CHAPTER ONE
cameron
The listof things I’m allergic to is longer than a drugstore receipt, yet none of them make me as uncomfortable as small talk. I adjust the cuffs of my dress shirt, breathing deeply to quell the panic, and pick up another bacon-wrapped scallop from a passing tray. All the while I’m pretending to listen to this man as he bores me with stories about his kid. Like I give a fuck. If the next time I see you will be at another charity event like this, why should I care about your thirty-six-month-old—just say three, for fuck’s sake—holding a back float in the pool?
I nod along, even though my brain checked out somewhere between “swim lessons” and “floaties shaped like unicorns.” Across from me, my teammate Cole nods like he’s got a vested interest in the story.
“Wow,” he says. “Freestyle?”
“Yep.” The man puffs up like he’s the one who did it. “We’ve been working on her breathing.”
I take a sip of my drink to keep myself from rolling my eyes. Good for her, but I came here to shake hands and fakea few smiles for a good cause, not hear a TED Talk on toddler breaststroke.
“She’s going to be an Olympian,” the guy adds, like we should ask for her autograph.
“No doubt,” Cole says with the same grin he uses for reporters. “Gold medals and cereal box covers are definitely in her future.”
I lean in close and mutter, “The gold medal for most annoying fuckwad goes?—”
Cole elbows me without breaking his smile, the picture of polite interest as the guy across from us launches into another long-winded story.
Frowning, I scan the room, searching for an escape route, another drink, or both, ideally. The ballroom is packed to the brim with donors, fans, and executives, here to rub elbows with the reigning Stanley Cup champs and support the Boston Bobcats Foundation.
I’m about two seconds from pretending to get a phone call when Sloane, our team’s PR manager, moves through the crowd with her signature no-nonsense stride and that “I need to fix this problem before it blows up” look on her face. She spots me and jerks her head to the left, summoning me. I quickly excuse myself and take the out, meeting her off to the side.
Any gratitude I have for her interruption disappears when she greets me with: “Okay, so don’t get mad.”
I blink. “Continue.”
She takes a breath and straightens her shoulders as if preparing for impact. “You’ve been added to the live auction lineup. Congrats. One lucky attendee is going to win a date with you. For charity, obviously.”
My gut sinks. “No.”
Sloane doesn’t bat an eye at my brusque dismissal. “Sorry. You seem to be misunderstanding me, Cameron. I’m not asking you; I’m telling you.”
“And I’m telling you no.”
She raises a perfectly manicured brow. “Do you want to stomp your foot for good measure? Or can we move on from the back and forth so I can fill you in on the details?”
“Oh, it’s obvious what you need me to do.” I sip the last dregs of my drink, more desperate than ever for a refill. “And I’m not doing it.”
“It’s for charity.”
“I’ll just donate more money.”
She rolls her dark brown eyes. “Great, but that doesn’t get you out of the auction. We needed another name people would recognize.” She pats my chest like I’m a show pony. “C’mon, it won’t kill you to have dinner and drinks with a fan for an hour or two.”
“It may,” I tell her.Seriously. “Is donating a kidney an option?”
I only need one of them, right?
A bulky blond barrels into my side, a wild look in his blue eyes. “The British are coming, man! The British arefuckingcoming.”
Sloane tilts her head in question, but I shrug. I’ve got no idea what Logan is referring to. I rarely know what he’s yammering on about, but he typically doesn’t require a response, just a stage. That’s what makes our friendship work.
Still, I take the bait. “What are you talking about?”
He waves. “Didn’t you major in history? You should know Paul Revere’s famous line about?—”
