I glower at my best friend in mutinous challenge over the rim of my glass, desperately wishing it was a Powerplay Punch instead. “Don’t you have your own table to sit at?”
Sophie and I were placed at what we call the “miscellaneous” table. It’s where guests who don’t fit into one of the usual attendee groups—like sponsors, players, or mega-fans—end up. Maya’s at the players’ table with Cole.
She grins at me. “C’mon, Kenn. You’re always complaining about how much dating apps suck.”
I set my drink down and straighten. “Because they objectively do.”
The last date I went on, the guy tried to mansplain the concept of starter dough to me… a literal baker.
“This is your chance to go on a date with a hot hockey player who has tattoos and knows how to work his hips.” She turns toward Soph with an apologetic shrug. “Sorry, but we’ve seen him do the splits in twelve different ways while saving goals.”
Sophie waves a dismissive hand. “No offense taken.”
With another sip of my drink, I peruse the silent auction items lined up along the wall on one side of the room. There’s a little bit of everything—signed jerseys, vacation packages, a wine tasting experience that’s already way out of my budget. None of it holds my attention, though. Not when that’s whereheis.
I don’t have much game, but the little I do possess gets thrown majorly off course when Cameron is in the vicinity. It’s his specific brand of sex appeal: tousled hair, sharp jaw, a mouth that looks like it’s permanently caught between a smirk and ascowl. And underneath all thatgrrandfee, fi, fo, fum, he’s a decent guy.
But I can’t afford distractions right now. My business needs all my attention, and Cameron is exactly the kind of distraction that could derail all the goals I’ve been working toward.
So I may bid on a date, but going on the date? No, thanks.
CHAPTER THREE
cameron
Along one sideof the ostentatiously large ballroom, silent auction items are displayed on draped tables, each with a bid sheet in front of it. Everything from gift baskets and vacation packages to experiences donated by local businesses. The closest glossy auction sign winks at me under the lighting, tempting me to lean in and read it.
Baking with Kennedy: A One-on-One Workshop
Whip up sweet memories in a private baking class with local pastry chef Kennedy Caplan! Whether you’re craving cookies or determined to master decadent brownies, you’ll leave with treats you made yourself and a few secrets from Kennedy’s cookbook. No prior experience needed, just a hungry stomach!
I chuckle under my breath.
“Whatcha looking at?” Jake, our team’s best right-winger, appears next to me wearing an infuriating grin. One that tells me he’s been watching me.
I clear my throat. “Just checking out the items.”
He tilts to the side, moving in closer, reading the cheeky laminated card. “Checking out Kennedy’s item, you mean. Are you going to bid on it?”
“Nah.”
“Good,” he says with a devilish grin. “Less competition for me.”
He scribbles his name down on the sheet, bidding just over five hundred dollars. When he sets it back down, I can’t help but scan the list of eager bidders. Just about every name is familiar. Like my teammates have all bid on this one-on-one class. What the hell?
“If you tried her triple chocolate cake,” Jake says, “you’d understand why we’re all desperate to win this.”
I only raise a singular brow in response.
Jake rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, you’re allergic. But shewouldmake a gluten-free version if you asked nicely.”
I don’t have the energy to remind him that celiac is an autoimmune disease, not an allergy, so I change the topic. “Saw you donated a ski weekend at your Colorado house.”
House is a lame description of his property in Colorado. It’s like classifying a Ferrari as just a car.
“Mm-hmm,” he replies noncommittally.
Jake comes from money. Most people don’t know because he doesn’t advertise it or flaunt it, but his combined family wealth makes our million-dollar contracts look like child’s play.
