“I would have come for the Weekly interview, but we thought it might be too overwhelming for you.”
“It was a bit overwhelming,” I admit with a laugh, making him smile. He has the same devilish twinkle in his eye and strong jaw as Brett. I can see why Meryl fell for him.
I like him immediately.
Two men close in next to him. One, I recognize as the Flyers coach. The stony face I watched on TV has softened somewhat, though he still looks like the type of guy who spends his days yelling at grown men with ease. Even in this heat, he wears that same black Flyers jacket that he wore during the postgame interview—a jacket you’d wear at a rink rather than at an event where everyone else is in suits—but something tells me this isn’t any more his thing than it is mine.
“Catherine, this is Coach Adam Roth,” Richard introduces us. I get a firm handshake and a gruff “Hello” by way of greeting, before Richard’s attention shifts to the looming man next to him, having well over a foot in height and I don’t dare guess how much weight on me. “And this is Sid Durrand, the Flyers owner.”
Just looking at this guy, in his well-cut suit and his sparkling watch, the lights from above catching the embedded diamonds, I can see that he has money. More than Richard, though? Possibly not, and yet I note that Richard doesn’t ooze his wealth. In fact, I have to remind myself that this man is married to the Meryl Price. Not because I don’t think he’s handsome or distinguished enough. He is both, in a Robert Redford The Horse Whisperer kind of way. But he has a quiet air of sophistication about him that I feel from Brett, too.
“They said you were tiny, but I didn’t believe it,” Sid says with a wide smile and a thick Kentucky accent. He shakes my hand so hard that I’m afraid he might reinjure my wrist, and I struggle not to wince from the sizable rings digging into my flesh. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Brett hasn’t shut up about you.”
I feel my cheeks flush as I steal a glance over to the other side of the room. Brett’s back is to me and Brenna is still blabbing away, but there’s no way he missed Sid’s booming voice.
Clarisse pokes her head in. “All right, we’re about to start. We have seats waiting at the front for you, Richard—and your daughter, Cath. If she could come with me?”
“Brenna?” I call out.
“. . . And a long time ago, this man fell into the wood chipper and it chopped his legs up into little bits.”
“Brenna!”
“Yes, Mommy?”
They both turn in time to catch my grimace.
“Can you go with Brett’s dad and Mrs. Polson?”
She wanders over to take in the three looming males.
“I’m the one you’re looking for. Hi, my name is Richard.” He reaches out to shake her hand. She eyes it warily, but finally accepts it.
He doesn’t seem at all offended. In fact, his warm smile grows wider. “So what happened to the man who fell into the chipper?” he asks, leading her out the door.
All caution disappears. “Oh, they pulled him out before it could chop up the rest of him and then he got fake legs and . . .” Her voice fades as she disappears into the main room.
“Goodness. I think we might have to talk to the museum hosts about what they’re teaching these kids!” Clarisse laughs nervously.
I sense a wall of strength next to me. Trying to calm my heart rate through a few short breaths, I finally turn to meet Brett’s gaze. There’s so much emotion swirling within his eyes—some of it I’ve seen before, some of it I can’t even guess at—and I find myself struggling to manage a simple “Hi.” It comes out throatily.
“Hey.”
“I thought you’d be in—”
“Okay, everyone. If you’ll follow me, please. Brett and Catherine, if you could come in last.”
Brett and Catherine.
We’re ushered into the main room, where at least a hundred sets of eyes latch on to us.
“I’m right here if you need me.” The low whisper comes just as we’re waiting in line to take our seats in front of everyone. Brett knows I’m nervous. He knows I’d rather be anywhere besides heading for a small stage to collect an award.
I glance over my shoulder and see that same expression on his face as he wore during the interview—of worry, of awe, of . . . what everyone is so desperate to label adoration. It’s only been two and a half weeks since I saw him last, and yet it feels like I’ve been waiting an eternity.
All I can manage is a small smile and nod before facing the crowd, focusing on the familiar faces in the front row. My parents, Emma and Jack, Lou, and Leroy? Who’s running the kitchen? Misty’s blonde curls bob as she ducks in to stand at the back, the Diamonds orange-and-white uniform somehow flattering her. Jack has a wide grin plastered across his face—for me or his idol behind me, I can’t say.
“Okay, this way!” Clarisse directs in a whisper, waving us forward. I sense Brett’s hand skate across the small of my back in the faintest of touches, reminding me to breathe.
“Please tell me that’s the last one?” I plead behind my fake smile. Keith nods toward the photographer as he passes us, his camera lens already in pieces. “It’s the last one. I should charge you a management fee.”
“You certainly seem to be orchestrating things for me. Especially behind my back.” I glare knowingly at him, but smooth it over quickly as Coach Roth and Sid Durrand pass by, nodding their final farewells to me. They were both great sports during the event, serving mostly as photo ops for local media. Though Sid did say a few words of thanks to me on behalf of the NHL that turned my face red. Actually, I’m certain my face was red throughout the entire ceremony.
“Admit it, that wasn’t so bad.”
“It was better than I expected,” I grudgingly admit. It only lasted twenty minutes, and no one so much as hinted at the idea of me giving a speech, thankfully. Even Brett’s words were brief, but from the heart, expressing his appreciation for me being at the right place at the right time, for him. But he didn’t gush, he didn’t say anything that made me overtly uncomfortable.
“See? It won’t always be a complete circus around him. Don’t use that as your excuse for pushing him away.”
I stare at him, taken aback. Keith hasn’t uttered a single word about the romantic spin Wethers put on this story, and I wasn’t about to ask him for his opinion, not when I suspect his own feelings for me. But I’ve seen it weighing on him, the worry evident in his eyes. I’ve sensed him biting off words before letting them escape. I’ve assumed he was against the idea entirely.
“I better grab some of those tiny sandwiches before Jack eats them all.”