Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
cameron
Along one side of the ostentatiously large ballroom, silent auction items are displayed on draped tables, each with a bid sheet in front of it.
Everything from gift baskets and vacation packages to experiences donated by local businesses.
The closest glossy auction sign winks at me under the lighting, tempting me to lean in and read it.
Baking with Kennedy: A One-on-One Workshop
Whip up sweet memories in a private baking class with local pastry chef Kennedy Caplan! Whether you’re craving cookies or determined to master decadent brownies, you’ll leave with treats you made yourself and a few secrets from Kennedy’s cookbook. No prior experience needed, just a hungry stomach!
I chuckle under my breath.
“Whatcha looking at?” Jake, our team’s best right-winger, appears next to me wearing an infuriating grin. One that tells me he’s been watching me.
I clear my throat. “Just checking out the items.”
He tilts to the side, moving in closer, reading the cheeky laminated card. “Checking out Kennedy’s item, you mean. Are you going to bid on it?”
“Nah.”
“Good,” he says with a devilish grin. “Less competition for me.”
He scribbles his name down on the sheet, bidding just over five hundred dollars. When he sets it back down, I can’t help but scan the list of eager bidders. Just about every name is familiar. Like my teammates have all bid on this one-on-one class. What the hell?
“If you tried her triple chocolate cake,” Jake says, “you’d understand why we’re all desperate to win this.”
I only raise a singular brow in response.
Jake rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, you’re allergic. But she would make a gluten-free version if you asked nicely.”
I don’t have the energy to remind him that celiac is an autoimmune disease, not an allergy, so I change the topic. “Saw you donated a ski weekend at your Colorado house.”
House is a lame description of his property in Colorado. It’s like classifying a Ferrari as just a car.
“Mm-hmm,” he replies noncommittally.
Jake comes from money. Most people don’t know because he doesn’t advertise it or flaunt it, but his combined family wealth makes our million-dollar contracts look like child’s play.
“You don’t have any more family vacation homes lying around, do you?” I ask, only half kidding. “If you’d let me add it as my contribution, maybe that would get me out of the auction.”
I haven’t mentioned my live auction predicament to anyone other than Kennedy, but Logan knows. And if he knows, then every guy on our team knows. He can’t keep a secret to save his life.
“Nope,” Jake confirms. “The Hawaii house went to my dad’s last ex-wife in the divorce settlement. Sorry, man.”
I snort. His dad collects wives, and divorces, like Pokémon cards. “Too bad.”
We wander around, checking out the items and watching a friendly competition break out between two teammates who are both apparently major Taylor Swift fans and need the signed vinyl propped up on the table in front of them.
Dinner starts shortly after, and although the gluten-free meal they give me is decent, I’m too focused on the auction to enjoy it.
It doesn’t help that the guys at the table have been nonstop teasing me and taking bets on how high the bids will go.
Cole usually keeps everyone in line, but he’s so enraptured by Maya that I highly doubt he’d notice if the place went up in flames.
To add insult to injury, when dessert is served, all my teammates moan and groan about how good the cookies are—the cookies shaped like hockey jerseys with the Foundation’s logo stamped on them.
A bolt of jealousy floods my system. While they are all enjoying Kennedy’s baking, I have to suffice with raspberries and a stale macaron.
In a move of absolute immaturity, I grab the cookie off Logan’s plate.
“What the fuck?” he asks, mouth full of pie. Where did he even get pie? “I wanted that.”
I square my shoulders, holding the baked good tighter against my chest. “Too bad.”
“Why are you being a dick? Is it because you don’t want to be up for auction?” Logan asks, crumbs falling out of his mouth. “I thought Kennedy agreed.”
“Could you whisper any louder?” I take a swig of my drink. “And please chew with your mouth closed. I don’t need to see your uvula.”
“Men don’t have uvulas,” he shoots back. “Dumbass.”
I frown at him, being sure to keep the cookie out of his reach. Last time I checked, the teardrop-shaped thing that hangs down the back of the throat doesn’t discriminate based on sex. “What do you think a uvula is?”
“Ya know…” Logan motions to his crotch.
“The vulva?” I scoff.
“Bingo,” he replies, a piece of pie crust falling out of his mouth and onto his lap. “That one.”
“Dude—I…” Shaking my head, I snap my mouth shut. A conversation about female anatomy with Logan—who’s one and only experience with the female genitalia was during his own birth, as he’s apt to remind me—would not go over well.
He snatches his cookie out of my hand and shifts away from me as he takes a giant bite.
Tired of his antics, I scan the room. Almost instantly, I find Kennedy.
She’s a hand talker, arms moving animatedly as she chats with Sophie.
For a long time, Sophie avoided Bobcats events, claiming she felt like a stage-five clinger trailing after me.
Her friendship with Maya and Kennedy has pulled my shy sister out of her shell, and now she looks like she belongs here.
She always has, but now that she believes it, she’s so much more comfortable.
Sophie leans back slightly, barely avoiding Kennedy’s flailing hand as she continues to speak.
The auctioneer’s booming voice pulls me from my unabashed observation, and I shift my attention to the stage.
The Boston Bobcats Foundation charity logo is displayed proudly, making me equal parts appreciative and pensive.
As much as I hate small talk at events like this, I greatly respect the work our team’s foundation does.
When I joined the team, they launched an annual Hockey Fights Cancer fundraiser with the proceeds going toward cancer research.
They never once asked me to be the poster boy for the event, despite knowing my mom passed from ovarian cancer when I was eight, and I’ve always appreciated that.
As the auctioneer kicks off the bidding on a luxury suite seating package, I slump in my seat. Fuck me, this is going to absolutely suck.
Across the table, Jake chuckles. “Aw, c’mon, Davies. Having women bidding for time with you won’t be too bad. At least it’s better than being stuck in a roomful of spiders, right?”
I aim a dark glare in his direction. “Shut up.”
The fucker’s mouth curls into a smirk. The only reason he knows about my fear of spiders is because I once found one in my hotel bed. I refused to stay in the room after that, but the hotel was fully booked, so Jake graciously let me crash with him, but only after he forced me to tell him why.
I tug at the collar of my shirt and scan the room again, searching for a secret door or maybe an escape hatch. No such luck.
The auctioneer’s voice bounces around the ballroom, all velvet and bravado, as the bidding war for a signed team jersey finally winds down.
“Sold for fifteen hundred!” he booms.
The crowd claps politely. I don’t. My palms are sweating.
I know what’s next.
The auctioneer flashes me a wink like we’re in on this together. Asshole. “Up next… ladies, gentlemen, and hockey fans of all kinds… get ready for the hottest prize of the night. A date with Bobcats’ goalie… Cameron Davies.”
My pulse hammers as the crowd cheers. Logan, naturally, leads the charge, standing on his chair and whipping a satin napkin around in the air.
I school my expression, going for flattered rather than letting them see the way I’m plotting the demise of every person in this room.
As the auctioneer goes on like I’m a damn five-star experience in a tux, I massage my jaw, willing myself to relax.
It’s pointless because the familiar voice calling out “One thousand!” only sets me further on edge. Across the space, at one of the management tables, a slender hand shoots up, snagging my attention.
Gigi.
My shoulders sag. I haven’t run into her yet, thanks to Sloane and her incredible defense game. All night she’s been steering me in every direction except Gigi’s.
My ex’s dark brown hair is shorter than it was the last time I saw her, brushing her shoulders instead of falling halfway down her back.
She looks good. Objectively, she’s a beautiful woman, but I feel…
nothing. I let out a long breath when that realization hits.
Part of me was worried I’d feel a pang of nostalgia or regret, but she’s just another person in a crowded room.
The auctioneer lifts a brow and chuckles into the microphone. “Someone’s excited to get the party started, aren’t they? The starting bid is fifteen hundred—”
“Fifteen hundred,” Gigi counters.
Laughter flows through the room, and she smiles, eating up the attention.
“Seventeen hundred!” an unfamiliar voice shouts.
And we’re off.
“Eighteen hundred,” Gigi outbids smoothly.
Teeth gritted, I eye Kennedy. Any time now would be great for her to bid. When she catches me looking, I lift my arms, though I keep them close to my body and subtly make the universal sign of “well, what are you waiting for?”
Her face brightens, her lips curling up in a smile, and she fucking winks, clearly in no rush to ease my anxiety.
The heat of the room rises and my chest tightens like it’s caught in a clamp.
With a labored breath in, I undo a button on my shirt.
Logan whistles, assuming I’m adding “sexual energy” to boost the bids when in reality, I’m just trying not to pass out.
I’d rather sleep in a roomful of spiders than do this ever again.