Chapter 7

seven

MADDOX

I don't know what to make of Isla Harding.

I thought for sure the happy, calculating look she gave me meant she was doing the math on how much money she could get me to spend. Between the cash she forked out for this date and the expensive dress she's wearing, it's clear the woman values money. Or at least has expensive tastes. So finding out that not only is she an English teacher at a school most wealthy women wouldn't step foot in, but she wants to use her favor to get me to speak to her students?

I'm stumped. Utterly confused. And I'm looking at my date in a whole new light.

It will be very inconvenient if she ends up being likable.

"So, are you a big hockey fan?" I need to figure her out.

She chuckles as she pushes her salad around. "I've never watched a hockey game in my life. "

"Never?" How did she hear about the auction if she isn't a hockey fan? "Just a hometown sports fan, then?"

"Um, not really. I'd rather read a good book than watch sports. I've never seen the appeal." She wrinkles her nose. "Like, what's so great about watching a bunch of guys who all think their dicks are the biggest in the room play with a ball or slap things around with a stick? Am I supposed to be impressed by that? And then all the guys just sitting around drinking beer while watching think their dicks are somehow bigger just for watching it. It's a real sausage fest, isn't it?"

It's clear by her expression that sausage fest isn't a compliment. I'm torn between being completely offended at the way she's describing my profession and utterly amused.

"And don't even get me started on the rampant misogyny involved with sports. Women athletes are called all kinds of names by men, and even if you just enjoy watching sports as a woman, you have to prove you're watching it for the right reasons. Or that you're an expert on the game. Because if you only casually enjoy watching, you must just like watching men run around in tight pants. As if that's a crime. Or you're a jersey chaser or a ball bunny or some other insulting name that implies any woman at a sports game must be on the prowl for a rich husband. That you're happy to be used as a sexual object because you athletes must have dicks made of twenty-four-carat gold." Her hands gesture wildly by the end of this speech, her eyes are full of fire, and I am more confused than ever.

"Twenty-four-carat gold is actually really soft." That's all I can think of to say. Because I am completely at a loss. Everything I assumed about Isla seems false, and now I want to know how she and I came to be sitting across this table from each other.

My dumb observation earns a genuine laugh from her, and the sound shoots straight to my cock. It's free and loud and real.

"Exactly. And who wants to chase around after some limp-dicked, egomaniacal man-child? No, thank you."

Man-child? What the hell? "Wow. Good to know how you really feel about me, Isla."

"Oh." A blush steals over her cheeks. "I wasn't talking about you ."

That has me laughing because that's exactly what I've been acting like. An egomaniacal man-child. She's absolutely describing me, and I deserve it. "You are. And it's okay. I only have myself to blame."

She hums a sound of agreement as she takes another bite of her dinner. "True."

"So if you're not a sports fan and you've never watched a hockey game in your life, do you mind me asking why you'd want to go on a date with me?" I need to know. It's practically a compulsion because I can't make sense of her.

"Um, I didn't." The blush grows brighter as she bends her head so she's looking at her dinner plate instead of me.

"Wait, what? Were you trying to get a date with one of the other players and accidentally clicked on me or something?" Wouldn't that be a kick to the ego?

Isla tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and peeks up at me through the fringe of her long lashes. "Nope. None of this was my idea. I was tricked into it."

Well, that's an even bigger blow than accidentally winning a date with me instead of one of my lesser-known teammates. I clear my throat. "What do you mean, tricked into it?"

"It's… it's a long story," she says, chewing her bottom lip. She makes the briefest moment of eye contact before she goes back to staring at her plate like it's the Mona Lisa and she's trying to decode what made her smile. "But my best friends have been trying to break me out of my shell after a… after a bad breakup. And for some reason, they thought tricking me into agreeing to a date with you would be just the thing I needed."

There's so much to unpack in that statement, I don't even know where to start. Isla's friends were the ones who bid on the date? Why? If she isn't into sports, why spend all of that money? And what does she mean, a bad breakup? Did he hurt her?

And now I feel like a real piece of shit. Because I hurt her. Shifting in my seat, I study her beautiful face, noting the signs of discomfort. Pursed lips, tense shoulders, and she can't maintain eye contact with me. I don't want to make her even more uncomfortable, but I need to understand. "Why would your friends think a date with me would help?"

She squirms uncomfortably. "It's pathetic."

"I doubt that," I say, making my voice as gentle as possible.

"No, it is. I haven't… I haven't been on a date or even really left my house since my ex ended things with me." Every quiet word is a knife twisting in my gut because I treated this woman like garbage when she was already down. She steals a glance at me. "I guess they figured a date with a guy like you would be the perfect way to get ready to put myself out there again because there wouldn't be any pressure associated with it. I mean, it's not like a date with you would go anywhere." She pushes her food around on her plate with her fork.

"They thought it would be a fun way to practice getting to know a stranger. Then at the end of the night, I could ask you to take a selfie with me to post on social media so my ex doesn't think I've spent the last five months eating too many donuts alone in my apartment like a hermit." She laughs, but it's hollow. Nothing like the free sound that came out of her mouth a minute or two ago. Her blue eyes meet mine. "See? Told you it was pathetic."

I am the biggest asshole on the planet.

She didn't pay a ridiculous amount of money to worm her way into my life. Hell, given her profession, it's unlikely she even has that kind of disposable income. She wasn't trying to trap a rich hockey player. She didn't even want to come tonight, but she did to make her friends happy. Her friends who were trying to help her get over a broken heart by setting her up with a fun night. A night that I ruined by making her feel like she was nothing more than an unwanted obligation.

All she wanted from me was a selfie.

"I don't think it's pathetic," I tell her. "It sounds like your friends care about you very much, and I know how much a bad breakup can mess with your head."

Blue eyes lift to meet mine. "You do?"

All too well. "Yep. Just ask my teammates. There were a few times I lost us games because my head was all fucked up after a breakup."

"I can't picture you as the relationship type," Isla says. A small, mischievous smile tugs at the corner of her lips. "You strike me as a hit it and quit it guy. "

My answering laugh is loud enough to draw the attention of the tables nearest to us. "I guess I kind of am now."

"Maybe that's what I'll do. Just decide I don't care about being in a relationship and throw myself into a series of hot, meaningless flings."

Something tells me Isla Harding couldn't be a meaningless fling girl even if she tried. It's obvious from the way she speaks about her students and friends that she values people and relationships too highly for that. So I offer her a shred of vulnerability. "It's not always as fun as it sounds."

She cocks her head to the side and opens her mouth just as the server approaches the table to check on us and offer dessert. He informs us that the reporter from Minnesota Sports Monthly will arrive shortly. And just like that, the moment shatters. I watch as Isla rebuilds her walls, and I know I won't get any more out of her about her friends or former relationship.

And maybe it's stupid, but I want to know. It's been hell resisting her and ignoring her throughout dinner. I want to understand what kind of guy could give her up and hurt her the way her ex did. I want her to let me in, even though I don't deserve it.

I misread her. Completely. And I can't help feeling like I cheated myself by being an ass. Because sure, I cheated her out of the night she deserved, but I also cheated myself out of the chance to get to know a woman who is clearly worth knowing.

"Don't worry," she says, likely mistaking my silence and far-away expression for nervousness about the interview. "I'll tell them you were a perfect gentleman. "

"Why would you lie for me?" I sure as hell don't deserve it.

She shrugs. "We didn't get off to a great start, but you agreed to come speak to my students. That's enough to earn a glowing report in my book." I want to reach across the table and tug her lower lip out from between her teeth with my thumb. I want to tell her she should expect more from others. From me. "Do you think we could take a couple of selfies? Would that be okay?"

I give her my most charming smile. "Of course it's okay. I'd love to. And we'll need to exchange phone numbers while you have your phone out."

Her eyes go wide. "We will?"

"Of course." God, she's adorable. "We'll have to hammer out the details about coming to speak at your school."

"Oh." Isla shakes her head softly. "Yeah. Of course. The assembly."

Right. The assembly. I certainly don't want her number for any other reason. Because Isla may be beautiful and kind, but I've sworn off relationships. And she would be a distraction I can't afford at the start of the preseason.

No matter how tempting she may be.