Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Screw apps. I’m a goddamn goddess. I deserve only top-tier matches.
Beckett glances down at the phone peeking out of the little purse, then back to my face, his gaze just shy of disappointed. He’s such a big brother. “Asher’s next,” he reminds me in case I forgot.
Which I didn’t.
“I know,” I say out of the corner of my mouth. “He’s the reason I’m here.”
My brother arches a brow. “Oh, so you are going to bid on him?”
I stare him down. “Yes, Beckett. I’m going to bid on a star athlete. With all my spare change. There’s actually a piggy bank inside here,” I say, patting the clutch. “Can’t wait to break it open.”
The coin in it, plus my catering gigs at my aunt Vivian’s company, add up to almost, maybe, possibly just enough to cover the rent each month.
I’m not here to bid. I’m here for one reason only—Asher Callahan worships at the altar of superstitions. He’s gone for the highest bid at the last two of these auctions while I’ve cheered him on from the front row, and he hasn’t missed a single hockey game in all that time. Now he claims I am the key, somehow, to his fundraising success and injury-free status on the ice.
Who am I to argue with someone’s quirks? I’ve got a suitcase full of my own. So here I am in the same chair, rooting for my bestie to go for top bucks.
As I set my hands on the clutch, I spot Asher offstage in the wings, looking polished in a three-piece, sapphire-blue suit I picked for him to wear tonight from his closet of custom clothes. The man makes this tailored choice look stunning. It hugs his muscles in all the right ways. Plus, that vest looks as good as I’d predicted.
Asher runs a hand through his thick, slightly unruly brown hair. His green eyes are movie-star-level mesmerizing. He spots me as he smooths his lapels, and he smirks, lifts a brow, then mouths, “Hey, good luck charm.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re ridiculous,” I mouth back.
But I’m ridiculous, too, since I’m here, showing up for him as requested.
As Miles leaves the stage, Erin flips to the next card—this one for the final hockey star in this year’s auction. “Ladies and gentlemen, prepare to meet the player who’s as golden as his stats! It’s our fan-favorite left winger—the fiery Asher Callahan!”
The crowd goes even wilder than before as Asher strides across the stage. Whispers of I’m going to bid so hard on him, and OMG, I want him land on my ears. A few seats away, a woman with jet-black hair and a spray tan points at him. She looks familiar. Maybe she’s the daughter of some San Francisco rich dude? Oh! I think she’s the one who’s launching a new beauty line. With a cool, confident air, she says something to the friend next to her.
Probably, I’ll win him, hands down.
More power to you, babe.
Erin introduces him. “When Asher’s not leading the charge on the rink, he’s a dedicated supporter of mental health initiatives, using his platform to make a positive impact.” Erin sings his praises, encouraging big bidding for charity. “But do you know why we call Asher fiery? The Vancouver-born winger is a hot sauce aficionado, constantly hunting for the hottest, most daring flavors to challenge his taste buds. So, if you’re up for an evening full of spice and excitement, raise a paddle for Asher when it’s time to place your bids…because a date with him is sure to sizzle!”
Pride floods me at the intro—not the hot sauce part because whatever. The other part. With his megawatt smile and high profile, he’ll have no problem going for top dollar, with or without me.
Erin finishes Asher’s intro and says, “We’ll take a fifteen-minute break for you to prepare your bids now that you’ve seen all the entrants. Then, get ready to break the bank to support a good cause.”
I get ready to support a good cause too—my self-esteem. It’s time to find somewhere in this historic mansion with cell service. “Be right back,” I tell Beckett, gripping the clutch tightly.
“Good luck checking your matches. But remember, just because you think napping is an Olympic sport, it’s a bad idea to pick a guy who lists sleeping in as a hobby.”
“I told you,” I say, “I am not trolling for dates right now. Also, napping is an Olympic sport, and I am a gold medalist.”
Whirling away, I hustle my ass toward the door, weaving through the guests who pop up from their seats as they plan their bids. Women with cut-crease eyeshadow and glittery dresses. Men with sharp suits and fresh haircuts. The team raises a ton of money for charity at this annual event, with its eligible players entering each season.