One
DECLAN
There are exactly two reasons I’m wearing a tailored suit that costs more than the average person’s rent.
Two: My sister would kill me if I didn’t show up looking decent.
I fiddle with the cuffs of my dark navy jacket and scan the ballroom, dreading what’s on the agenda for the night.
Small talk.
Ass kissing.
People who smell like money and arrogance and wear their snobbery like expensive perfume. Rubbing elbows with team owners, Fortune 500 executives, and other elitist snobs.
This is not how I prefer to spend my Saturday evenings.
Give me a locker room that reeks of sweat and disappointment any day of the week over this. Tickets to a football game. A fight in Vegas with my friends.
A night with a beautiful woman.
Now, wouldn’t that be nice?
Too bad I’m in the doghouse.
I glance across the room toward my sister, Juliette, catching her eye in the process.
And standing not too far from her is Aaron Bishop.
My teammate.
Her boyfriend.
The guy whose girlfriend I slept with.
They broke up thanks to me, before he got together with my sister. So all’s well that ends well for Aaron. But for me? Yeah. So fucking awkward.
He catches my eye too and gives me a nod. Aaron looks good tonight, I’m reluctant to admit—clean-cut, dark and broody as usual—wrapped in an expensive tux. He might have a perma-scowl, but donors eat that shit up. Strong jaw. Intensity. The illusion of depth.
And lately? Respectability.
Dating my sister has done wonders for his image. Overnight, he’s gone from ruthless hockey player to family guy. The reformed bad boy of hockey; the media loves the idea of him having a softer side.
Turns out that standing next to an innocent-looking angel with blonde hair and blue eyes, who practically has a halo over her head, will do that for a dude. Makes the biggest, meanest bastard look like a hero.
Unlike myself.
I damn near imploded my personal life in the public eye by fucking around with a woman who was in a relationship.
Goddamn, do I need to get drunk.
I lift my glass slightly in Aaron’s direction as a peace offering.
He returns it.
Of course, my sister notices. She’s had her eyes on me since I walked in the door, as if I were an untrained dog she wants to put on a leash.
I turn toward the bar, slouching my shoulder to make myself smaller, as if that’s ever worked for me. Ha. I’m one giant motherfucker, barely squeezing in between a woman wrapped in diamonds and some dude with one foot in the grave.
I glance back over my shoulder to sneak a peek at Juliette and, “Shit.”
Too late, my sister is on the move.
She’s walking toward me, weaving in and out of people, smiling politely, holding her drink out so it doesn’t spill, eyes locked on me.
I swallow the tightness in my throat. I’ve been trying to be good, but trying doesn’t erase what I did to Aaron. It doesn’t un-fuck someone else’s girlfriend. It doesn’t undo the look on my sister’s face when she found out I couldn’t keep my dick in my pants and her opinion of me took a nosedive.
But I am trying.
Mostly.
Seriously though, give me a break. I love women!
I love flirting. I love the chase.
I love a challenge.
The moment before things go wrong, when everything feels possible and consequences are still theoretical, but then her boyfriend walks in on the two of you fucking…
I’ve never pretended to be a saint.
That’s Juliette’s job.
But lately, I’ve felt the need to be on my best behavior. No scandals. No whispers in the locker room that start with: Did you hear about Declan Kennedy… Did you see the fight that almost broke out between Bishop and Kennedy? Do you know why?
I’m tired.
I regret what I did.
I wish…
A woman brushes past me, expensive perfume hitting my senses, bare shoulder causing my head to turn, and instinctively, my eyes follow, dropping to the woman’s narrow waist, cinched tightly by a corset-style bodice.
How easy would it be to—
“Could you not?” Juliette begins. “That’s Curtis Markowitz’s fiancée.”
Is it?
How the hell was I supposed to know that?
“I didn’t do anything,” I say quickly to defend myself.
Her brows rise.
“What?” I huff out a laugh despite myself. “I’m allowed to look.”
“Yes. With your eyes. But you look like you wanted to follow her.”
“Me?” I am affronted. Truly.
“Yes, you.”
Fine. I might have been. “I was admiring craftsmanship. Her corset is doing the Lord’s work.”
Juliette hooks her arm through mine and gives me a little squeeze.
“Appreciate her boobs with your eyes facing straight—and try to keep the drool from dripping out the side of your mouth.”
“Wow,” I mutter. “One infraction and suddenly I’m on the naughty list all night?”
She pats my arm. “Gold star if you make it through the evening, two if you leave here alone.”
I snort. “Doubt that’s possible. I’m literally about to be auctioned off like a hunk of meat.”
Juliette laughs. “I can’t believe you agreed to this.”
I give her a sardonic look.
Please.
She was in the room when they pitched this idea—pen and paper out, professional face on—pretending the whole thing is normal. Let’s sell my brother for charity.
“You know better than anyone how sterile the entire thing is going to be. I had to sign a waiver. A conduct waiver. Nothing kills the mood faster than legal language.” I laugh, downing the rest of my brandy.
“There was a whole speech about professionalism and respect and representing the organization. I promised to behave, Scout’s honor. ”
The team up in marketing and player engagement wanted players who were single, no girlfriends. No one messy. Those of us with empty condos and refrigerators full of take-away containers.
Which—unfortunately—describes me perfectly.
Saying yes was a no-brainer. One night. One dinner. Charity gets paid.
I look like a team player.
Win-win.
My sister hums into her champagne glass, eyes scanning the room, cataloging potential bidders. “You’re tall, brooding, and handsome. How much do you think you’ll go for?”
“A lot.” I laugh.
This room reeks of money.
New money, old money.
There are a ton of high-worth individuals; no doubt someone’s pampered, stay-at-home daughter will want to bid on me and show me off to her snotty friends.
Or a cougar on her fourth husband.
Juliette tips her head, studying me with a smile. “You’ll spark a bidding war, for sure.”
“Probably,” I grumble immodestly, dreading the moment I’m standing in the center of the stage, spotlight shining on me as strangers in the audience vie for a day with me.
I cannot, for the life of me, imagine what sort of person I’ll be spending time with—and how much it’s going to cost them.
“Aww. It’s for a good cause,” Juliette says. “The money we raise tonight goes toward education in inner-city schools and literacy programs.”
They’re both causes near and dear to her heart.
“For a good cause,” I echo, setting my glass on the bar top for a fresh cocktail. “I’ll remind myself of that when I’m being paraded around like a show pony.”
Juliette’s soft laughter feels lighter than it’s been between us in a while. She’s not as guarded as she’s been since she found out I banged her boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend.
Not my proudest moment.
“So,” I tell her, nodding at the bartender. “Haven’t seen much of you lately.”
Her brows rise to her hairline. “Is this your subtle way of asking about Aaron?”
I huff, the corner of my mouth twitching. “Subtle has never really been my thing.”
My sister studies me then nods, as if deciding how much information to give me. She knows things aren’t great between her boyfriend and me, though we’re trying.
“Aaron and I are good,” she says finally. “Great, actually.”
My nod mirrors hers. “That’s… good.”
“In fact…” She hesitates to create suspense, trailing a finger around the rim of her glass. “We’re talking about moving in together.”
I think my eyes damn near bug out of my skull. “You’re what?”
Her head tilts. “Okay, maybe talking isn’t the right word? It’s more like we’re already in the planning stages.”
“Whose place?”
“His. Mine is closer to work, but his makes more sense, you know? It’s bigger and he owns it—and I still rent, so…”
Yeah, I don’t blame him. No one wants to move their shit from a penthouse in one of the most notable, historical residential buildings in the city—to her dumpy apartment the size of a shoebox.
No offense to her.
She lifts a shoulder. “It feels right.”
“Then I’m happy for you.” I pick up my drink and clink it gently against her glass. “Have you told Mom and Dad yet?”
Juliette waffles. “I will once we make a final decision. The last thing I need is Mom freaking out—or worse, stopping by for a tour—before we know dates.”
I snort. “She’ll bring a measuring tape—and unsolicited opinions.”
If there’s one thing our mother is good for, it’s bossing us around and inserting herself into our business when we allow it.
The lights dim another notch, and the loud chatter in the room shifts—anticipation buzzing throughout the ballroom.
T-minus ten minutes, according to my watch.
“Shit, it’s almost go-time,” I mutter, spotting one of the event coordinators for the Michigan Ice Wolves making a beeline for us—for me—clipboard in hand, headset on, purpose in her stride.
She is on a mission, and I am her target.
Juliette follows my gaze. “Oh goody! It’s showtime.”
I take another swig of my drink, needing all the liquid courage I can get. “I haven’t emotionally prepared to be paraded around the stage.”
She smirks. “I cannot wait to see this. You’re a hot commodity.”
I grimace at her. “I hate everything about that sentence.”
The coordinator reaches us, peppy and cheerful. “Mr. Kennedy, we’re lining up in five minutes. It would be wonderful if you could make your way toward that door at the far side of the room. I’ll need you near the stage shortly.”
I square my shoulders, chug the rest of my drink, set the glass down, and wipe my mouth with my sleeve.
“If I don’t survive, tell Mom I died doing the right thing. For charity.”
Juliette pats me on the sleeve of my jacket. “I’ll tell her you were the bravest boy.”
The stage lights shift toward center, and when the emcee begins testing the microphone mounted to a podium, heads in the crowd swivel.
“Ladies and gentlemen. Ice Wolves,” she proclaims. “If you could please take your seats; I know you’re all anxious to get started, and I’m happy to announce that the live auction will begin shortly.”
The coordinator’s hand lands lightly on my elbow, steering me gently away, moving with the kind of confidence that says resistance is pointless.
She’s getting me to that stage if it’s the last things she does…
“This way, please,” she chirps, leading me through a narrow path between tables. Heads turn. Someone whistles.
I pretend not to hear it as I crane my neck to glance back at my sister. Juliette lifts her champagne in a mock toast.
“Traitor,” I mouth. She grins and mouths back, “Smile.”
Easy for her to say.
She’s the one who volunteered me for this.
Since I’m on her shit list, what choice did I have?
We slip through a door and into a holding area where my teammates are lined up for inspection.
“What’s up, limp dick?” Garrett Storm laughs, giving me a smack on the arm. “Nice of you to show up.”
I grin at him. “That nickname describes you more than me.”
Storm claps me on the back. “Smile when you walk out. You look like you’re about to shit your pants.”
I am about to shit my pants. “I seriously loathe the idea of spending the evening with a woman old enough to be my grandmother.”
The thought sobers him. “Yeah, true.” Storm inhales, shoving his hands into the pockets of his tux. “And spoiled heiresses are fun, but only for about forty minutes.”
I gaze at him. “When did you date a spoiled heiress?”
He shrugs his wide shoulders. “I was in Skybox during the NFL playoffs and Priyanka Sylvester wanted to get drinks after.” He shrugs again. “After less than an hour, I was gnawing my own arm off to get away from her.”
Jesus.
The Sylvesters own Great Lakes Fury—one of the most valuable franchises in the football league. Old money. Ruthless family. And their daughter? A fixture at most games, Priyanka is always styled like she’s attending Fashion Week instead of a game.
She’s the kind of woman who doesn’t carry a purse because someone else carries it for her.
“Sorry dude, but that’s your own fault. You should have known better.”
Storm bobs his head. “Yeah.” Sighs. “Shitty part about this is we have no control over who we have to spend time with, ya know?”
“Eh,” I muse. “What’s the worst thing that can happen?”
Storm stares me down.
The corners of his mouth tip in a knowing smirk. “Dude, every time someone says that something real bad happens.”
I roll my eyes and scoff. “Please. I’ve survived worse. Hell, half my teeth have been knocked out; a couple of hours of polite conversation with some rich lady isn’t going to kill me.”
The lights dim slightly.
The crowd starts clapping.
But for the first time tonight, a strange prickle crawls up the back of my neck.
A tingle.
An awareness.
Maybe I tempted fate.
* * *
Keep reading here!