1. Liv #2
A horn blared, mercifully releasing me from my wallowing.
One of the teams scored—I still wasn’t sure which I was supposed to care about—and I tried and failed again to watch until a fight broke out.
Gloves and helmets flew off, and flakes of ice sprayed as razor-sharp skates skidded across the ice.
With horrified captivation, I witnessed players from both teams pour off their respective benches and join the fray, indiscriminately throwing punches.
For a few shocked seconds, I watched fans leap to their feet to scream their enjoyment, then I glanced around only to find a cameraman a few rows down with a camera pointed directly at my face.
Again . I thought about flinging the greasy remains of my fries at him.
“Shouldn’t you be filming this?” I hissed. Again, panicky but angry horror churned through my stomach at the idea of thousands of people perceiving me and becoming a spectacle again.
“Weren’t you supposed to be watching the game earlier?” the man retorted, laughing as he swung the camera back toward the rink.
I flipped him off behind his back and stood to leave.
As I picked my way down the narrow steps, the announcer’s voice announced an upcoming eighties cover band concert coming to the arena, then he requested those with raffle tickets to direct their attention to the screen.
A number flashed in eye-wateringly bright white. Couldn’t hurt to check , I thought. A little thrill zipped through me as I poked around in my pocket until I found it.
524926
Holy shit, I won.
The only things I’d ever won in my life were the genetic lottery for long legs, an ample bosom and rear, and a keen mind for science.
I couldn’t remember the last time I went to a nice restaurant, and I salivated over thoughts of something so decadent.
Imagining a meal prepared by someone else and not in a paper bag sent my feet moving double-time down the remaining stairs.
Following the signs to the ticket office, I moved like a salmon swimming upstream through the throngs of sports fans on their way out.
“Livy! Hey, wait!”
“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” I muttered.
“Where are you going?”
I nearly jumped out of my skin at how close he was when he spoke.
“I have to go to the ticket office. I’ll just be a sec.” I tried to be commanding without sounding bossy.
A tall guy in gray sweatpants and a Knights sweatshirt with the hood up lounged against the door, scrolling on his phone. As we drew closer, he looked our way. Most of his face was in shadow from the hood, but I got a glimpse of a sharp jawline and the curve of his mouth as he turned toward us.
Ignoring my request, Brad followed me right up to the door, closer than HR would’ve allowed if they bothered to pay attention.
“You know what? Don’t wait for me. I’ll get an Uber home.” Ordering a rideshare would cost a kidney at this time of night, but I prayed it would get him off my back.
“Sure thing, Sweetcheeks. See ya tomorrow.”
Relief flooded me when he ambled off, and I decided not to bring up the gross pet name. This time.
Inside the office, a bored-looking teenager sat, legs crossed, on top of the counter.
“You the winner?” The kid asked, eyeing the ticket in my hand.
“This is the number they called out.” I handed over the ticket, and after a second to double check, the kid agreed.
“Cool. Yo, Bash!” The last sentence they yelled loud enough to echo in the small room.
The door opened, and Hoodie Guy walked in.
“I’ve got the paperwork ready for you to sign. Just the standard photo usage and promotional stuff, blah, blah, blah.”
“Okay.” The word stuck a bit as I looked over, unsure why this Bash person needed to be involved.
The man tugged down his hood, revealing deeply tanned skin, and a sharp jawline covered with several days' worth of stubble, a perfect mouth, and eyes black as my dad’s favorite coffee. He was vaguely familiar.
Those black eyes flicked lazily over me before turning back to the teenager. “This is my date?” He lifted a shoulder in my direction.
Date? What the fuck?
“Excuse me?—”
The teenager interrupted, “Yeah, she’s got the ticket. I’m about to give her the info and stuff to sign.”
“What date?”
“Well, sweetcheeks , a date is what you call it when two people go out. Together.” He’d clearly heard Brad’s epithet and mocked me while miming two people walking side by side with his hands, as if I needed an illustration.
What an ass . “Thanks for the newsflash. What do you mean your date?”
“The raffle you won was for a date with me. It was kind of the main selling point.”
“Wait, a lady gave me a ticket and said it was for dinner at a fancy restaurant, and honestly, I really only wanted the coupon for the free appetizer.”
For the first time, half a grin lifted his mouth. “A free appetizer, huh? Sorry to disappoint.”
“What exactly did I win?”
“A romantic, off-menu dinner at Le Rêve, with Asher the Basher. All proceeds go to local nonprofits, and this year’s donation is gonna be huge because of him. He’s pretty popular with the fans,” the teenager supplied helpfully.
Forgetting about my shitty insurance, I ground my teeth so hard these two probably heard it.
“So, you’re telling me in order to get the fancy dinner, I have to go on the date with him?
” With a glare sharp enough to put the snarliest of Karens to shame, I pointed at the too tall dark-haired player. “What the fuck?”
The guy’s shoulders, which were entirely too broad, shook with laughter. This wasn’t at all funny.
“Look, ma’am, the whole point of the raffle was to go out with him.
If you don’t want to, you don’t have to, but then you don’t get the dinner,” the teenager piped up and smiled ruefully.
“You’re lucky this year was a raffle. Last year, we did one of those charity auctions where fans could buy tickets to a dinner and then bid on all the players.
Well, a fistfight broke out after a bidding war, and it was nasty.
” The kid’s previously uninterested tone perked up during the reminiscing.
“Wait. Weren’t you the one they caught reading?” The Basher dude might’ve been asking out of curiosity, but his lingering smirk rankled as he deftly changed the subject before the teenager could show us videos of the fight.
“Caught makes it sound bad,” I said instead of answering.
“Was it too boring watching me play?”
I met his stare, really taking in his features. Realization smacked me; there were cardboard cutouts of this guy all over the arena, and his face appeared on the Jumbotron probably thirty times over the course of the night. He was the one who flashed his abs.
“As a matter of fact, yes. It was boring. You know, there’s a whole team down there, not just you and your muscles,” I said, eyeing the strain of his hoodie on his biceps. To my abject horror, his muscles were annoyingly perfect. If he weren’t such an ass, I might find it attractive.
He blinked, the thick, black length of his natural lashes giving my favorite mascara a run for its money.
“Damn, sweetheart, why don’t you just stab me next time?
It might hurt less.” The smile he flashed was blindingly white, the tiniest bit crooked, and wholly false.
“Are you going to take the dinner or not? I’ve got a lady waiting for me. ”
Of course, he fucking did. I decided to go on the date out of pure spite.
“You know what, I will. I’m not turning down dinner at Le Rêve because I have to go with some jock with an inflated ego.”
“Oh, you’re feisty. How fun.”
My blood went cold at his words, sarcastic as they were, and I kept my mouth shut as he continued.
“What will your boyfriend say about you going out with me?”
Ignoring him, I turned to the teenager. “Where do I sign?” At this point, I didn’t even care about the dinner anymore, but if I could piss this cocky fucker off, it would be worth it.
Once we squared everything away, the kid handed me an itinerary. “Great, thanks. Have fun with the lady you’ve kept waiting,” I sniped at him.
“I will. And ah, try not to fall in love with me on our date ,” he quipped back.
“Not a chance, buddy.”