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“What do you mean, what? Since when are you sucking face with Emerson?” he demands.
I look him in the eye. “Since now.”
“I saw that coming,” Ollie comments from behind us.
“Me too,” Coop chimes in.
Abernathy extracts a few bills from his wallet and slaps it into Coop’s waiting palm.
My brow furrows. “You were betting on me?”
“In my defense,” Abernathy says, “I never thought someone as smart as Emerson would go for your sorry ass.”
“I knew you’d wear her down,” Coop counters. He flashes the bills along with a smug grin. He glances around the rest of the group. “It’s the face. Sam’s too damn handsome for his own good.”
“I didn’t wear her down,” I grumble. “She’s just … different. Special.”
“That’s the most dangerous kind of woman,” Ollie says, slapping me on the shoulder. “The kind that you never see coming.”
“Like Mads?” I ask him.
“Exactly like Mads.” He nods as we share a knowing look.
“All right! Everyone gather around!” Ann yells, herding us like cattle.
She’s a tiny woman. She’s not only short—somewhere around five feet—but she’s petite too. Watching her boss around a bunch of hockey players is comical, especially when Tempe stands next to her. He’s six foot four inches tall and muscular. It looks like the Hulk—which is his nickname—standing next to Tinker Bell. But he cowers when she pointedly tells him to stop talking.
We line up with Ollie and me at the back.
“I see who the headliners are,” Abernathy bellyaches.
“There’s no doubt who the headliners are,” Ollie states arrogantly.
“Care to place a wager on it? Based on who brings in the most green …” he offers, rubbing his hands together.
“You’re already down two large tonight.” Cruz laughs.
“Yeah,” I chime in. “Save that cash for the silent auction.” I want the money to go to the cancer institute rather than one of my teammates.
“Scared you’ll lose, Anderson?” he asks with a smirk.
“Terrified,” I quip, rolling my eyes.
Most of these guys don’t know why I choose to support cancer treatment and research above all other charities. They don’t know about my mom. At some point, I’ll tell them. This night isn’t about ego for me.
The auction starts, and all the guys ham it up, strutting down the runway to the music as the announcer reads a bio on them and details their date. Women in the audience shout and whistle, egging them on.
Mads and the PR team came up with a venue and theme for each of us. There’s a picnic with Abernathy along Lake Michigan. A night of dinner and dancing with Cruz, who supposedly knows how to ballroom dance. I wanted to keep it simple. Dinner at a Michelin-starred restaurant at the top of a skyscraper is mine. It was all I would agree to.
The bids come in droves. The fundraising is a success before we’re halfway through the guys. But they saved the grand finale. I’m the last one onstage. With my partying reputation and all the rumors about my playboy lifestyle online, I turn out to be a big draw. The crowd is rowdy and revved up. I scan the people from behind the curtain, but I don’t see Emerson or Mads anywhere.
There are a group of affluent women at the front with paddles in their hands and diamonds around their necks. I spot Shantel in the mix. The blonde beauty catches my eye and winks at me before I can look away, and I start praying that someone else outbids her. She’s trouble. She was rude to Emerson earlier, and she made her uncomfortable. I don’t need some random female stirring up trouble for us before we’ve even started.
“And last but not least is,” the emcee announces through the microphone, “Sam Anderson, the newest addition to the Hawks team.”
I walk onstage. Clapping and shouting females reverberate around the space, stroking my ego in the process. I’m looking for Emerson, but I still can’t spot her.
“He’s offering an evening out with dinner at Angelo’s. And if that hotspot is not enticing enough, just look at that handsome face, ladies. Show ’em what they’re getting, Sam.”
