No man withthatpretty of a smile should also be allowed to have effortlessly wavy, short brown hair, freckles that dust his cheeks and nose, and be six-foot-six on top of it. But here I am, eyes locked with the annoyingly attractive man.
Bates Finnegan, who hasn’t wiped that damn smirk from his lips, driving me insane. An hour into the team dinner, I’ve practically memorized the dimple his smirk creates.
My dad invited me as his date for tonight for the team’s summer dinner, and without thought, I said yes. Just like I have for any event he’s attended my entire life.
My dad, Bill Rafferty—Coach Rafferty to his staff and players—is the head coach of the Saint Paul Sinners. They’re dominating the league thisseason, and I’d be shocked if they didn’t make it to the Stanley Cup Finals this year.
Hockey has been my dad’s entire life and therefore, it’s also been mine—at least in some sense.
He played professionally when he was younger, but after his injury and my mom’s death when I was three, he retired to be home more for me. After a few years, he started coaching at our local college, and he found a new passion within the sport he held so dear to his heart.
I respect him so deeply and want nothing more than to watch him finally lift that Cup into the air.
To most people, he comes off as serious and unemotional, but to me, I see the sweet, tender father who had tea parties with me and played dress-up in gowns that were far too small for him. Who listened to every dream I had, growing up, and helped me chase them in any way he could.
He’s just Dad to me, but right now, he looks likeCoach. Stoic. Intense.
Until he turns to me, seated at my right at the round table, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Having fun?”
“I am.” I grin, taking the last sip of wine from my glass. “I’m going to get a refill. Need anything?”
Gently pushing my chair back, I stand from my seat with my glass in hand, ready to get a refill at the bar. He shakes his head, and I let him know I’ll be right back before heading over to the opposite side of the room.
Gold and black decorate the enormous ballroom, tucked away inside the arena. The nearly billion-dollar arena, home to the Sinners, is what event dreams aremade of. From the game side—with the rink, shops, and concessions—to the medical wing and staff suites, to the conference room and ballrooms, this place was seemingly built without a budget.
I order my wine and hand the bartender my glass, spinning a napkin on the countertop as I wait.
“Please tell me your name.”
A deep, smooth, almost-wistful voice flutters into my ears, finding a home in my stomach as my cheeks warm.
Somehow, someway, I know who’s standing behind me—the same man who’s been staring at me all night. I was hoping he wouldn’t be bold enough to hit on me because I’m going to have a really hard time turning him down.
The bartender hands me the glass with a smile, and I thank him before pivoting on my heel to find just who I suspected—Bates, wearing a white button-up, slacks, and dress shoes.
His sleeves are rolled up, and I suddenly feel like a Victorian man, freaking out about a woman’s scandalous ankles, because looking at his veiny arms and the tattoos that pepper his barely exposed, freckled skin has me nearly foaming at the mouth.
Deep blue eyes study me, like they’re reading invisible text on my skin, consuming information about me that I don’t even realize I’m giving. Yet, greedily, he takes it anyway.
“Bates,” I murmur, watching shock and amusement fill his heated stare, likely surprised that I know his name. “Nice to officially meet you.”
Wetting his bottom lip, he sucks it between his teeth, then clicks his tongue. “You know who I am?”
“Would I be at this party if I didn’t?” I retort, enjoying toying with him more than I should.
“Do you always answer a question with another question?” he challenges.
“Only when it comes to talking to guys on my dad’s team.”
Realization dawns in his eyes, flattening his expression. But not a beat later, his devious smirk returns, and I quickly understand that my dad’s title does little to discourage his pursuit.
“You’re Serena?” he asks, but there’s a declaration in his tone, like he already knows the answer.
“You didn’t already assume that the younger woman sitting next to your coach at the team family dinner was his daughter?” I cock my head to the side. “I guess hockey players really are stupid.”
This earns me a genuine smile, and my heart nearly stops in my chest.
Shaking his head and chuckling, he steps toward me, the distance between us shrinking to only a couple of feet, and a seriousness drifts across his face as his eyes bore into mine.
