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“Have I rubbed off on you?” I joke, the blush flushing my cheeks even before I finish my sentence. “Because I feel like I’d remember every second of rubbing anything on you.”
He smirks, that infectious look taking my breath away momentarily. “If you weren’t sick …”
“I’m not that sick,” I murmur.
His smirk widens, and he laughs. He rises and presses a kiss to the top of my head while I swim in the sexual tension as it rises between us.
“Rest up, little Doe. Our time is coming.”
“Promise?” I tease.
The fire in his eyes rages. The soft brush of his rough fingers across my cheek ignites a blaze on my skin.
“Oh, I more than promise. But just know … the ball is in your court.”
Sam acts like I’m in control of this situation, but I feel more out of control right now than I’ve ever felt before in my life.
He grabs his suitcase while I rise from the couch and walk into the kitchen.
He pauses as he’s wheeling the luggage down the hallway to his bedroom and glances over his shoulder. “Emerson.”
“Yeah?” I ask while placing my glass in the dishwasher.
“Go to the benefit with me?”
“Like a date?” I ask, tilting my head.
He nods slowly. “Just like a date.”
“I’ll have to get a dress.”
He waits patiently while I’m running his offer through my head, already planning the night in advance. Me in some formal red number and him in a tux.
“Okay,” I agree, feigning nonchalance.
“Okay,” he repeats.
And just like that, everything shifts. And I no longer see an angry, selfish, self-absorbed hockey player when I look at Sam. Instead, he’s starting to look more like the stuff dreams are made of, flaws and all.
And I’m starting to feel like the reckless one—with my heart.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
SAM
The past week and a half have flown by. The schedule has been packed with home and away games, practices and recovery. I’ve shot a commercial for chocolate milk and been in talks with a local car dealership about representing them in ads. I’ve seen my coaches and my agent more than Emerson this week.
Emerson took a couple more days to get back on her feet and has been busy meeting up with friends or painting ever since. Oakley flew into town again, so she, Mads, Suki, and Emerson got together a few nights this week to do whatever it is that women do when they meet up. When she wasn’t doing that, she’s been holed up in her art room, creating masterpieces that I haven’t seen yet.
Mads and the PR group went crazy over the charity idea. Everything spiraled quickly and a dozen of my teammates signed up to be auctioned off. Emerson had planted the seed in my brain, and we watched as it all came together seamlessly.
Now, as I look around the event, it feels satisfying, like I’ve played a small part in making things better for someone else the way the charity did for my mom before she was on the remission list.
The event hall I’m standing in is decked out in black and gold with dozens of tables scattered around as the place fills with people. The charity coordinator quickly ran with the Hawks involvement, advertising all the guys relentlessly. The PR group for the Hawks joined in. The number of people attending the event quickly doubled as news spread that dates with Hawks players would be auctioned to the highest bidders, and they were forced to change the venue to accommodate the growing crowd. I know the organizers were scrambling, but they were thrilled at the same time, insisting this was a great problem to have.
I’m proud of myself, proud of my new teammates—who are no longer so new—and excited to be a part of such a great organization. When I look around at all the faces and see a few women with fancy head wraps on their heads that match their formal dresses, hiding the spot where their hair used to be, I can’t help but picture my mom. And I wish she were here tonight.
I swallow the lump in my throat and glance around the space, searching for Emerson, but she isn’t here yet. We had a late practice today, and Emerson had plans with Mads to get their hair and nails done, so we decided to meet here instead of arriving together.
