Page 38 of The One Night Dash
I throw my duffel in and climb after it, heart already pounding like I’m late for warmups. “Coach D’s gonna crucify me,” I mutter, ripping the zipper down on the garment bag. Inside is a suit—black, sharp, custom, and clean, thanks to Sal and Elena.
Joel merges into traffic, smooth as silk. “You can live with Coach. Question is: Can you live with not being here for afriend?”
I don’t answer. My throat’s too tight, my chest a knot of adrenaline and second-guessing. I strip out of the jersey tee and joggers I flew in, dragging on the starched white shirt, fumbling with buttons as the car lurches through lights. My hands are steady with a stick in them. Right now, they shake like I’m a rookie.
The tie’s next—dark red silk, cinching around my throat until I curse under my breath. “I’m out of my damn mind.”
“Maybe,” Joel says, eyes on the road, voice maddeningly even. “But you’ll look good, regardless.”
I shrug into the jacket, smooth the lapels, and catch my reflection in the window. On the outside? Polished. Controlled. Inside? My heart’s punching so hard against the fabric it feels like it might break through.
Ten minutes. That’s what Joel swears we’ve got until we arrive. Ten minutes ago, Coach D realized I was missing the flight from Utah to Detroit. Ten minutes to make sure Noelle isn’t standing in that room alone, left to fend off vultures with nothing but her kind heart and sweetness.
When Koa told me that Noelle had a crush on Louie and Lauren knew it, it got me thinking. Did she see that in me while she was waiting for Noelle outside of Lit class? Did she see that I was—for lack of better words—smitten with Noelle, ’cause I was. Hell, I still am. She’s fucking awesome.
Noelle introducing me to Lauren wasn’t her friend zoning me; it was an expectation.Lauren gets what she wants. And yeah, she was hot, and just wanted to fuck, and didn’t want to be owned, no labels. Perfect, right? Except, it wasn’t. She marked me so Noelle couldn’t … or at least that’s what’s been pinging around in my fucking head.
If I’m wrong, I’m wrong.
I drag a hand down my face, exhaling sharply. “She’s not going through this alone.”
Joel’s mouth quirks, the closest he gets to a smile. “Then sit back. I’ll get you there.”
When the Delamar’s stone façade finally looms into view, I roll my shoulders back, tug at my cuffs, and brace myself. Sanity? Gone. Regret? Not a chance.
Joel eases to the curb, and the second my shoes hit the pavement, I feel eyes. Reporters—not hockey, but page six, high society types, lurking.
I keep my head down and stride sharp and quick, like I’m just another suit sliding into the Delamar for a wedding, hoping not to appear in any photos online. One photo, one post, and Coach D knows exactly where I am.
The doorman opens the glass doors, and I’m inside, the hum of the lobby swallowing me whole. Cool air, polished marble, and the buzz of too many people who look like Lauren. Not just physically, but in their eyes, too. Wolves in couture clothing. They appear to be honored to be part of this, but hope something happens to fuck up the day. And knowing what I do now, feeling in my gut what I feel, I’m not gonna say I wouldn’t enjoy watching some shit mess up a moment or two, but it won’t be of my doing.
And then I see Noelle as she steps out of a side room, arms full of what looks like ribbons and flowers, roses maybe? Her face is soft but a bit pale. She looks stunning in that dress, those shoes, but she’s not being treated like a guest. I know this because I’ve seen that look before when she pushes past, annoyed, and just keeps moving. Shoulders squared, lips curved into a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
Pisses me off because I know that one of Joel’s guys drove her here and reported back to Joel that she got a call for some crisisthat Lauren needed help with, and, of course, Noelle came to her aid.
My fists curl at my sides, and every ounce of guilt I had about bolting from the team evaporates. I know why I’m here.
For her.
I take a step, then another, weaving through the clusters of people in pressed dresses and tuxedos, taking in the surroundings. But my eyes don’t leave her.
She’s balancing too much in her arms, hair falling into her face, smile plastered on like she’s fine, like being treated as the catchall, fix-it girl doesn’t chip away at her. And she doesn’t even flinch when Daliah, one of the KET girls from my Hayward years, breezes past her, barking an order over her shoulder, snickering to another girl in the same dress—bridesmaids. Noelle just nods, shifts the weight in her arms, and keeps moving.
It guts me as I close the distance, fast.
Her head lifts at the last second, like she feels me before she sees me. Her eyes widen, color rising in her cheeks. The flowers slip just a little in her arms, and she stumbles over a word when she tries to speak.
“Dash?” It’s half a question, half disbelief.
“Yeah,” I say, voice rougher than I mean it to be.
For a heartbeat, she doesn’t move, caught between relief and the instinct to scold me for even being here. I see it in her eyes: the flicker of anger, the swell of surprise, the crack of something softer underneath.
I reach out before I can stop myself, steadying the mess in her arms. “You shouldn’t have to do all this.”
Her laugh is quiet, tired. “Somebody has to.”
And just like that, I know I made the right call. Screw the fines, screw the fallout. I’d take a hundred of Coach D’s lectures if it means she doesn’t have to stand here alone.
