Page 11 of Off the Post

My chest fills with a bubbly, effervescent buoyancy. It feels like I’m floating above the clouds, something I never felt in my previous job.

“And in the middle of it all, a large tent decorated with fairy lights streaming above our heads and greenery and topiaries throughout the space.”

“That sounds magical, Ali.” Leanne sighs, gazing off over my shoulder. “And maybe even a little romantic. Maybe include a kissing booth with some of the Viking players. You know…” she waggles her sculpted brows. “That should really bring in the donations for the cause.”

“Or a hugging, high-five, or photo booth, since we are family friendly.” I wink.

Leanne rolls her eyes in jest and flaps a hand. “Okay, fiiine. You’re right. But I kind of like the idea of kissing that handsome goalie, The Wolf.”

My cheeks flush with warmth at the idea. I admit it, the thought of kissing the sexy and stoic team goalie is very appealing. Soren Wolfenspiel. The Wolf.

I’ve never officially met any of Tanner’s teammates, but I’ve heard a lot about them from the wild stories he’s shared. I’ve also researched each player to familiarize myself for the sole purpose of curating my personal list for the foundation’s future events. That research has included reading through each player’s bio and stats and pulling up profiles.

The first time I got a look at Soren’s official team headshot my mouth dropped open and my heart came to a screeching halt.

I’m not sure what it is about Soren Wolfenspiel that stole my breath, but truthfully, I stared at his online picture for so long I got a crick in my neck.

A gloriously dazzling sensation had shivered down my spine and straight to my core. The look in his eyes as he stared into the camera’s lens felt like a warning, a dare that clearly told me to steer clear and stay away. So of course it had me fantasizing about him ever since, drawn to him like a moth to an open flame.

I’m nothing if not a sucker for an attractive, unavailable man.

I’ve learned my lessons the hard way, however, and promised myself I will never fall for another emotionally inaccessible man.

Never ever again.

Like my mother said, the only place to go is forward.

6

Soren

“A fucking hair and makeup stylist?” I grunt at no one in particular as I stand in a changing room equipped with a full-length mirror and a wardrobe display rack holding various costumes to select from. I run my hand through my hair and grimace. “Not gonna happen.”

My unapologetically sour mood is clearly getting the best of me this morning. I know my outburst is an overreaction to my current situation and not directed at the actual photo prep. The other guys aren’t pissing and moaning over it. Just grumpy me.

When I promised Tanner I’d be here to support his charity work, I was committed. This annual calendar raises a significant amount of the donations needed to continue to run his charity. The problem is the timing.

Anna and the kids’ flight was delayed and I’m unable to fix the shift in our schedule.

Originally, I had made sure there was time for me to pick them at the airport since they were supposed to arrive last night. But the flights Anna had booked out of Vienna were canceled due to equipment maintenance issues, and they had to rebook with an overnight layover at London’s Heathrow. And now their arrival into Vancouver has been pushed to… today.

Changes to my carefully planned schedules can throw me into a spiral and make me panicky and irritable.

All night long I worried about their arrival and safety. And because I couldn’t be there to pick them up, I had to find a reliable car service to do the job. That sent me down a rabbit hole of anxiety and stress, leaving me extremely tired and cranky when my alarm went off at seven a.m.

The only positive is that, without them here this morning to fuss over, I was able to do a light workout in my personal gym. It wasn’t my usual routine, but I did some weights, core exercises, and stretches before leaving my place to head to Granville. That, for the most part, allowed me to expend the pent-up frustration that had built in me all night and calmed my nerves.

Apparently, it didn’t do quite the job I thought it had.

Duncan Brewer sits in a stylist chair next to Wyatt Pendergast and narrows his eyes at me.

“Jesus Christ, Wolf. Who pissed in your Wheaties this morning?”

I grumble. “Sorry, Brewsky. Just been a morning. Nice ’do, by the way.”

From behind his chair, I nod at the mirror displaying Brewsky’s top half, his hair coifed and styled. He places his palms under his chin, fluttering his eyes, and grins.

“I know it’s hard to believe anyone can make this face any prettier than it already is, but I do like my new look.”