Page 33 of Wrong Score

"Coach Townsend," the man says, coming around the other side of Rowan to offer up his hand. "It's an honor to meet you. I was hoping you'd be here tonight."

I shake his hand, the champagne glass I brought for Rowan in the other hand. I squeeze his hand a little tighter than I should, making a nonverbal point that I don't like him around Rowan.

He makes a muffled sound of discomfort.

"Sorry," I say, releasing his hand. "Hockey grip—occupational hazard."

"Right, of course," he says, pulling his hand from mine, attempting to discreetly shake off the pain.

I offer the champagne glass to Rowan, and she takes it, eying me cautiously.

I bend close to her ear, keeping it between us. “I didn’t poison it. I promise.”

A glint sparkles in her eye and the corner of her lip turns up a little. “Good to know,” she says and then takes a small sip, an appreciative hum as soon as the sparkling liquid hits her lips.

I use the politest scowl I can muster and stare back at the man. Finally, he catches on that I’m not the one intruding… he’s now no longer welcome to stand by Rowan.

"Oh, are you two…?" he asks, his pointer finger wagging between us to ask if we're together.

I say, “Yes,” quickly before Rowan can say no.

She shoots a death glare up at me, but he doesn’t notice because his eyes are fixed on me.

"Will you excuse me… I think I see…" he doesn't finish his excuse before he leaves as quickly as he can.

Rowan's lips pinch together, her eyebrows stitching together. "You didn't have to be rude. And you lied–we’re not together."

"I didn't like the way he was looking at you," I say, satisfied that the man made my job easy.

I didn't have to physically remove him from Rowan's side. I would have done it if he had forced my hand, but I'd rather not make a scene. This charity is important for the kids who need our help, and I don't want to make Briggs, Autumn, or the Hawkeyes franchise, who are co-hosting this event, look bad.

"And how was he looking at me?" she asks and then takes another sip.

"Like you were up for auction,” I say, sliding one hand into my dress pant pocket.

She gives me a narrowed look.

"Wouldn't you love that? Someone swooping by, picking me up and whisking me out of your life? Problem solved, right?"

"Only if you'd like to see a bidding war."

She scoffs. "What bidding war?"

"The one where I empty my entire bank account to keep that creep from taking you home."

She stares at me for a second as if to gauge my sincerity about spending all of my money to win her in an auction.

I would have done it if I had to, but Rowan has too much spirit to let anyone own her. That much, I know. She sees something in my eyes, swallows hard, and cuts our connection to focus back on the painting.

“Don’t do that,” she says.

“Don’t do what?” I ask, leaning in closer.

"Don't pretend to be a knight in shining armor who suddenly has an interest in where I am, who I’m with, or where I end up tonight. The Bex I know only cares about my proximity to his beloved team. Let’s not kid ourselves, you’d never pay a dime for me. And by the way, he wasn't a creep, he was very polite. We were having a lovely conversation about art before you showed up and interrupted by the way."

"He's at least thirty years older than you. He's a creep."

She shifts her weight from one side to the other, jutting out her hip in a casual yet confident stance.

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