Chapter 2

two

ONE WEEK PRIOR

MADDOX

"Settle down, assholes," Coach Cross shouts over the din of the locker room. We've all changed out of our workout gear and have been waiting impatiently for this meeting to start. It's Friday night, and everyone has plans. Griffin Wright, Sebastian Navarro, Logan Byrne, and I are going to our favorite bar. Beer, hot women, and live music that never disappoints. Wright and Byrne go for the women, Navarro for the music, and I go for the beer.

"As all of you know, the off-season is the time of year when the Rogues do our annual charity event." Some guys grumble, others are excited, but Coach ignores them all. "We've had some great successes over the past few years, so our marketing and community outreach teams have gotten creative this year to top our past events. "

"Please don't be some exhausting meet and greet," Navarro murmurs from my left. He runs a tan hand through his jet-black hair, mussing it up.

"I hope there's food," Wright pipes up from my right, hazel eyes wide and excited.

"I just hope there are women," Byrne offers from Wright's other side. The guy's the consummate lady's man. Even after a hard practice, he looks put together. His dark blond hair is smoothed back, his gray eyes are sharp, and the stubble along his sharp jaw is perfectly groomed and purposeful.

"Shut up and listen," I tell them all with a roll of my eyes.

Wright snickers. "Yes, sir, Captain, sir."

Jesus. Like herding cats.

"This year," Coach says, shooting a glare our way, "the team will host a silent auction. It's a two-part event. There will be a dinner where guests can bid on prizes and experiences, as well as mingle with each of you."

That doesn't sound too bad. Not my idea of a good time, but survivable.

"We expect everyone to participate. You'll all sign jerseys, sticks, photos… all the normal stuff."

"Easy enough," I mumble.

"But the big draw will be dates with some of our players. People will bid on those online, and the dates will occur prior to the silent auction dinner." Everyone starts talking over each other while Navarro and I exchange horrified looks. "Anyone who wants to volunteer, see me after this meeting, and we'll get you signed up."

A few of the younger players look excited at the prospect of going on dates with rich women who've paid for the pleasure of their company like glorified escorts. They're the new blood. The guys that don't have puck bunnies lining up to blow them the way the seasoned players do. They crave the fame and recognition most of us old guys could live without.

"This is a great chance to show our team in a positive light, so there will be no sleeping with the women who win you," Coach says to the boos of a few. "You want to screw them, end the date and ask them on another one, even if it's five minutes later. You're not hookers, you're hockey players."

Wright chuckles, nudging me with his elbow. "They're called sex workers, Coach. Hooker is a derogatory term. And these guys aren't pretty enough to be sex workers. Me, on the other hand…"

"Jesus," I groan.

"One last thing," Coach says as my teammates stand to leave. He completely ignores Wright's comment. "Graves, you'll be taking part in the date auction, too." The locker room falls completely silent as all eyes turn my way.

"No. No fucking way, Coach. Absolutely not." The last thing I want—the very last thing—is to be forced into a dinner date with some vapid woman who's probably fifteen years older than me, married, and looking for someone exciting to cheat with. Or worse, a jersey chaser my age who thinks she can use a forced date with me to wiggle her way into my life. After all, I don't date anymore. Not after everything that happened. So what better way to bag the white whale of professional hockey?

"It's not a request, Graves. Not only will you draw enough interest to raise some serious money for our charities, but you've got an image problem. We're going to use this as a controlled way to fix that."

My friends chuckle under their breath. I elbow Wright, and it makes him laugh louder.

"I don't have an image problem," I scoff. "I'm one of the league's scoring leaders. I'm not off starting brawls, and you'll never see an article about how I was sloppy drunk in a single magazine or blog."

Coach shakes his head. The few streaks of gray in his dirty blond hair glint in the locker room lights. His mouth pulls into something between a grimace and a smile. "They call you the Gravedigger. Which would be great if they were just referring to your performance on the ice and not the way you brutally break up with every woman you've ever dated and bury her heart six feet under. You know I don't give a shit about any of that, but the public does."

I wince. I hate that name. It doesn't matter that the stories that spawned it are lies. The cursed moniker's still stuck. "Oh, come on, Coach. My dating life has nothing to do with the team."

"It does when your jilted girlfriends sell their stories to whatever gossip rag they can. Do you think it's just your name that gets dragged through the mud, then? Because it's not. The team's name is right there being dragged along with you."

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I try to ignore the amused stares of my teammates. They must think this is hilarious. At least someone does because I'm about to blow a gasket. "And how is some awkward date with a desperate rich woman going to help my image? "

"This is going to backfire," the rookie, Ryder Hanson, mutters.

"Because there will be photographers and reporters waiting to interview everyone after their dates. You'll take whoever wins the night with you out, treat her like a queen, make her feel special, and then she'll gush to the reporters about how wonderful you are." He crosses his arms over his chest. He's annoyed that he has to have this conversation with me. Well, guess what? I'm annoyed too. And I'm the one who's never going to hear the end of this tonight at the bar.

Coach shakes his head. "Prove that you're more than a heartless bastard, and it'll do wonders for your image and the team's. Hell, you might even find some of those endorsements you've been negotiating close a little easier."

Dammit.

"You're doing this, Graves. End of story."

"Whatever you say, Coach." He side-eyes me for my tone, but come on. This is so far from my idea of a good time. I don't date jersey chasers. I'll take them home for a few hours of fun when I have an itch that demands to be scratched, but that's it. They're not good for anything serious. They're all fake, simpering gold diggers. Candace hammered that lesson home when she sold a false story to the tabloids about how I used her after our breakup. Even though it was the other way around. She painted me as the bad guy when I let her down gently. Dragged my reputation through the mud to make a quick buck and prolong her fifteen minutes of fame.

Jersey chasers don't care about the men they chase. They care about the lifestyle. The money. The cameras pointed at their pretty, Botox-ed faces. I've been in this game too long to find them anything other than repugnant.

Coach pins me with his best take no shit stare before clapping his hands together. "All right, that's it. You're all dismissed. I expect everyone in the weight room by ten a.m. tomorrow."

There's a chorus of Yes, Coach , and he strides out of the locker room without a look back. I stare at his retreating form, at a loss for words. I'm so focused on Coach disappearing that I jump when Byrne claps a hand on my shoulder.

"Looks like our boy here could use that drink. Meet you all at Chasers in fifteen."

I grunt my agreement and fume the entire drive. I'm so irritated by the whole thing that I've got a perpetual scowl etched into my face, even when a few patrons cheer at my entrance and clap me on the back.

"Lighten up, man," Wright says when I head back to our table in the corner. "You look like your dog just died. Or maybe like you've got a turd prairie-dogging it, and you're struggling to keep it contained."

Navarro turns to look at Wright with a raised brow and curled lip. "Classy, Griffin."

Griffin Wright shrugs. "You're all thinking it."

"I can tell you we weren't," Byrne says with a laugh. He slides a foamy pint across the table to me. "Drinks are on me tonight."

The beer is cold, and it goes down smooth, but the flavor's tainted by the knowledge that, in just a couple of weeks, I'll have to sit at some fancy restaurant in one of my best game-day suits and try to make a strange woman feel like I enjoy her company. "Thanks, Logan."

Byrne nods. "So, a date auction, huh? That should be fun."

Right. Fun . "I'd rather have second-degree sunburn on my balls."

"Are you going to sign up to go on a date?" Navarro asks Byrne, ignoring me.

"You know there'd be a bidding war for a date with the Logan Byrne." He puffs out his chest and does that douchey thing where he smooths his fingers over his eyebrows. "I'd hate to overshadow Madds's big day."

"Oh, jump off a cliff," I grumble. Even so, it's a struggle to smother the smile trying to twitch its way onto my face.

Wright and Byrne start talking about the women at the bar and who they want to bring home, and Navarro leans toward me. "Seriously, man. You okay?"

No.

"I'm fine. It's just crap."

Navarro nods, and his expression is so solemn I know he's not just humoring me. He knows the whole story behind the exposés. He knows how they affected me, my sister, and my mom. I've worked hard to get where I am for them, and those women I dated almost blew all of it to hell. I won't make that mistake again, which is why being forced into this date is such a slap in the face. I don't have room for relationships in my life outside of the guys on my team and my family. They're what matters and the reason I strive to be the very best.

"Maybe it'll be better than you expect," he says before taking a swig of his IPA. "Who knows, maybe she'll be smart and pretty, and you'll fall madly in love. "

I hold his dark gaze for a few beats before we both burst out into raucous laughter.

Right. Maybe she'll be my soulmate.

And maybe tomorrow I'll be crowned the King of England.