Page 97 of Pucking Around

I glance around the art museum gallery. “Everything looks beautiful, Poppy.”

“Oh well,” she says with a hurried wave. “I’m sure you’ve been to more than your fair share of these kinds of events.”

I just smile, making no reply. I literally can’t count the number of times I’ve attended a charity benefit. All I’m thinking about right now is how I’m starving, my feet hurt, and I forgot to pack my Spanx. Things were so hectic today that I did my hair and makeup in the ladies’ restroom before driving straight here.

I’m dressed to impress, but I’m not the focus tonight. The players are the real draw. The attendees don’t care about a plated salmon dinner or winning a silent auction trip to a winery. They just want to brush shoulders with two-time Stanley Cup winner Ilmari Kinnunen. They want to get up close and friendly with Canadian Olympian Head Coach Hodge Johnson.

Speaking of Kinnunen…I smirk as I spot him over in the corner, his huge frame bent over the silent auction table. He was my last patient of the day. We spent over an hour working on some hip strengthening exercises as part of his new PT regime.

I’ve learned to read him better over the past few weeks. For how easily he stands out in a crowd, he’s a very subtle person. His movements are small, his opinions understated, his actions deliberate. It’s as if his aura takes up so much space all on its own that he compensates by making the other pieces of himself smaller. I think I’d like to see Mars Kinnunen unleashed. What does he look like off the ice trying to dominate a situation?

Well, sweet heavens. Now I’m thinking about Mars Kinnunen dominating things.

Rein it in, psycho.

I blame the tuxedo. He looks hot enough to pour on pancakes. That tailored jacket fits him like a glove. Rachel approves.

Down, girl.

A few people stand behind him, whispering, watching him like a curious animal in an exhibit. People do that to him a lot. His size is certainly intimidating, and there’s that fuck-all-the-way off aura. He’s perhaps one of the least approachable people I’ve ever met.

So, of course, I waltz right up, snagging a bacon-wrapped shrimp skewer off a tray as I go. “Hey, Mars.”

He turns to look at me, his blue eyes taking me in. “You look different,” he mutters.

I snort, chewing on my shrimp. Is that a compliment? It’s impossible to tell with his deadpan delivery. “Yeah, it’s the concealer. Does me wonders, huh?”

“What?”

“Nothing,” I reply, taking a glass of red wine from a waiter. “You bidding on something?”

He gestures wordlessly down at the paper.

I lean in a little closer, unable to avoid taking in a whiff of his intoxicating cologne. I hold my breath, reading the top of the paper. “I—Mars—what the hell is this?” I set my glass aside. “These items are up for auction. Do you understand? You’re not guessing what you think the organization is worth. In this case, they’re asking you to donate the amount of your bid to the organization. It’s like a sponsorship.”

“I know,” he replies.

“You—” I gape at him, glancing back down at the paper. “Mars, you want to donate half a million dollars to a sea turtle conservation fund?”

“Yes.” This is a joke, right? He’s joking. His face says he’s not joking. I don’t think Mars Kinnunen knows how to make a joke.

“I—well, that’s a big investment, Mars. Have you done any research into this organization?”

“Ms. St. James vetted them, yes?”

“Well, I—” My honest answer is yes. Poppy is ruthless. I’m sure all of these auction items have been thoroughly vetted. But that’s not what’s confusing me.

“I’m sorry—the other guys are over there eating their weight in free appetizers,” I say, pointing to where Sully, Hanner, and J-Lo are all loading up tiny plates. “And you’re just casually over here donating five hundred thousand dollars to sea turtle conservation?”

“Is that not the point of this evening?” he says.

“Well…yeah,” I reply, snatching up my glass of wine. “But I mean, you could win the bid by donating likefivethousand dollars.”

“And how long do you think such a paltry amount will last the organization?” he counters. “Would it not be better to give them funds they can use to actually plan for the future?”

“Well…yeah,” I say again, sounding like a total broken record.

“And if I am in a position to help this organization, should I not help them? I have the money, I’m willing to part with it, and I’m intrigued by the cause. Should I not donate?”