Page 19 of He Has Game (Boston Brawlers Hockey)
“I can see why you’re one of the top sports agents in the country,” she says.
“Wow. I think I’m flattered.”
“Don’t let it go to your head,” I say, mildly surprised at her comment. But then she knows her hockey and she knows it’s true. Ham is the best.
When we get to the gala we dash inside through the gauntlet of the press. It’s all flashy glam to her, but annoying as hell to me. Especially the flashing lights of the cameras. Who uses camera flashes? Professionals. We have professional paparazzi. Fucking great. She strangles my arm until we find our way to the coat room. Ham came coatless so he goes ahead to find a table.
“Sorry about all that craziness,” I say as I check our coats.
“That was intense.” She’s holding her hand over her chest and it’s heaving and flushed and her dress is . . . eye catching in the extreme.
“Some dress,” I say.
“Do you think it’s too revealing? I told Mary it—”
“No. I think it’s fucking gorgeous.”You look good enough to eat.I take mercy and keep that last part to myself so she doesn’t run from the place shrieking. But hell if I’m not thinking about other guys checking out the way the dress shows off her impressive rack and thinking the same thing.
“You have a charming way of exaggerating that doesn’t sound so cheesy that I want to roll my eyes,” she says. “And for the record, you look good enough to eat.” This girl’s a fucking mind-reader and I’m not sure I want her inside my head. She takes my arm and leads me toward the well-appointed tables littered with high-end auction items.
“I’ve always wanted to attend a silent auction.” She sounds giddy about it, so I follow along and we check out the tables set up with displays and tablets for entering bids.
“This stuff looks like the answer to the question, what do you get a millionaire who has everything? Look at this shit.”
“Are those—?”
“Yes they are. Diamond-studded scissors for the housewife who has everything.”
She laughs and says, “For the homemaker who wants to one-up the other crafty homemakers in the neighborhood.”
Grinning, I point to another item. “And this is for the poor guy who got left behind by the antismoking movement. An oversize antique lead crystal and gold ashtray.”
“Is that what it is?”
“I kid you not. Says so right here. And just so you don’t feel bad for the poor guy who cleaned out his closet and donated this item, the opening bid is five hundred smacks.”
“Oh. My. God.” She laughs and does that hand over her heart again. Now that I’m warmed up, my dick can’t take a second instance of her calling attention to her profound cleavage as it tests the seams of my pants, straining to grow to its full size.
“Are you cold?” I say. “Do you maybe need a shawl or something?” What is wrong with me? That’s what the look she’s giving me says. Well, not quite, but that’s what I’d be saying if I were her.
“No, I’m comfortable. Why?”
Because I’m the fucking opposite of comfortable. I’m saved from having to make up some stupid answer to her perfectly legitimate question when she spots an auction item that lights up her face.
“Now that’s something I would pay for,” she says, walking straight for a large box-framed hockey jersey.
“Good taste,” I say. “A signed Bobby Orr number four jersey. It says here this was the shirt he wore in his last game. It’s a beauty.”
“You probably already have one on your wall, right?” she asks.
“No. To tell you the truth, my place is a little short on decorating. I could use something like this.” It’s rare and probably worth a bundle, but I have a few bundles.
“Really? This is the perfect place to find something and it’s for such a good cause.”
“Sure. I planned to buy something. Maybe I’ll get the Bobby Orr jersey.” I say it just to see the excitement light her face like an aurora borealis. Fucking magnificent.
She checks out the tablet and her face dims.
“I don’t know, Finn. The bidding is pretty steep.”
