CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
SAM
The past week and a half have flown by. The schedule has been packed with home and away games, practices and recovery. I’ve shot a commercial for chocolate milk and been in talks with a local car dealership about representing them in ads. I’ve seen my coaches and my agent more than Emerson this week.
Emerson took a couple more days to get back on her feet and has been busy meeting up with friends or painting ever since. Oakley flew into town again, so she, Mads, Suki, and Emerson got together a few nights this week to do whatever it is that women do when they meet up. When she wasn’t doing that, she’s been holed up in her art room, creating masterpieces that I haven’t seen yet.
Mads and the PR group went crazy over the charity idea. Everything spiraled quickly and a dozen of my teammates signed up to be auctioned off. Emerson had planted the seed in my brain, and we watched as it all came together seamlessly.
Now, as I look around the event, it feels satisfying, like I’ve played a small part in making things better for someone else the way the charity did for my mom before she was on the remission list.
The event hall I’m standing in is decked out in black and gold with dozens of tables scattered around as the place fills with people. The charity coordinator quickly ran with the Hawks involvement, advertising all the guys relentlessly. The PR group for the Hawks joined in. The number of people attending the event quickly doubled as news spread that dates with Hawks players would be auctioned to the highest bidders, and they were forced to change the venue to accommodate the growing crowd. I know the organizers were scrambling, but they were thrilled at the same time, insisting this was a great problem to have.
I’m proud of myself, proud of my new teammates—who are no longer so new—and excited to be a part of such a great organization. When I look around at all the faces and see a few women with fancy head wraps on their heads that match their formal dresses, hiding the spot where their hair used to be, I can’t help but picture my mom. And I wish she were here tonight.
I swallow the lump in my throat and glance around the space, searching for Emerson, but she isn’t here yet. We had a late practice today, and Emerson had plans with Mads to get their hair and nails done, so we decided to meet here instead of arriving together.
“Here,” Ollie says, stepping closer to hand me a drink. “I bought you a drink.”
I take a sip of the amber liquid. The fiery burn of the whiskey tastes smoky on my tongue. “It’s an open bar.”
He smirks knowingly, and I laugh.
“What the hell is that?” I comment through squinting eyes as I see Cruz approaching us. He’s wearing an obnoxious gold tuxedo. “I didn’t even know they made suits that color.”
“It must be custom,” Ollie says, watching him walk closer.
“Would someone pay top dollar for that ?” I ask.
Ollie chuckles. “Cruz would.” Then, when our teammate walks closer, he asks him, “What are you wearing, Cruz?”
Cruz puffs out his chest proudly and smooths a hand through his dark hair. “It’s fire, right?”
“Oh, I’d set it on fire all right,” I joke.
Cruz smiles, completely unbothered as he runs a palm down his lapel. “Don’t be jealous, Anderson. I’m just reminding all the women here of the golden prize they’ll be getting when they bid on me in the live auction later.”
Coop steps into our circle. He does a double take when he glances at Cruz. “What the fuck, Cruz? I need shades on to look at you.”
“Whatever, man,” he replies, his easygoing nature shining through. “You guys are just mad you can’t pull something like this off.”
“You think you’re pulling that off?” Coop says after taking a drink of his beer. “You need to can your stylist.”
Ollie chuckles.
“I don’t have a stylist,” Cruz proclaims proudly.
“Maybe you should get one,” Ollie murmurs under his breath.
“I put this together all on my own,” he adds.
Tempe joins our group. “There’s a huge turnout tonight,” he observes, his eyebrows arching as he studies Cruz, scanning our teammate from head to toe. He shakes his head, but doesn’t comment on the attire. He glances over at me. “You were involved with this charity back in Cali?”
“Yep.” I nod. “They’re a good group.”
“Was the Anaheim team involved too?” he asks.
“No.” I don’t elaborate, and Tempe doesn’t push me for more.
“So, you’re saying we’re gonna blow the West Coast out of the water in donations tonight from the auction,” Cruz states proudly.
“Everything is always a competition with you,” Coop notes.
They keep talking, but their voices fade into the background when the crowd parts and I see a woman step forward. It takes a moment for my brain to register that the woman is Emerson. Her hair is mostly down, curled into ringlets that brush the tops of her shoulders with one side secured above her ear with a sparkling clip. The curve of her neck is enticing as she arches back and laughs when Madison says something in her ear. Her makeup is still natural, but heavier than she usually wears. And her lips … they’re full and a luscious, deep red color that matches her dress.
But that dress …
She’s wearing a strapless number that hugs her curves, clings to her narrow waist, and flares over her hourglass hips to the floor. There’s a slit on one side that rises all the way to her upper thigh. It’s about an inch from being indecent, drawing my eyes to those forbidden glimpses of golden skin and making her legs look a thousand miles long. She’s wearing the highest of heels, which I’ve never seen her in before. Her calves look shapely and toned in them when her skirt shifts out of the way. She’s incredibly sexy.
I watch as she moves, more than one head turning to glance at her, their attention lingering when it lands on her. But her eyes are darting around when they aren’t stuck on the ground. Her hands are fidgeting nervously. She’s completely oblivious to her appeal, like always.
I want to take her into the coat closet and push the dress out of the way so I can see if she’s wearing panties beneath her dress. I want to lick along her collarbone and taste those lips again. I want to show her just how appealing she is, to make her feel beautiful and desirable, the way I see her. And mostly, I want her lying beneath me, looking up with those golden-brown doe eyes, begging me to relieve the ache I created in her. I want to show her how addictive my touch can be. But I won’t. Not yet. The wondering if it will happen, but not knowing might be even hotter than giving in to the desire right away—or at least that’s what I’m telling myself when my restraint wavers.
Ollie shifts and brushes my shoulder, but when I look over at him, he’s staring at Madison. I barely noticed her standing beside Emerson.
“Damn,” Ollie murmurs beneath his breath, his eyes stuck on his girl.
“Yeah,” I agree, my gaze still on Emerson. I know I should temper my stare with all the Hawks executives milling around, but I can’t bring myself to care. Not with her looking like that.
I feel it the moment Emerson spots me. Her lips tilt upward as her gaze scans my body from head to toe appreciatively, our eyes connecting last. We stare for a few moments, both moving at the same time, meeting somewhere in the middle.
“Hey,” she says, somewhat breathlessly.
I pause. “You’re stunning.”
Her smile is soft as the blush on her cheeks deepens. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, never fully comfortable with a compliment. Somehow, it only makes me want to shower her with more.
“Thank you. You look really handsome in that tux.” She reaches over and brushes a piece of lint from my sleeve.
“Should I have worn a gold one instead?” I jest, glancing back at Cruz.
She follows my eyes, and hers widen. “Probably not.”
I arch a brow. “You don’t think I could pull it off?”
She’s smoldering when she looks back at me. “Somehow, I think you could pull off just about anything, Anderson.”
I smirk.
She laughs when she notices my expression. “Except maybe humbleness.”
I reach for her hand, my thumb stroking her wrist. Her skin is so soft …
“Sam Anderson,” a female voice thrums, interrupting our moment.
I glance over at the stranger, my grip tightening on Emerson when she attempts to pull away.
“Hello,” I say, forcing a smile even though I want to frown at the interruption. I’m trying to be hospitable tonight, even if I’m forced to fake it. “Do I know you?”
The woman looks to be in her upper twenties or early thirties. She’s pretty with long blonde hair and a tight-fitting dress, and she knows it. Confidence oozes off her lithe frame. She’s holding a wineglass in her hand. I recognize the look of interest in her eyes as she watches me. It’s attention that I would’ve welcomed in the past, but now, I find myself only tolerating it for the sake of charity.
“No, but I’m hoping to change that,” she purrs coyly. She extends her hand, and I reluctantly drop Emerson’s to shake it. “Shantel Rogers.”
She hasn’t acknowledged Emerson, which annoys me. This woman reminds me of Eve, Emerson’s sister. I remember the way Emerson disappeared as soon as her sister popped up that night at the bar. The last thing I want is for Shantel or anyone else to ruin the good vibe of the evening.
“Nice to meet you.” I drop the stranger’s hand and reach for Emerson again, tugging her to my side and slipping my arm across her shoulders. “We appreciate you coming. It’s a great cause to support,” I say diplomatically without giving the woman anything extra. “This is my date, Emerson Evans.”
Shantel glances over at the woman under my arm, her expression cooling several degrees as she finally addresses her.
Emerson mirrors her fake smile as she plays with my fingers, where they dangle across her shoulder. It’s a subtle claim, but one just the same. A reminder that she gets to touch me when Shantel can only wish for it. I take a sip of whiskey to hide the smirk that’s threatening to emerge as I realize my kitten has claws after all.
“We need to get you a drink,” I say to Emerson. I glance at Shantel again. “It was nice to meet you.”
I turn away with Emerson still nestled beneath my arm.
“Well, she was nice,” Emerson snarks sarcastically when we’re out of earshot.
I chuckle. “Yeah, it was sweet of her to acknowledge you.”
Emerson shrugs out of my hold when we reach the bar, and my frown is instant. I watch her pull away, physically and emotionally. She’s punishing me for Shantel’s attention. My woman in red orders a gin and tonic, leaning her back against the bar to scan the crowd. I can practically see the protective shield around her as she takes her space, and I instantly start plotting on how to break through it.
“You’re a hot commodity around this place.” She sighs, glancing over at me, and I can see the vulnerability in her gaze. “Women always throw themselves at you, don’t they?”
“Sometimes,” I answer. It’s more than sometimes. But I don’t want to contribute to her insecurities. “I don’t really notice.”
She scoffs and looks away with a wry smile on her face. “I’ve seen you in action before. And I don’t believe that, Sam.”
“No?” I question, stepping in front of her as the bartender lays her drink on the bar behind us. I set my whiskey beside it. I’m standing close, so close that her breasts are brushing my chest. But I want her full attention. I’m demanding it. And I want to show the rest of the women here tonight who I came with. I place my arms on either side of the bar, caging her in. “Well, believe this: I don’t give a shit about any other woman who approaches me tonight. Because all I see right now is you.”
She rolls her eyes and looks anywhere but at me. “Stop throwing your smooth lines at me, Sam. I’m not one of your conquests.”
“It isn’t a line, not with you,” I insist. I turn her chin until her golden eyes fuse with mine. The air crackles in between us. “It’s the truth. And you aren’t a conquest. Nothing about us makes much sense, Em, but you’re all I think about these days.”
It’s the most honest I’ve been with a woman in years. Maybe ever. I don’t want to play games with her.
She searches my face for a few beats, probably looking for lies. “It’s hard for me to believe you.”
“Why?” I murmur.
“Because you’re … you . Sam, the hockey stud. The man-whore. I’ve watched you for years, going from one woman to the next while not really caring about any of them.”
I wasn’t that way with Oakley, but I’m not dumb enough to point that out. Somehow, I don’t think it would win me any brownie points, mentioning my past girlfriend, who just so happens to be one of her current besties.
“I have done that,” I openly admit. “But give me a chance, Emerson. Let me show you that this is different. You’re different.”
“I’m not your type,” she declares, looking up at me with those eyes.
I get the sense she wants me to disagree with her, and I do, wholeheartedly. “Maybe that’s why I like you.”
She watches me again. “You scare me.”
“You scare me,” I counter.
I lean in and run my nose along her jaw. I feel it when her breath hitches. She smells sweet, like peaches.
“Someone will see …” she warns.
“I don’t care.” And I don’t. Our contract is the furthest thing from my mind right now.
I kiss along the sensitive skin of her neck, smiling when I feel the goose bumps I caused and stopping when my mouth is an inch away from her ear.
“Just give me a chance. I’ll prove it to you.”
I cradle her face in my hands and kiss her. Just a taste. It leaves me hungry for so much more.
She leans back until I can see that her skin is flushed all the way down her chest.
“I need a drink,” she breathes out in that husky voice of hers.
I chuckle, handing her the gin and tonic before chasing the taste of her with another sip of whiskey.
“Damn, Emerson! You look hot!” Cruz says from behind.
I grudgingly step away until I’m standing by her side.
Emerson’s smile is genuine as she returns my teammate’s greeting. She hugs him briefly. “So do you, Cruz.”
I arch my brow, and Emerson gives me a brief warning glance before turning her attention back to my teammate. I hold back the sarcastic remark on the tip of my tongue.
We become surrounded by the rest of the guys and Madison as the heaviness of the evening lightens. We eat and laugh together with the easiness of close friends who feel more like family than buddies or simply teammates at this point.
Ann, the event coordinator, comes to get us about an hour later in preparation for the live auction. Madison’s brows lift in surprise when I casually kiss Emerson goodbye before walking off. A few of the guys look equally shocked.
“Excuse me,” Cruz says.
“What?” I ask, following Ann to the back of the venue.
“What do you mean, what? Since when are you sucking face with Emerson?” he demands.
I look him in the eye. “Since now.”
“I saw that coming,” Ollie comments from behind us.
“Me too,” Coop chimes in.
Abernathy extracts a few bills from his wallet and slaps it into Coop’s waiting palm.
My brow furrows. “You were betting on me?”
“In my defense,” Abernathy says, “I never thought someone as smart as Emerson would go for your sorry ass.”
“I knew you’d wear her down,” Coop counters. He flashes the bills along with a smug grin. He glances around the rest of the group. “It’s the face. Sam’s too damn handsome for his own good.”
“I didn’t wear her down,” I grumble. “She’s just … different. Special.”
“That’s the most dangerous kind of woman,” Ollie says, slapping me on the shoulder. “The kind that you never see coming.”
“Like Mads?” I ask him.
“Exactly like Mads.” He nods as we share a knowing look.
“All right! Everyone gather around!” Ann yells, herding us like cattle.
She’s a tiny woman. She’s not only short—somewhere around five feet—but she’s petite too. Watching her boss around a bunch of hockey players is comical, especially when Tempe stands next to her. He’s six foot four inches tall and muscular. It looks like the Hulk—which is his nickname—standing next to Tinker Bell. But he cowers when she pointedly tells him to stop talking.
We line up with Ollie and me at the back.
“I see who the headliners are,” Abernathy bellyaches.
“There’s no doubt who the headliners are,” Ollie states arrogantly.
“Care to place a wager on it? Based on who brings in the most green …” he offers, rubbing his hands together.
“You’re already down two large tonight.” Cruz laughs.
“Yeah,” I chime in. “Save that cash for the silent auction.” I want the money to go to the cancer institute rather than one of my teammates.
“Scared you’ll lose, Anderson?” he asks with a smirk.
“Terrified,” I quip, rolling my eyes.
Most of these guys don’t know why I choose to support cancer treatment and research above all other charities. They don’t know about my mom. At some point, I’ll tell them. This night isn’t about ego for me.
The auction starts, and all the guys ham it up, strutting down the runway to the music as the announcer reads a bio on them and details their date. Women in the audience shout and whistle, egging them on.
Mads and the PR team came up with a venue and theme for each of us. There’s a picnic with Abernathy along Lake Michigan. A night of dinner and dancing with Cruz, who supposedly knows how to ballroom dance. I wanted to keep it simple. Dinner at a Michelin-starred restaurant at the top of a skyscraper is mine. It was all I would agree to.
The bids come in droves. The fundraising is a success before we’re halfway through the guys. But they saved the grand finale. I’m the last one onstage. With my partying reputation and all the rumors about my playboy lifestyle online, I turn out to be a big draw. The crowd is rowdy and revved up. I scan the people from behind the curtain, but I don’t see Emerson or Mads anywhere.
There are a group of affluent women at the front with paddles in their hands and diamonds around their necks. I spot Shantel in the mix. The blonde beauty catches my eye and winks at me before I can look away, and I start praying that someone else outbids her. She’s trouble. She was rude to Emerson earlier, and she made her uncomfortable. I don’t need some random female stirring up trouble for us before we’ve even started.
“And last but not least is,” the emcee announces through the microphone, “Sam Anderson, the newest addition to the Hawks team.”
I walk onstage. Clapping and shouting females reverberate around the space, stroking my ego in the process. I’m looking for Emerson, but I still can’t spot her.
“He’s offering an evening out with dinner at Angelo’s. And if that hotspot is not enticing enough, just look at that handsome face, ladies. Show ’em what they’re getting, Sam.”
I smirk and unbutton my jacket to whoops and hollers. Someone wolf-whistles as it slides off, and I drape it over one shoulder. I walk to the end of the stage, the glare of the lights, combined with the attention, creating a sheen of sweat across my brow. I finally find Emerson in the crowd. She’s standing off to the side with Madison by her side. I tip my chin at her and wink. She throws her head back and laughs. The bids keep mounting.
Someone yells for me to, “Take it off.”
“It’s not that kind of show, ladies,” the emcee shouts.
In the end, I go to the highest bidder of the night with the cancer charity racking up twenty-five grand on me alone. Shantel stopped at 10K, so I no longer need to worry about her. I was purchased by an equally beautiful young woman, but she doesn’t look like she wants to strip me naked and tie me to her bed, so that’s good.
I can’t find Emerson again when I’m finished with the theatrics, so I drift over to the silent auction area to kill some time. I’m scanning the lavish trips and jewelry that people are bidding on when I round a corner and freeze. There, displayed on a wall across the way, are two stunning paintings. Even without seeing her name at the bottom, I know they’re Emerson’s. One of them is the stormy sky scene she started in my living room that first day that Milo showed up. I haven’t seen it since. It’s finished now, and it’s stunning. She captured the building of the clouds over the water perfectly. The dark blues and grays are contrasted with the sunrays that are still peeking through, reflecting off the water. Her use of light and dark is spectacular. But the other painting is what really leaves me speechless. It’s a portrait of me, skating across the ice with my stick in hand and the puck in front of me. I’m dressed in my uniform and gloves with the helmet on my head. My face is colored with intensity. She captured my expression, revealing the exact way I feel when I’m playing, as if she were able to see inside my head. It instantly makes me feel understood. I feel seen.
I walk closer, shouldering my way through the crowd of people collected who are admiring her work. Ollie is one of them.
“This is Emerson’s?” he asks, pointing his half-filled glass toward the paintings.
I nod, staying silent as I study her work. I didn’t know she’d donated anything for tonight. And I sure as hell didn’t know she’d painted a picture of me.
“I knew she painted, but I didn’t realize she could do this,” Ollie adds.
“It’s pretty amazing,” I agree, mesmerized with the shapes and colors and the composition—I think that’s what you call it. All I know is, I can’t pull my eyes away from her work.
“Why has she been slinging coffee all this time?”
“I couldn’t tell you,” I admit. “But she’s too talented to not be showing her work somewhere.”
The truth is, I know nothing about the art world. I have no idea how Emerson took a blank canvas and created something this beautiful with only a set of basic oil paints and different-sized brushes. Her work is a cross between realism and impressionism—something I heard her say once. And it’s breathtaking—a word I would also use to describe the woman behind the work lately too.
But I know very little about Emerson’s attempt to break into the art world. I don’t know if she’s tried and failed. Or if she’s never really tried at all. Somehow, I think it might be the latter. Emerson doesn’t seem to recognize the power she contains. She’s oblivious to her beauty and sex appeal. And I bet that denial extends into her talent as an artist as well.
I stare at her work for a while, but it only takes me a second to decide. I write a number on a loose piece of paper that far exceeds the suggested starting bid and place it in the box in front of her piece. I do the same thing for the other one. I want those paintings hanging on the walls in my apartment. She started them in my place, and that’s where they belong.
I’m starting to wonder if it’s where she belongs too.