O’Connor rolls his eyes and turns back to his companions.
I take my drink and wander off, but not back toward the stage area. Instead, I find a solitary corner and lean against the wall, sipping my drink. The ballroom is decorated in the same elegant style as every other charity fundraiser I’ve attended, only this one is for a dog rescue, so the pink wall hangings are covered with glittery silver paw prints, and the dessert I scarfed down and the name plates on the tables were also paw-shaped.
I study the crowd. Jess is standing with Wes and J-Bomb, laughing at something her brother whispered to her. Then they cheer their lungs out as Hozier starts singing. Jess moves seductively to the music, her hips swaying and blonde head bopping.
Man, she’s pretty. And smart. And funny. And about a million other things I can’t put into words.
My mom called the other day and asked how the relationship was going. She even said to tell Jess hello for her, which, when it comes to Mom, is the equivalent of her giving the relationship her blessing.
Usually, the “R” word makes me break out in hives. I’ve been a bachelor for five years and have no intention of changing up the status. Don’t get me wrong—I don’t think all women are lying, untrustworthy assholes. But why take the chance, you know? Better to keep shit casual. Keep it about the fucking and forget about the trusting.
“There you are!” A breathless, flushed Jess flies up to me, her high heels clacking against the marble floor. “You missed the encore.”
“I’ll watch it on YouTube later.”
“You’re such a downer tonight.” She tugs the drink out of my hand, takes a sip, and then places the glass back in my hand. “Come on, party pooper, it’s time for the speech.”
I follow her back to our table. The event organizer seated us with Wes, Jamie, and a few of my other teammates and their WAGS. Eriksson is the only solo gent at the table, and he slides closer to Jess as she sits down.
“You ready to cry your eyes out, J-Babe?” he asks her.
I bristle. What the fuck is he calling her J-Babe for? That’s our thing. I glare at Eriksson over Jess’s head, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“Why would I cry?” she asks, puzzled.
“You never been to a Broken Paws event before?”
She shakes her head.
“Oh man.” He reaches into his breast pocket and tugs out a handkerchief. “Canning, you’re about to experience something petrifying—a room full of grown men crying.”
Jess glances at me. “I thought this was a benefit to raise money for animal shelters.”
I nod. “It is.”
“Then why…?”
“Just wait,” Eriksson warns.
“Just wait,” our team captain Luko echoes from the other side of the table. He’s already got his own handkerchief out.
Mic feedback screeches through the room, and we all turn to see the founder of Broken Paws take the stage.
“Hello, everyone, I’m Paula Anderson—”
I shove my fingers in my mouth and let out a deafening whistle.
“Go Paula!” Eriksson shouts, while our d-man Hewitt thumps both hands on the table.
The fifty-year-old redhead laughs into the mic. “Hockey players…can’t bring ’em anywhere.”
The crowd rocks with laughter.
“With a few exceptions, of course,” Paula says with a smile. “Because what many of you might not know is that every player on the current roster of this revered Toronto franchise volunteered at one of our animal shelters this past year.”
It’s true. We all have, though I know some of the guys didn’t do it willingly. Like me, Coach Hal is a hardcore dog lover. This is his pet charity—pun intended—and he made every player promise to work at least one shift at a Broken Paws shelter. Non-negotiable.
“But one player in particular has worked so hard and so relentlessly to raise money for our cause.” Paula’s voice thickens with approval. “So I ask all of you to give a big round of applause for Blake Riley, whose tireless fundraising efforts have allowed us to save the lives of a hundred more dogs this year than we did last year. He’s also made several sizable personal donations that have enabled us to provide veterinary care for the dogs of families with limited means.”
As applause fills the room, Jess turns to me in amazement. “You did all that?”
I shrug. “Dogs are awesome.”
Her eyes narrow, as if she’s trying to figure something out. Then she turns back to the speaker.
Another girl would probably give me at least a kiss for helping all the pooches. But not Jess. She only raises one lithe, elegant arm to take a sip from her wineglass. She swallows, and I watch her throat work, wishing I could put my lips right there and taste her.