Chapter Eleven

Bex

The ballroom of the convention center downtown is filled with the sound of laughter, conversation, and the clinking of glasses from the open bar.I tug at the collar of my perfectly tailored jacket, the fabric feeling tighter than it should. Galas like this have never been my scene—too much small talk, too many forced smiles, and an overwhelming amount of posturing. If I had my way, I’d be back on the ice where things are simple, straightforward, and free of all this pretense.

But tonight is essential. Briggs and Autumn asked for support—even sent a limo to The Commons to pick me up tonight, though it was unnecessary, I could have taken a cab. They sent a limo for Sam and one for Phil and his wife as well.

Considering how much they’re doing for these kids and the families that they sponsor, the least I can do is show up, smile, and help earn some money for Kids With Cancer— a charity that I believe in and have donated a sizable yet deserving amount over the last two years since Briggs started it.

I'd just as soon write them a fat check and then be out of here tonight, but it's not a total loss of an evening. There are always a few alumni players who show up for Hawkeyes events. And Tucker Evans, the coach for the Seattle NFL team, texted me asking if I'd be here tonight. He and his wife Lexi should be around here somewhere.

I scan the room, not entirely sure of who I'm looking for as my eyes skip over faces, silk-covered tables with flower arrangements, ice sculptures, and expensive gowns until they land on her . The woman that it seems I'm always looking for in a crowded room and packed stadium. She's standing by one of the art pieces up for auction in the left corner of the event center. She looks stunning—self-assured—graceful even. Like she always does.

But she’s more than all of that— she's utterly captivating. Witty, intelligent, with a career focus that I can respect, even if I don’t appreciate that writing about my team is her ticket up the corporate ladder.

Men rubber neck to check out the gorgeous blonde in the blue dress as they walk by her. I can't blame them for admiring her, even if the sight of it has my bow tie feeling tighter around my throat than it did when I walked in.

The blue dress she’s wearing clings to her as if it was tailor fitted, the intricate beading shimmering under the soft lights and her blonde hair up in some kind of knot that I wouldn't know the first thing about how to take down, not that I’ll ever get the opportunity to learn. The dress is completely backless, stopping just above her ass and showing off those two sexy dimples that I imagine running my fingers over after sneaking her off to some dark broom closet around here. Only, Rowan’s too smart to let me guide her anywhere, and I know well enough to keep my hands to myself.

Or at least I did before I walked in and saw her dressed like that.

A long slit runs down the seam of her dress that shows off the back of her legs each time she shifts from one leg to the other, studying a painting, with one arm folded over her rib cage and the other one holding a program in her hand of the items up for auction. The same program I was handed when I walked in.

A man in a tux with his hair slicked back, about forty years older than her, takes a spot at her side before I can get there. He grins at her in a way he has no right to, but I keep at my pace, not speeding up. Maybe I'm interested in how she'll handle him or maybe I don’t want to draw attention from other guests of the target I’ve zeroed in on.

A waiter steps into my path, balancing a tray of champagne flutes as I nearly brush past him. I stop in my tracks, my gaze fixed on her, ensuring she stays exactly where she is. She doesn’t seem to have a drink in hand, at least not that I can see.

I set the program I’m holding onto the waiter’s tray and grab one of the champagne flutes with a curt “Thanks.” Sliding a hundred-dollar bill from the money clip I brought tonight, I tuck it into his hand. “Do me a favor,” I say, keeping my eyes trained on her. “Grab me a beer—something half decent—and keep ’em coming.”

It's an open bar, but the tip should incentivize the waiter to bring me a few beers at least, saving me from having to stand in the long bar line and make small talk with people I don't know. Besides, something tells me that I'll be looking at art all night.

I continue toward my target, watching as Rowan entertains the man's presence next to her, pointing at the painting and discussing something about the piece based on the way he nods, staring at the artwork. I've spent enough time around art and in galleries, growing up with parents who lived, breathed, and worked in the art world, that I know the pieces displayed here are collector items

Juliet’s sister-in-law, Harper, is an art curator, and she pulled together an impressive showing for this event.

Rowan continues to talk to the man as I draw closer.

"The thing about impasto technique," she says, motioning toward the painting in front of them, "is that it's all about texture. Do you see how the artist laid the paint on thick? It's almost sculptural. Like you could reach out and touch the ridges, that’s what gives it such depth—almost as if the painting is a window that you can reach out and touch and not just a canvas hanging on a wall." She traces the air in front of the painting, to help explain her point. "Van Gogh was famous for using this style. His work was filled with movement and emotion, and you can see how this artist was clearly inspired by him."

Just as soon as I think I have Rowan figured out, she does something to throw me off kilter. I had no idea that she knew that much about art. And the way her face lights up as she discusses it with the man not worth her breath has me wanting to be the one she's explaining painting techniques and brushstrokes to. To have those happy, eager eyes on mine instead.

I could listen to her talk about Van Gogh all day even though I don't care about art—not the way my family or Rowan care about it, anyway.

I hear the man struggle to add to the conversation, it's obvious that he's not standing there for the painting. However, I could be persuaded tonight to agree that Rowan in that dress looks like a priceless piece of art. Only, I don’t want her hanging on my wall… I want her in my bed. And that’s the reason why I should turn around right now and find someone else to talk to, but I’m too invested now.

The man standing next to her is completely out of his depth but nods appreciatively, his eyes narrowing as if trying to make a show of critiquing the painting. “Ah, yes, Van Gogh,” he says, but he doesn't have a damn clue. “Quite… quite impressive.”

I bite back a grin. He probably couldn’t pick Van Gogh out of a lineup of dogs playing poker.

I finally reach her side and stand next to her, close enough to catch a whiff of her usual perfume and to make sure that the moment the man standing next to her sees me, he'll back off, noticing that I'm staking my claim. Though my only intention is to protect her, not to claim her for myself—that would be a mistake that we’d both pay for later when Rowan realizes that she’ll only ever be number two to hockey, just like every woman before her. That is, if I could get past the fact that she’s a reporter, always looking for a story. But he doesn't need to know that.

I'd do the same thing for Keely, Penelope—any of the Hawkeyes girls, if I thought they needed me to run interference on unwanted attention and I guess Rowan is a part of that now.

She hasn't noticed me yet, and her attention is still on the painting.

“It’s one of the more abstract pieces in the collection,” she says, her voice thoughtful, her eyes scanning the brushstrokes. “But if you look closely, you can see the story in it. The artist uses these sweeping strokes to create motion, almost like a gust of wind, but if you focus on the smaller details, you’ll notice little touches of red, symbolizing... I think, hope.”

Her words catch me off guard. I didn’t expect her to know so much about art.

“You know your stuff,” I say, behind her.

Rowan whips around when she hears my voice, her eyes wide and her lips parted. She didn’t see me coming, which was my intention.

"Coach Bex…" she says almost in a whisper.

The man's eyes widen a little.

"Coach Townsend," the man says, coming around the other side of Rowan to offer up his hand. "It's an honor to meet you. I was hoping you'd be here tonight."

I shake his hand, the champagne glass I brought for Rowan in the other hand. I squeeze his hand a little tighter than I should, making a nonverbal point that I don't like him around Rowan.

He makes a muffled sound of discomfort.

"Sorry," I say, releasing his hand. "Hockey grip—occupational hazard."

"Right, of course," he says, pulling his hand from mine, attempting to discreetly shake off the pain.

I offer the champagne glass to Rowan, and she takes it, eying me cautiously.

I bend close to her ear, keeping it between us. “I didn’t poison it. I promise.”

A glint sparkles in her eye and the corner of her lip turns up a little. “Good to know,” she says and then takes a small sip, an appreciative hum as soon as the sparkling liquid hits her lips.

I use the politest scowl I can muster and stare back at the man. Finally, he catches on that I’m not the one intruding… he’s now no longer welcome to stand by Rowan.

"Oh, are you two…?" he asks, his pointer finger wagging between us to ask if we're together.

I say, “Yes,” quickly before Rowan can say no.

She shoots a death glare up at me, but he doesn’t notice because his eyes are fixed on me.

"Will you excuse me… I think I see…" he doesn't finish his excuse before he leaves as quickly as he can.

Rowan's lips pinch together, her eyebrows stitching together. "You didn't have to be rude. And you lied–we’re not together."

"I didn't like the way he was looking at you," I say, satisfied that the man made my job easy.

I didn't have to physically remove him from Rowan's side. I would have done it if he had forced my hand, but I'd rather not make a scene. This charity is important for the kids who need our help, and I don't want to make Briggs, Autumn, or the Hawkeyes franchise, who are co-hosting this event, look bad.

"And how was he looking at me?" she asks and then takes another sip.

"Like you were up for auction,” I say, sliding one hand into my dress pant pocket.

She gives me a narrowed look.

"Wouldn't you love that? Someone swooping by, picking me up and whisking me out of your life? Problem solved, right?"

"Only if you'd like to see a bidding war."

She scoffs. "What bidding war?"

"The one where I empty my entire bank account to keep that creep from taking you home."

She stares at me for a second as if to gauge my sincerity about spending all of my money to win her in an auction.

I would have done it if I had to, but Rowan has too much spirit to let anyone own her. That much, I know. She sees something in my eyes, swallows hard, and cuts our connection to focus back on the painting.

“Don’t do that,” she says.

“Don’t do what?” I ask, leaning in closer.

"Don't pretend to be a knight in shining armor who suddenly has an interest in where I am, who I’m with, or where I end up tonight. The Bex I know only cares about my proximity to his beloved team. Let’s not kid ourselves, you’d never pay a dime for me. And by the way, he wasn't a creep, he was very polite. We were having a lovely conversation about art before you showed up and interrupted by the way."

"He's at least thirty years older than you. He's a creep."

She shifts her weight from one side to the other, jutting out her hip in a casual yet confident stance.

"Oh really. You're eighteen years older; what does that make you?" She challenges me.

I take a step closer, watching as she holds her breath at my nearness.

"What do you want me to be?" I ask.

A waiter stops in front of us, breaking Rowan's eye contact with mine. She clears her throat and stares up at the waiter with a forced smile.

"Your beer, sir," the waiter says, handing me the ice-cold long neck. "Can I get you another miss?" he asks of her champagne glass.

Rowan's champagne glass is nearly empty, so she takes the last sip of it and then places her empty glass on his tray.

"Actually, can I get one of those?" She points to my beer.

He nods and then leaves us.

She turns back to the canvas, not returning to my question.

Just as well.

There’s a moment of silence between us before I break it. "You know more than I would have guessed about art," I say, turning to study the piece as well, standing side by side with her.

A small smile plays on her lips. “Is that a compliment, Coach Bex? I don't think you've ever paid me one before. Did it feel weird rolling off your tongue?" she teases.

"A little," I admit, taking a pull off my beer.

She shoots me a playful scowl in return for my honesty and then eyes my beer longingly.

I hand her the bottle.

I've never shared a beer with anyone like this before but maybe I feel a little like a wanker for shutting her down when she came by to ask for a truce. However, I'm not completely ready to let my guard down. This is as close to "I'm sorry for being a horse's ass" as she's ever going to get.

She takes a sip and then answers. "I’ve always loved art,” she says softly. “It tells a story without needing words. When I first dreamed of becoming a journalist, I thought I’d end up writing about travel or art. But then...”

She pauses as if considering how much to say. I take a sip of my beer. It tastes like some of her lipstick left on the rim of the bottle—I don't mind it. “Then my dad happened. He’s a big-time sportscaster. I applied for an open columnist position with Northwestern's campus newspaper, but when the editor-in-chief found out who my father was, she put me in the sports section of the paper. I didn’t get much of a say, but it ended up working out,” she says and then takes another sip of my beer before handing it back. “I don't know if it was growing up as a kid watching my dad on TV to feel close to him, but sports journalism comes naturally to me. Not that I'd ever admit that to my dad. He might feel vindicated that leaving me as a small child to chase his dreams was good for me or something.”

Shit, I didn't know her father left her when she was little. That must have been hard. Now Rowan's resilience makes sense in this new light.

I watch her as she speaks, taking in the way her eyes light up when she talks about art, and her voice tightens just a bit when she mentions her father. I feel a strange pull, like I’m seeing a side of Rowan I haven’t before. A side I… don’t dislike.

I take a pull off my beer, taking the faint flavor of her lipstick and the champagne she drank earlier. The taste of her shouldn’t have me wanting to guzzle down this entire beer just to get another taste, but it does. I hand it to her again and she chuckles. "You're sharing?"

"I think you need it more than I do."

More like, “I need to pace myself or I’ll get drunk off the taste of you.”

She takes a long pull and I memorize the way she tilts her head back as she drinks. The way her red lips look around the lip of the beer bottle, the way her throat swallows.

I clear my throat and glance away. She hands me back my beer after she finishes her sip.

“Have you ever thought about going back to that? Writing about art or travel, that is?” I ask, curious.

Art journalism is completely different from what she's doing now.

One thing is for sure, we wouldn't be at odds if she were writing about a hole-in-the-wall art gallery in Italy as my younger brother Archie does for the magazine. He travels around the world, writing about art in all the unique places he travels to.

I think about how different things between Rowan and I might have been if we had met while she was a journalist for my family's magazine instead of as the woman who wrote a less-than-flattering article about me… and might have more unflattering articles to write about my players.

She shrugs. “Sometimes. But the world of sports keeps me busy. And I can’t deny I love the thrill of it—the rush of the games, the stories behind the players. Traveling with the team has shown me a totally different side. You're all so close when you're on the road—like family.”

I nod. I'm glad she's seeing what I see, why giving up this game—this family, is so hard to walk away from. I'm lucky to have a supportive family outside of hockey, but not all of these guys do, and maybe I want to stick around for them.

The waiter comes back by and hands her the beer she ordered. I drop another hundred on his tray that she doesn't see, and I nod at him as if to say, "Keep them coming for her, too." He smiles and then heads off to give away the rest of the champagne glasses on his tray.

I might be a little disappointed that we won't be sharing my beer anymore, but I don't let it show.

"Not all teams are that way. I've been a part of some teams that can't stand each other. It can be a toxic working environment as a player and as a coach."

“Sure, I can see how egos, testosterone, and vying for the same positions could lead to a hostile working environment. Journalism can be just as ruthless," she says, raising an eyebrow. "What about you? Do you know much about art?”

I shake my head. “Enough to get by, but I should know more, considering my family owns The Painted Easel .”

Rowan gasps, her eyes going wide. “Wait—your family owns The Painted Easel ? The Painted Easel… as in the magazine? As in the magazine printed in Liverpool, which is one of the biggest art magazines in the world?”

I can see the minute it clicks for her when she remembers where I'm from. There's not a lot of information about my connection with my family's magazine, mostly because I never tell anyone, and I haven't done an interview since my rookie year.

I nod, suppressing a grin at her surprise, and obvious pleasure in the idea of it. “Yeah, it's popular.”

She looks genuinely stunned. “Popular? I subscribe to that magazine. I get one every month in the mail. How did I not know that your family owns it?”

“Because it’s not something I talk about much. My older brother Leo runs it, and my younger brother Archie is a photographer and journalist for the magazine. They’ve been trying to convince me to move back home and get involved, but... I’m not really an art connoisseur. Not much of a writer or photographer either.”

I pause for a moment, considering how much to tell her. “I still own a place back in Liverpool. One day, when I retire, I’ll move back— become a professional uncle to my brother, Leo’s, kids. Maybe Archie’s if he ever settles down.”

Rowan's eyes brighten toward me as if I’m telling her the most interesting thing she’s ever heard.

“No plans for a wife and kids of your own?” she asks, her tone light, but there’s something deeper in the question.

I shake my head, glancing down at my beer as I swirl the liquid in my glass. “No. Not anymore. I chose a career in hockey instead.”

I just now realize that in the span of minutes, I've told her more information about me and my family than I have to any reporter over the last twenty-five years in the NHL.

Before I can tell her that everything I said is off the record, someone clears their throat behind us. I turn to see a man and a woman standing there. Rowan stiffens beside me, and I immediately pick up on her discomfort.

Then it dawns on me who it is. This is the first time I’ve seen him outside of the press box.

Drew Lansbury.

Rowan’s ex and the ass who wrote that article about me recently.

I place my free hand gently against the back of her arm to let her know that I'm here in solidarity, letting her know that I won't leave her side unless she asks me. I know she and I don't always see eye to eye, but no one should make her feel this uncomfortable; she doesn't even stiffen like this with me when we're at each other's throats.

Rowan forces a polite smile. “Drew, hi.”

"Hi, Rowan," he greets with a smile, and then his eyes drift over to me. "Coach Bex,” He reaches out to shake my hand and I decide not to crush his phalanges like the last guy since Drew is a reporter who could use it against me. He’s also not currently making eyes at Rowan so I have no reason to hurt the guy except for the article he wrote about me. “Nice to finally meet you outside of the press box. You're not an easy man to find out in the wild. This is my fiancée, Claire."

I nod at the brunette that he has his hand wrapped around, keeping my expression neutral. I’m not particularly interested in small talk with the man who’s made a career out of taking cheap shots at my coaching record and the coaching careers of my friends. But it seems Drew can’t resist stirring the pot for a guy who never made it past little league tryouts. He has no idea what it takes to compete at this level, he just hides behind his laptop, that is if he even bothers to show up in the press box at all.

He’s made a career of “phoning-in” his commentary, and it has me wondering what a driven beautiful woman like Rowan was ever doing with a lazy tosser like Drew Lansbury.

Then I start to notice the small ways that Rowan is fidgeting at my side.

Not that Drew or Claire seem to notice.

Maybe I'm starting to get used to Rowan's body language.

“So, Coach,” he starts, voice dripping with a smug edge, “It’s been, what, six years? Playoffs twice, but no Stanley Cup yet. Must be… frustrating for the fans. And for you, I imagine. You really think The Seattle Sunrise should even bother following the Hawkeyes around this year?”

I feel Rowan tense beside me, her fingers curling around the stem of her beer bottle. Before I can fire back with a retort, she speaks up, her voice calm but carrying an undeniable edge.

“It’s interesting you bring that up, Drew,” she says, setting a calm and cool gaze on him. “Because when you look at the numbers, Bex has one of the best win records as a coach in the league. Not only that, but he’s built a team that’s shown consistent improvement, despite all the injuries and setbacks they’ve faced. If you’d spent any amount of time watching the games in person instead of watching the highlight reel, you’d see that Coach Bex is one of the fiercest coaches in the NHL.”

Drew blinks, visibly taken aback, but Rowan isn’t finished.

“And as for the players,” she continues, her voice unwavering, “They respect him because he’s more than just a coach. He’s someone who’s dedicated to every practice, every game, and who’s built a team culture that’s as strong as any in the league. You might not see that in a stat sheet, but anyone who’s actually paying attention knows it.”

I stare down at her, taken off guard. What she just said contradicts everything that she claimed in the article she wrote about me last season. She just defended me against someone on her side of the press box when she didn’t need to. Journalists usually try to play nice, at least to each other's faces. This was a bold move and she did it for me–there’s no other explanation.

Except, I’d like to know why.

Drew opens his mouth, but words seem to fail him. After an awkward pause, the waiter passes by with another beer for me and a tray of champagne flutes, Claire places a protective hand over her stomach and declines with a soft smile. “No champagne for me. Not with the baby on the way.”

The words hang in the air, and I feel Rowan go board stiff next to me. I glance down at her, noticing the tension in her jaw and the way her hand tightens around her beer bottle.

“Excuse me, will you?” she asks suddenly, her voice tight. She doesn’t even manage a forced smile.

She turns and walks away before anyone can stop her, leaving me standing there with Drew and Claire. I watch her go, concern telling me that I should follow after her.

She sets her beer bottle down on a table in the middle of the ballroom as she flees, picking up her pace.

Drew says something, but I’m not listening anymore. I’m already planning my escape from this conversation. After a few more polite nods, I excuse myself, muttering something about needing to find Tucker Evans and his wife before the night is over.

I weave through the crowd, searching for Rowan, but she’s nowhere to be found. I ask a few of the Hawkeyes girls if they’ve seen her, but no one has. My concern deepens as I scan the room, wondering where she could have gone.

Finally, after what feels like forever, I find her in a dark hallway near the back of the ballroom. She’s leaning against the wall, her back to me, her shoulders shaking slightly. She’s crying.

“Rowan, Jesus,” I say softly as I approach. Did something happen to her after she took off? Did someone hurt her? I scan her body for any visible signs of trauma, but I don't see any. “Are you alright? What happened to you? Do you need me to grab Tessa or Keely?”

She quickly wipes at her eyes, trying to pull herself together, but the pain in her voice is unmistakable. “I just... I need to go home, Bex.”

Her words take me off guard; I wasn't expecting this. I don’t know what’s going on with her, but I do know that I can take care of what she needs right now—what she's asking for. I can get her home.

“Okay, come here,” I say, gently offering my hand for her to take. The minute she does, I slide my fingers through hers and carefully pull her with me. “I'll get you out of here.”

I don't mind leaving early. In fact, if I hadn't been so worried that something had happened to her, I'd have welcomed the excuse to leave early. I wrote my donation check already and signed as much memorabilia for the silent auction as Autumn could hand me in my office earlier this week. They don't need me anymore. And Tucker and I will see each other another time.

I pull out my phone to call for the limo Juliet and Shawnie ordered to pick me up.

She doesn’t protest, just nods, and squeezes my hand tighter as I lead her behind me toward the entrance, checking over my shoulder every few minutes to make sure she's okay. But she keeps her head ducked down to hide her tears from anyone who might see them and try to ask questions.

I don’t know what happened between her and Drew, or why seeing him with his fiancée affected her so much. But right now, I don’t care. All I care about is getting her somewhere safe, away from this place, where she doesn’t have to keep pretending everything is fine.

The limo pulls up to the front in the pouring rain. I don't know where her jacket is but I'm not going to make her wait while I retrieve it from the coat-check. I'll send a text to Autumn to ask her to grab it at the end of the night and get it back to Rowan.

I pull off my tux jacket, pulling it over the top of her head to shield her hair from the rain and wrap the rest of the material around her body.

Fuck, I don't even remember the last time I cared to keep a woman’s hair from getting wet. It's been so long since I've had to worry about something like that. None of the women I've been with since Lily have ended up long-term. A date here and there—sometimes ended at her place, sometimes not. But I've never thought about their hair getting wet in the rain as a problem. Not until now.

"Your jacket." she protests. "But you'll get wet?" Her glassy eyes stare up at me, my jacket draped around her face.

If I hadn't just found her in tears, I'd laugh at how damn cute she looks drowning in the coat of my tux.

"We live in Seattle, Rowan. If I was worried about the rain, I would have moved a long time ago," I smirk, wrapping an arm around her, getting ready to make a run for the limo but wanting to make sure I have a good grip on her, so she doesn't fall.

She looks back up at me. "That's the second time you've called me Rowan."

I don't look back down at her. I use the movement of the driver running out to open the door for us as my excuse to ignore her observation.

We make a run for it. Rowan's high heels make it difficult for her to match me step-for-step, so I turn back and scoop her into my arms, one arm braced behind her back and the other behind her knees.

“Bex!” she squeals. I take off running with her gripping tight around my neck.

As soon as we reach the limo, I tell the driver that I'll close the door so he can get back in the driver's side and out of the rain. I make sure Rowan gets inside first, then I settle into the seat next to her, closing the door behind me.

“Thank you,” she whispers, her voice barely audible.

“You don’t have to thank me.”

"Where to, sir?" he asks, his eyes reflecting back at us through the rearview mirror and the open window between the limo and the driver's side.

I look to her for instruction. "Where do you want to go? He'll take us anywhere you want."

"Home, please," she tells me. I nod, and then she gives the driver her address.

I know the area she gave him. It's outside of town, which means we'll have more time if she wants to tell me what happened. I want to push her for answers. If Drew did something, or anyone else, to make her react the way she did in that dark hallway, I need to know before the gala ends so that I can break someone's nose or, worse, hurt him. But I won't pressure her to talk to me if she doesn't want to.

We ride in silence, the city lights flashing by outside the windows. And as we drive, I can’t help but feel like something between us has shifted—something I can’t quite put into words yet.

I can't stop this need to protect her. From the turbulent flight, to the rich asshole twice her age trying to pick her up, to whatever happened back at the gala that made her want to get out of there so quickly.

But I know one thing for sure.

I’m not ready for us to get to her apartment just yet.

However, there's one more thing I should be protecting her from, and my ex-wife can vouch for it—me.