Page 20 of Gave Proof Through the Night

“Absolutely not. Also, he probably already has a date. Men who look like that and carry bags for old ladies do not show up to galas alone, Zoe, that’s not how the universe works.”

“Wrong.” Zoe says it with flat, unshakeable confidence. Heaven help us all, she’s done research. “He is a certified, documented, internet-verified goody two-shoes who is not dating anyone. There’s an entire thread dedicated to speculating about it. The man’s official team account is so corporate it might as well be a press release with a face. Barely posts, definitely doesn’t have time to date anyone. The internet has spoken, Erica. He’s single. He’s available. And he just got matcha spilled on him by the most charming woman in Washington, DC.”

“The internet,” I say, with weary patience. “Lies constantly. That’s its whole thing. That’s its business model.”

“Not about this.”

“About everything.”

“Think about it.” Zoe pockets her phone, suddenly all business, which is somehow worse than the squealing. “We’ve been stuck on the gala for weeks. I’ve been working every angle I can think of and we still don’t have a clean way in that doesn’t involve one of us dressing up as catering staff. And I’m sorry, but I have seen you in a bow tie, Erica, and it is not a good look. It’s not a you look. You looked like a Build-A-Bear that lost a bet.”

“I was having a bad hair day.”

“It doesn’t matter, because we don’t need it. He’s our ticket.” She lets that sit there for a second, and I can feel the shape of where this is going approximately four seconds before she says it. “A guy like that walks in the front door, Erica. No kitchen, no milk crate, no name tag that says CATERING STAFF in Comic Sans. Front door. Step and repeat. Champagne on a tray that someone hands him.”

“No.”

“And he’s apparently single, and a Boy Scout, and smiled at you!”

“It wasn’t what you think…”

“Which means,” she continues, steamrolling over me with cheerful relentlessness. “You, my friend, are going to find that man again, work your considerable Erica Armitage magic on him, and get yourself invited to that gala as his date. For the mission. For me. For…” she gestures vaguely. “The letters, Erica. Think of the letters.”

“Don’t letters me. That’s emotional blackmail and you know it.”

“Is it working?”

I open my mouth to say no. To say absolutely not, to say I do not have time to romance a professional athlete for access to a building. To say any of the seventeen sensible things currently lined up in my brain, ready to go.

What comes out, against every ounce of my better judgment, every shred of professional instinct, and possibly several treaties I have personally signed with myself regarding men is:

“Fine. When we’re back from the recruitment trip. Full recon. Your hockey guy.”

“Oh my dear sweet child,” Zoe says. “He’s not my hockey guy. He’s your hockey guy.”

Somewhere behind the counter, a barista calls out “Hermione?” one more time, into the void.

6

JEREMIAH

Chapter playlist:

Real Wild Child (Wild One) — Iggy Pop

By my count, this hotel has four hundred rooms and not one bottle of hot sauce, and I’ve started taking it personally.

I’ve hit the buffet twice already. I check the little caddy by the bagels. Ketchup, three kinds of mustard, something called fig spread. I lift a domed silver tray, hoping. One lonely croissant looks back at me.

I head back to the omelette station waiting for my turn so I can make my plea for hot sauce. I’d give up my gold medal for some of my abuela’s roasted tomatillo salsa right now but beggars can’t be choosers. At this point, I’d settle for Cholula or Tapatio.

There’s a guy from the East team in front of me, already trying the cook’s patience with his specific request for “not too much cheese, but don’t be stingy either.”

I catch the chef’s eye when the guy finally steps off.

“You got hot sauce back there?”

“No, sir.” He doesn’t look up from the eggs.