Page 33 of Unmanageable
She looks down at the glass, then up at me, a soft, breathless chuckle slipping past her lips.
“Peace,” she agrees. “Tonight is strictly about celebrating the fact that our two favorite people somehow managed to get married without anyone ending up in jail.”
“A literal miracle,” I grin, clinking my glass against hers. “To Ivy and Cal.”
“To Ivy and Cal,” she echoes, taking a slow sip.
For a few minutes, we just stand there in a comfortable, uncharacteristic silence, watching the absolute chaos unfold under the tent lights.
The DJ—who has decided tonight is the epic origin story of his legendary career—cuts the audio and drops a remix of a remix of a remix. The beat is aggressive, relentless, and specifically designed to bypass higher brain function.
Within twenty minutes, the dance floor is a disaster zone.
The Reign guys have completely taken over.
Half the defensive line has ditched their shirts entirely, their tuxedos tied around their waists like championship belts. Brick is leading a chaotic, stumbling conga line through the tables, knocking over centerpieces without a care in the world.
The professional boundary Scottie has been preaching about doesn’t even survive the first bass drop. The sheer absurdity of the room takes over, and we basically put the tension aside to just be absolute idiots.
Leo and Nico are trying to do some sort of synchronized rowing move on the hardwood floor, and within seconds, I’m pulled right into the middle of it, my tuxedo jacket discarded somewhere near a floral arrangement.
My hips are moving against my will, responding to muscle memory and high-end bourbon rather than dignity or self-respect.
I catch my reflection briefly in a mirrored column and realize I look like a malfunctioning inflatable tube man outside a used car dealership.
I stop immediately.
The damage to my reputation is likely already done, but I refuse to provide further evidence.
Scottie, however, doesn’t care about her reputation. She’s spinning right next to me, her red hair a blurred halo of fire, her hands in the air, abandoning the uptight agent persona.
We’re shouting lyrics we don’t even know, laughing so hard my stomach muscles ache.
One of the guests, a blonde I think is named Sarah—or maybe Sandra?—turns and glares at us with intense disapproval.
“Shh,” she whispers sharply, pointing toward a corner table where a group of older relatives are trying to eat cake in peace. “People are trying to talk.”
“Sorry, Sandra,” I say, not slowing down my terrible dancing for a single second.
“It’s Stephanie,” she snaps.
“Right. Stephanie. My bad,” I grin, grabbing Scottie’s hand and pulling her away toward the edge of the floor before Stephanie can call the bridal security on us.
During a brief lull when a slower song comes on, I manage to steal the bride. Cal gladly relinquishes her for a few minutes, and I sway in a slow circle with Ivy, her white train bunched up over her arm.
“You did good, Cash,” Ivy murmurs. “The speech. And taking care of Scottie. Just… keep an eye on her on this road trip, okay? She pretends she’s made of steel, but she isn’t.”
“I know she isn’t,” I say. “I’ve got her, Coach. Don’t worry.”
Noah appears at Ivy’s elbow like some kind of stats-obsessed forest sprite and silently hands her… a slightly bruised banana.
Ivy lights up like he just gifted her a diamond.
I watch this exchange, eyebrows halfway to the ceiling, but say nothing.
If a questionable banana from Noah is what makes Ivy beam like that, then fine.
Let the girl have her fruit-based joy.
