“I have great rhythm,” Logan says, offended.
“Logan, you dance like a baby deer in cleats,” Zayden says without looking up from his lasagna.
Everyone laughs. Logan waves this off and leans forward, elbows on the table, fully locked in on Sydney. “What’s your workout routine? You’re seriously fit.”
I put my fork down.
“Thanks,” Sydney says, oblivious to what’s happening. “Ballet ruined my body for normal exercise, so now I mostly just run and stretch.”
“We should work out together. I know a great gym near the arena. They’ve got a dance studio in the back. I could show you around, maybe spot you on some—”
“Logan.” My voice comes out flatter than I intended, and the whole table goes quiet for about half a second. Banks andZayden exchange a glance. Winnie takes a very deliberate sip of wine.
“What?” Logan says, genuinely confused.
“Eat your lasagna.”
“I’m eating. I’m also having a conversation. People can do both.”
Sydney meets my eyes across the table, her brow furrowed, and I can feel her trying to figure out why I just shut Logan down with the warmth of an Arctic blast. I can’t explain it because I don’t fully understand it myself, except that watching Logan lean toward her and suggest they work out together made my molars grind hard enough to crack a filling.
“The lasagna’s great,” Tori says brightly, redirecting with the skill of a woman who’s spent years navigating hockey egos. “Where’d you order from?”
The conversation moves on. I eat. I drink my beer. I watch Sydney talk.
She tells a story about a parent at her old ballet studio who emailed her at eleven PM to complain that her daughter’s tutu was “unflattering from the side.” Tori is horrified. Winnie chokes on her wine. Banks, who has a face designed for not laughing, actually cracks.
Then she moves to the vegetable tray on the sideboard, picking up the little tongs and selecting a piece of roasted cauliflower. She places it on her appetizer plate and turns to the table.
“Can we talk about cauliflower for a second?” she says.
Logan leans forward. Tori tilts her head. Even Banks looks mildly interested.
“Because I feel like we, as a society, are puttingwaytoo much pressure on this vegetable.” She holds up the cauliflower on her fork. “Five years ago, cauliflower was just chilling on the veggie tray, minding its own business. Nobodyexpected anything from it. It was the background player. The benchwarmer of vegetables.”
“The Logan Palmer of vegetables,” Zayden says.
“Hey,” Logan protests.
“And now suddenly it’s expected to be pizza crust. And rice. And buffalo wings. And mashed potatoes.” She shakes her head. “We’re asking cauliflower to be everything, and I just think someone should check in on it. Emotionally.”
Tori laughs so hard she grips Zayden’s arm. Winnie has tears in her eyes. Logan nods with alarming sincerity, like he genuinely agrees about the cauliflower’s emotional well-being. Banks makes a sound that might be his version of a laugh, which means Sydney just accomplished what most people can’t do in a full season of knowing him.
I’m not laughing.
I’m watching her.
She stands at the sideboard with the little tongs in one hand and a glass of wine in the other, wearing a black sweater that keeps slipping off one shoulder. She’s making a table full of professional athletes and their partners cry with laughter about a vegetable, and I can’t look away from her.
I’ve known this woman for fifteen years. I’ve watched her perform on stage. I’ve seen her talk down a screaming toddler and negotiate with a three-year-old over bedtime.
And right now, standing in my dining room holding a piece of cauliflower, she’s the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.
The thought arrives fully formed. Impossible to take back.
Zayden catches me staring. I know because I feel his eyes on the side of my face, steady and knowing, and when I finally look away from Sydney and glance at him, he just raises his beer and drinks.
He doesn’t say anything.
