Then she noticed the tray in his hand, holding half a dozen empty champagne flutes.
“Um. Hi. No. Nothing special. Thanks. But could I get another glass of pinot grigio?” she asked, setting her empty wineglass on his tray.
“Anything else, gorgeous?” he asked, a smirk on his lips.
And his hotness cut in half.
“Uh, no. Just the drink is fine,” she said as she started to turn away.
“Do you have a favorite player?” he asked, gesturing to the auction table.
“No. I don’t watch a lot of hockey.”
“You came to the Strikers’ Casino Night and you’re not a hockey fan?”
“Not really. A friend dragged me here, and it’s for a good cause. I don’t really like hockey,” she said with a shrug.
“Wow. What exactly don’t you like about the best sport there is?” he asked, shifting the tray to his other hand.
“Sorry. Are you a fan?” she asked.
He smirked again. “Absolutely. There’s nothing better than hockey. It’s fast, requires a shit ton of skill, and the energy in the arena during the game is unlike any other sporting event.”
“Wow. You really are a fan. You must’ve been excited to work this event.”
“Yeah. You do know that a bunch of the players are acting as waiters tonight, don’t you?”
Well. That’s embarrassing. “Oh, sorry. Are you on the team?” Why was she still talking to him?
It was the eyes. They were unfortunately hypnotic.
He put his hand to his chest and took a step back while balancing the tray of glasses in his other hand. His balance was impressive.
“That hurts, sweetheart. Really hurts.”
Ugh. Sweetheart. Really? “Anyway. Sorry for the mistake. I’ll just go get my own glass.”
“We can’t have that,” he said. “Hey, Timmy. Grab me a pinot, would you?” he asked another guy walking by.
“The white one or the red one?” Timmy asked.
“White, please. But I can get it myself,” she said.
The guy with the hypnotic eyes put his hand on her arm, stopping her. She would’ve shrugged him off if heat hadn’t decided to course through her at that very moment.
“Timmy’s got it. That’s what rookies are for,” he said, nodding at the other guy. Then he turned his attention—his eyes—back on her and she refused to take a step back.
“I didn’t introduce myself. Jake Northman. Top line winger. One of the best goal scorers in the league. So, tell me what sport could possibly be better than hockey and I’ll convince you that you’re wrong.”
“Wow. You are painfully sure of yourself.” Again, why wasn’t she walking away?
“It’s called confidence,” he replied, and she was pretty sure he puffed out his damn chest.
“Whatever. I would say nice meeting you, but yeah, have a good night.”
She turned to walk away. He could take his sweetheart and smugness and stupid eyes and go away. His cockiness was extremely irritating. It dimmed his attractiveness—slightly—and the fact that it was only slightly diminished irritated her even more.
Jake should’ve lether walk away. If he was smart, he would’ve apologized and moved on. Tonight was about raising funds for the foundation, and this little spitfire was raising something else.