Page 32 of Wrong Score

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 onher. 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 atartall 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.

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