. “Sorry. Too far?”

“Accurate summary, actually.” I pick up a centerpiece mock-up—an arrangement of hockey sticks and lilies that manages to be both tacky and oddly elegant. “So I’m just placing these monstrosities on tables and writing out name cards?”

“Yes. And before you criticize the centerpieces, remember they raised twelve thousand dollars last year through the silent auction.”

“I reserve the right to silently judge while placing them.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.” Sarah hands me a diagram of the ballroom with table numbers. “Blue dots are where centerpieces go. Red dots are for candles. Don’t mix them up or we’ll have a fire hazard situation.”

“Because nothing says ‘charity gala’ like flaming hockey sticks?”

“Exactly.”

I settle into the tedious but straightforward task, grateful for the solitude. The ballroom is mostly empty, with only a few hotel staff setting up chairs and sound equipment. Sarah buzzes around like a caffeinated hummingbird, alternating between her phone, her clipboard, and barking orders at the lighting crew.

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

How are the gala preparations going? Has Sarah gone full dictator mode yet?

She made a waiter cry five minutes ago because he suggested changing the napkin color. So yes, full dictator mode achieved.

Classic Sarah. What job did she assign you? Human sacrifice to the hockey gods?

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