Scarlett points. “Obvious.”
I wipe at my mouth. “That changes nothing.” I have built an entire system around not misreading men. Not assigning depth where there is none. And around not confusing intensity for realness.
The problem is this doesn’t feel like a misread.
“Of course not,” Sophie says.
Piper raises her glass. “To Toni,” she says.
I narrow my eyes. “What is this toast for?”
She grins. “For someone who is absolutely not falling for Max Stevens.”
They all clink glasses. I stare at mine. Then take a long sip.
Because the worst part isn’t what they said. None of it was exaggerated. That's the worst part.
I’m not sure exactly when the second bottle becomes the third. Or when the fire pit goes from roaring to glowing embers. Or when the conversation shifts from Max to Scarlett’s horror story about a director who tried to reshoot her emotional breakdown scene eighteen times, which Sophie maintains isthe reason Scarlett now carries her own tea on a set like a threat.
“He said my crying wasn’t ‘cinematically proportionate,’” Scarlett announces, finishing her wine with the dignity of a woman who has moved past it entirely. “I cried harder. He got his shot. I charged him double.”
“Queen behavior,” Sophie says.
“Survival behavior,” Scarlett corrects. “There’s a difference.”
Harper, who has been tranquilly devastating all evening with one-liners delivered from behind her glass, looks at me over the rim. “Knox told me Max hasn’t been called for a single unnecessary penalty since you arrived.”
The fire crackles. Everyone looks at me. “He’s responding to the program,” I say.
“The program,” Harper repeats.
“The behavioral framework.“
“Toni,” Piper’s voice is fond and merciless. “Knox calls you the Whisperer.”
“The what?”
“The Max Whisperer.” Sophie holds up her phone. A group chat appears on the screen. The hockey husband’s group chat. A thread I did not know existed. In it, a GIF of a horse trainer, labeled with my name. “He sent this after the Boston game,” she says. “With the message: ‘She got him to let Rourke go four times. Four. I watched him count to four and skate away. I’ve known this man for six years. He doesn’t countpast two.’”
I stare at the GIF. The GIF stares back.
“I’m going to need more wine,” I say.
“Yes, you are,” Piper agrees, already pouring.
The evening deepens. The fire dims. At some point, Scarlett is demonstrating her warm-up routine using Piper’s patio umbrella as a prop. Sophie and Harper engage in a serious debate at some point regarding whether Lake Shore Drive is a scenic route or a trauma response. I’m on my third or fourth glass, wrapped in a blanket, watching the embers pulse orange and red, and the honest truth is I can't remember the last time I sat still like this without managing something. Not building a wall.
My eyes are heavy. The fire is warm. The women’s voices blend low and comfortable around me. I think I close my eyes for one minute. The back door slides open with a sound I register from somewhere below actual consciousness. Voices. Male voices. Chase’s low Canadian cadence. And then the other one.
“…probably asleep by now; the fire’s almost out.”
“Man, it is cold out here. Why are they—oh? There they are.”
I am awake. I am choosing not to show this information. Through the narrow slit of my eyelashes, I take inventory. Piper is asleep in her chair, head tipped sideways at an angle that will cause neck problems tomorrow. Scarlett has somehow migrated to the outdoor loveseat and is curled into a small, elegant ball with a throw pillow over her face. Sophie is upright, but her eyes are closed and her glass is listingat a forty-five degree angle. Harper is the only one awake, sitting straight-backed and composed as if she had been waiting for this exact moment.
“Knox,” she says pleasantly.
“Hey, sweetheart.” Harper Knox’s husband leans down and takes the listing glass from Sophie’s hand without waking her. Sets it on the table. Looks at the assembled wreckage of the Gold Coast Guardians’ wives and assorted companions with the resigned expression of a man who knew this was how the night would end. Chase is doing a similar inventory. His gaze lands on Piper. His expression is too fond to describe. He crosses to her chair, crouches to her level. “Piper.” She makes a sound that is not a word. “Pipe, hey.” He brushes her hair from her face. “C’mon, sweetheart, let’s get you inside.”
