Page 48

DALTON

“Damn, twenty-eight thousand ? That Anders guy must have a gold cock. Glad I didn’t get called off the bench for the meat show.

” Chase, our goalie and my only other teammate here tonight, says with a snort, slapping a mitt-sized hand on my shoulder.

“Thanks for taking one for the team. Good luck, Cap. Don’t bring us shame with some weak-ass winning bid.

Nothing under ten grand.” He eyeballs my snugly fitted suit and styled hair.

“Maybe unbutton your shirt a little further. Push those man pecks together.”

He reaches for my top button, laughing when I smack his hand away with a scathing side-eye.

“Watch it, kid, or I’ll have Ramona throw you in as a bonus prize on my date,” I say.

The threat is empty. We both know it. One, I don’t share the women I choose to bring back to my bed.

Never have. Never will. Two, my poor decision-making-dumb-ass is on a hiatus from women right now, since the last one I took home set my place on fire.

Not that Chase knows that. He and the rest of our teammates think I’m swearing off sex to focus on the game.

Because waking up with morning wood every damn day really helps you focus on stick handling.

If by stick you mean dick, then yes, that’s correct.

I’ve gotten good at handling my own stick.

Score one for masturbation as a grown-ass man courtesy of your own stupid choices.

Celibacy doesn’t mean a lack of sex drive.

Quite the opposite. The less sex you have, the more you think about it.

In other words, I’ve been thinking about it a lot.

“I borderline idolize you, man, but my first three-way is not going to be with the team captain.” Chase grins, sweeping the floppy mop of blonde curls out of his eyes. “Maybe if you’re lucky, you’ll land a Silver Vixen. They may be older than your mom, but damn, do they know how they like it!”

The second the “your mom” comment slips past his lips, I see the obligatory wince.

“Fuck man, sorry,” Chase says, guilt creasing the corner of his eyes.

I wave him off.

“All good, Chase. I know what you meant.” I nod to the exit at the back of the room as Anders slides back through the black curtains.

“Get out of here before I change my mind and shove you on that stage. Make good decisions.” I chide, like his damn grandpa, as he heads for the hotel’s bar.

Maybe a Silver Vixen is exactly what I need.

Most of them don’t want a relationship either, just a good lay with a lower risk of stalking.

Most of the women here tonight are worth way more than my generous contract.

“No promises!” He shouts, disappearing out the back door. Lucky bastard.

The reason I’m standing here in a suit and white dress shirt tight enough to show off all my assets has less to do with the team’s owner telling me to, and everything to do with the large check and public awareness of the Cancer Research Fund that helped my mom during her battle.

I won’t shake my ass on a stage for a date, but for charity?

Yeah, I’ll whore myself out for that. If my mom were still alive, she’d find it hysterical.

Probably be out there with a paddle herself, razzing the crowd to get higher bids.

An ache fills my chest thinking about it.

She’d especially adore the fact that Stella helped me plan the damn thing.

She always loved it when we siblings worked together.

In the main room, the announcer wraps up with the details about Anders’ charity, but I can’t hear much past the buzzing in my ears. It’s like this before a game, too. The world dulls to a hum as I get into the right mindset.

A strong hand grips my shoulder, dragging me to the opening of the makeshift stage.

Red lips, intense gaze, bronze skin flushed from dealing with all of us adrenaline-jacked-up bachelors.

Ramona, tonight’s host, says something that I can’t hear past the anxious hum.

Then the woman full-on slaps my hand when I try to stop her from undoing my shirt two more buttons.

Got it. She’s the boss here.

With a snap of her fingers, the muscular seam of my chest is exposed, then I’m spun and pushed out on stage into the blinding lights.

A litany of accolades booms over the speakers to a round of catcalls, the auctioneer hyping me up like a championship prize pig.

And in the name of charity, I turn on the charm.

The sly grin I save for winning over the tabloids slips into place, hands find my pockets, and I fucking strut toward the auctioneer, hitting the silver X Ramona taped on the platform.

The bid starts at a meager one thousand that the team will give me hell for, my ego boosting as it climbs to five, then ten, then twenty, then thirty.

What the actual fuck? This has to be a joke.

I squint, looking for Chase in the crowd, waving a paddle around and whistling at me, but I can’t see much beyond the first tables.

Damn spotlights. No one in their right mind would bid that much for a date.

Especially not for me. I’m a B-list celebrity compared to tonight’s roster. My jaw ratchets shut, muscles tensing.

Fuck.

No one in their right mind would bid that much.

I step off Ramona’s mark, face falling into the shadows, and for the first time, I can see past the front row of tables.

I track the auctioneer’s swiveling head as it bounces between two bidders.

And my heart fucking hiccups as I land on the brunette near the bar with flushed cheeks, messy chestnut curls spilling over her sinfully gorgeous body in waves.

And fuck me, that red dress. Hugging every glorious curve, it dips down into a deep V just under her sternum, flaunting the most spectacular breasts.

Not the high, tight fake kind, but the naturally shaped ones you fantasize about sucking between your lips.

Damn, that’s the kind of woman you shove your way across a packed bar just to be near .

One moment, she’s chugging water like her life depends on it.

Then next, she’s flicking up her bidding paddle, the gleaming forty-eight catching the lights as she bids on me.

Something’s off. Her eyes wander over the room, darting everywhere and yet never landing on the stage.

Or me. And God help me, I want them to land on me.

But as the bid jumps again in her favor, she doesn’t react.

Not even a glance up or smirk of triumph.

Her wrist continues to flick as the auctioneer swivels to the rival bidder.

I follow his gaze and nearly sprint off the stage when I find the second woman.

It’s fucking Ellie. America’s sweetheart stalker Ellie fuck my life Edwards.

The hair, the fake tattoos, the oversized sunglasses—they’re good.

A nice touch. But not good enough. There’s a tiny mole under those perfectly heart-shaped lips, and a familiar tilt to her head that I once thought was cute, but now comes off as Single-White-Female- level unnerving.

If those little tells didn’t give her away, then the distinct wiggle of her fingers when she catches my eye would.

Pressing a perfectly manicured finger to her lips, she has the nerve to blow a fucking kiss. Bile rises, and I choke it back down.

Fuck Peter and his bullshit advice. I should have gotten that damn restraining order.

“Thirty-five thousand dollars to bidder forty-eight!”

I snap back to the woman in the corner, her paddle waving as she stretches her neck back.

Realization hits like a tap to the balls.

She’s fanning herself. Not bidding. How the hell the auctioneer can’t see that is beyond me.

But I pray that paddle keeps moving, because this woman is my only hope.

Maybe she’s just being aloof, playing cool.

God, I hope that’s the case. Because if Ellie wins, I’m calling my lawyer the second that gavel strikes.

There’s no fucking way I’m going on a date with her.

Not even for charity. Not after she tried to burn my place down, and definitely not after she threatened my little sister.

No one fucks with my family. Other people’s jobs be damned.

I’m not letting her anywhere near me again.

“Forty-five thousand dollars!” Ellie yells, jumping up from her chair, and the room erupts into cheers.

That number flashes in my memory. A ranted conversation after Ellie’s card was declined at a restaurant one night.

It’s her entire monthly allowance. After nearly bankrupting herself, her accountant set up a monthly allowance for his biggest paying client, ensuring her financial stability as well as his own.

Hope flickers in my chest. She’s capped, and the auction’s rules are clear.

If her funds get declined, the bid falls to the next highest bidder.

My head whips back to the woman in the corner.

Jumping on the quickly escalating cost, the auctioneer points his hot pink gavel at the woman, shouting, “Do I hear fifty?”

My Adam’s apple bobs, fists clenching in my pockets.

She’s draining another glass of water, paddle held loosely at her side, completely oblivious that the next pivotal moments of my life rest in her hands.

“Going once… Going twice!”

“Fuck, gorgeous, please… raise your paddle. I will marry you. Whatever it takes. Just please raise that paddle, forty-eight,” I whisper. And as if hearing my plea, she does.

The room full on explodes as the new bid is confirmed, covering the scream ripping from Ellie’s throat as she slams her paddle into the ground, the wooden head splintering on impact.

Her tablemates recoil, but most drunkenly laugh it off as poor sportsmanship.

If they only knew the half of it. Ellie storms for the doors that head to the lobby, and the second the ballroom doors shut behind her, I turn back to the woman I just privately swore to marry.

The momentary relief I felt seconds ago vanishes, and my heart plummets.

There’s no excited scream. No victorious wave.

Just pure, raw panic. I recognize it instantly.

The blank stare, the shake in her hands.

It’s the kind of shock you can’t fake. My initial guess was right.

She wasn’t bidding. All color has drained from her beautiful face, and I know one thing for certain.

I have to get to this woman before she disputes her bid, and it falls back into Ellie’s waiting claws.