The auctioneer glances around the room. “Can anyone top ten thousand?”
Silence. No one lifts a paddle.
She bangs her gavel with finality. “Sold to Miles and Tyler Falcon!”
“Who’s that for?” I ask them. “Charlie?”
They shake their heads, laughing softly and looking way too pleased. Those knowing grins are back, amplified by a thousand. No. Byten thousand.
Miles looks like he just nailed a game-winning goal and claps a heavy hand on my shoulder as Leighton comes up next to him, lifts her camera, and snaps a pic.
“You, Rowan,” he says, his tone dripping with amusement. “It’s foryou.”
I’d be less stunned if Santa himself slid down a chimney right now.
4
THE TEAM INTERVENTION
ROWAN
“I’m waiting,” I say, crossing my arms. We moved to the hotel bar thirty minutes ago, and I still haven’t gotten an explanation from these clowns.
Like, what the hell was that ambush?
“And you’re so patient,” Miles says, signaling to the bartender. “But this calls for a drink.”
The bartender wears a ridiculous Santa hat, tipped to the side, and a too-cool-for-school vest. He presents me with a glass garnished with a sprig of rosemary.
“Our best Macallan, Christmas-tree style, courtesy of your friends,” he announces, nodding to Miles and Tyler.
I pick up the glass, eye the festive decoration, and flick it aside, refusing to let holiday cheer sully my drink. No way am I turning down a Macallan. Especially since I’m not driving tonight.
I take a long swallow, enjoying the burn in my throat, and then fix my stare on the group. If this is their idea of a prank, more power to them. A matchmaker for me is a most excellent April Fool’s joke. But it’s November, a day past Thanksgiving, and the joke’s gone on a little too long.
Plus, Miles and Tyler have roped in half the team for this prank. Hugo, another defenseman, leans against the bar, grinning like this is the funniest thing he’s seen all year. Wesley, our winger-slash-playlist curator, chats with Asher—also a winger and officially the nicest guy on the planet. Even Max, our goalie and former team grump, nurses a drink here as he hangs out with the other guys in this corner of the bar. It feels like a trap. I’m pretty sure that’s because it is.
“I smell a rat,” I say, narrowing my eyes.
“You’ve got a good nose,” Tyler says, clapping me on the back.
Then the lead rat himself strolls in—my agent, Jason. Black hair, a movie star smile, and an expensive suit. I point at him like we’re in a court of law. “Did you put those clowns up to it?”
“Up to what?” Jason asks, too innocently.
“You know what.” I spread my arms, indicating the whole crew. “Also, you weren’t at the auction, so why the hell are you here now?” The smell of rat intensifies.
“I wouldn’t miss this post-auction moment for the world,” Jason says. He might as well be tossing popcorn into his mouth. “The wife and I put the kids to bed, and then I hoofed it over.”
I huff. “What the hell is this?”
Jason smirks. “Merry Christmas, Rowan.” He nods toward the guys gathered around the sleek hotel bar, which reeks of luxury, good times, and festive nights. “Did you thank your teammates for the gift?”
I turn to Tyler, my jaw ticking. “You’re the mastermind, aren’t you? You do know people can refuse gifts. It’s a thing.”
Tyler clears his throat. “Yeah, about that.”
I groan and drag a hand through my hair, not liking his response. Not one bit. “What part of ‘I can just refuse’ are you not getting?”
