5. Ethan
FIVE
ETHAN
My agent insisted on booking me an escort, arguing it’d be a major faux pas to show up in LA without a glamorous woman on my arm. Everyone does it , he claimed. West Coast girls are the hottest in the world.
He has a flair for the dramatic.
Still, Aurora exceeded all my expectations. She’s absolutely stunning.
We entered the event, and all eyes were on us, or I should say, on her . In a panic, I steered away from the crowd and directly to our designated table. Once again, she glanced at me with disappointment, her cheeks reddened, after I skipped all the photographers. I’m positive she believes I dislike her.
But no, I’m just a secretive asshole.
In our semi-private booth, waiting for the main course, I struggle to find the words to ease her mind. I haven’t been on a date in years, not even with my supposed wife. It has been over six years since I had a meaningful conversation with an attractive woman.
I’m at a loss here, and I’m not accustomed to losing.
Too chickenshit to initiate anything, I sit here, stealing glances at my unbelievable date, while a few hockey players stop by to talk toher . To my surprise, she treats them with familiarity and kindness. She’s polite and appropriate and laughs at all their stupid jokes yet doesn’t offer them a hint of flirtation beyond her beautiful smile.
They regard me with distrust, and I wonder if I’m dating someone’s sister—someoneoff-limits. But no sane man would allow a woman as alluring as Aurora, sister or not, to date another hockey player. There’s no way.
Aurora is the embodiment of any man’s desire. She’s tall, reaching slightly above my shoulder with heels. Not too slender. Her body is a masterpiece wrapped in black satin that hugs her every curve.
Toned, mile-long legs are highlighted by strappy stilettos, and damn, that ass. Fine enough to convert a celibate priest.
Her tan skin is kissed by the sun. Her hair is a deep chocolate brown, styled in a high ponytail I’ve imagined wrapping around my fist more than once.
It doesn’t help that I haven’t had sex in…a long time. A year? Maybe two? Jesus.
I stare at her in a way that borders on creepy, admiring her pouty lips, which curve into a flirtatious smile, and her captivating whiskey eyes, which mirror my favorite drink and reveal all her emotions.
Beyond the physical, her anxious, submissive personality screams to my dominance. She’s a rare concoction of mischief, sincerity, and vulnerability I find irresistible.
And she smells like a damn cookie—honey and vanilla. I could eat her right up.
Except she’s out of my league and at least a decade younger.
I couldn’t hold on to a girl even when I was a pro hockey player. My size. My overbearing attitude. My lack of give-a-fuck.
Not that I tried or gave any effort whatsoever.
I’m not typically drawn to high-maintenance women. They’re too much work, offering little fun in return. Case in point: my narcissistic wife, who’d rather we didn’t have any interaction unless it benefits her public appearance.
From the beginning, I should have known her interest in me was fake. The honeymoon phase ended as quickly as the honeymoon itself, and in retrospect, it was all deception.
Me trying to be someone I wasn’t, her pretending to be faithful.
Maybe that’s why I’m attracted to Aurora. She’s authentic—even when it doesn’t suit her.
Initially, I found her candidness irritating. She saw that wedding band, and it was over. Her demeanor changed so fast, it took the wind out of my sails. Her attempt to communicate without passing judgment was commendable, but the disapproval seeping through her tone was impossible to miss.
That irked me. Here I was, putting myself out there, flirting for the first time in years—with an escort, no less—only to be judged for not discarding my wedding band. Believe me, I’ve contemplated pulling this damned thing off and throwing it away with everything it represents countless times. I’ll happily toss it over the Golden Gate Bridge as soon as I secure this coaching position and expose my wife’s infidelity.
So, here I am, at a swanky, ten-thousand-dollar-per-plate charity event hosted by the hockey team I’m hoping to coach, gawking at a gorgeous woman who’s disappointed to be my date—even though she’s paid to pretend otherwise.
Thank fuck nobody here recognizes me. Nor are they aware I’m vying for the head coaching position besides the general manager.
They may not know me, but I’m all too familiar with them. I’ve made it my mission to learn about every single person involved with the organization—especially the player at the bar, who has caught Aurora’s attention from across the room.
Jackson O’Reilly.
You don’t have to know hockey to know Jackson O’Reilly. Everyone knows him. He’s the team’s star player, both on and off the ice. His stats are impressive, unparalleled, and he keeps a low-profile private life. He’s a golden boy from a prominent family with no drama, negative publicity, or partying.
He only causes problems on the ice.
Given his restrained lifestyle, it’s doubtful the hockey star would take an interest in an escort, despite her remarkable appearance.
So why does her interest in him stir up such a powerful wave of jealousy within me ?