Page 25 of Offside

“I’m happy to help with that. Consider it done.”

11

Ballas

“How do you know Diana Thorpe?”

I chuckle at Karis’s question and reach for the breadbasket in front of us on the table, offering a roll to her before taking one for myself.

“This ain’t my first rodeo with charity events.” I grab a pat of butter and slather some on my roll, watching Karis out of the corner of my eye. She takes a small bite of the bread and places it back down on her plate. “We get called on a lot, as you know, to attend these shindigs. I met Dr. and Mrs. Thorpe at an event last year to help war refugees.”

The expression on Karis’s face softens, like the walls around her begin to fall and crumble. But it could just be my imagination hoping she won’t keep up the hardened exterior around me. She brushes the sleeve of my dinner jacket when she reaches for her drink, and the heat scores through my arm like I’ve been branded.

Fuck, I’m not sure how she continues to stir me up when there is nothing that could ever come of it.

Just the way I like it.

No commitments. No ties. No relationships.

This attraction should’ve stayed in Vegas where it belongs. Yet here I am, sitting next to her in this ballroom dinner table, surrounded by her sweet and tantalizing scent that does unspeakable things to my body. Things I shouldn’t be considering doing to her.

Like licking her hot pussy until she writhes in pleasure against my mouth.

As if she knows exactly where my imagination has gone, her gaze climbs up my torso and over my face, her eyes flashing something dark and unreadable when they meet mine. I glide a hand over my beard and lift my brows in response.

There’s no way she could possibly be thinking what I am. She made it clear nothing was to happen between us. Period. End of story.

I promised I’d be good.

But just like in hockey, leads can change with the sudden slap of a stick and the lightning-fast redirection of a puck.

The rest of the fundraising event is filled with auctioning off magnum wine bottles, trips to Turks and Caicos, luxury spa days, and even the dessert trays on each table. I’ve been keeping my hands busy with folding a cocktail napkin into an origami swan, something I learned years ago from a kid in juniors.

It’s then that the auctioneer calls up a special guest in the audience.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, we’ve received a very generous gift from our very own Karis Spurlock. Karis, come on up and tell us what you’ve donated.”

Karis slides out of her chair and makes her way up the stage, smiling brightly and hugging Gordon and Diana Thorpe, who have also joined her at the front. The auctioneer hands the microphone to Karis.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. It’s an honor to be here tonight in support of this great cause. I know that my uncle, Marv, has been a very big supporter of the work done by this organization led by Dr. and Mrs. Thorpe. As a tribute to my uncle and on behalf of the Vancouver Vikings, I am donating a suite for one of our home games.”

The auctioneer raises a paddle to the screen behind the stage where a video clip is shown of a home game from last season.

The montage starts with a clip of me scoring a goal against Dallas. It’s one of my personal career highlights because just seconds before I’d received a pass from Costa and then deked the puck around Sergei Russo, the asshole to beat all assholes and the one guy in the league I can’t stand.

The audience in the ballroom watches as the crowd in the video erupts in a crazed frenzy.

Karis continues once the clip finishes, her gaze finding mine with a knowing smile. “And to add to this already amazing package, how about we see if one of our players in attendance tonight would be willing to add in something extra? Ballas and Brett, can you both please stand?”

I give a disgruntled glance over to my teammate and another D-man on the team, Brett Cannfield, who sits with his arm over his wife Jeanette’s shoulder. He groans and bobs his chin down to his chest in a resigned manner as his wife gives him a friendly nudge in the ribs.

“I had a feeling we’d be getting roped into something more than just showing up tonight.” He begins to stand up, adjusting his gray suit jacket, but I wave at him to sit back down.

Cannfield is one of the least social adults and biggest introverts I know. To get him to say two words on the ice or even in the locker room is like pulling teeth, and that’s saying a lot since he’s missing two of his teeth already. My teammate looks absolutely tormented at the idea of having to get up on stage, so I do my duty as a defenseman and protect the goal.

In this case, the goal happens to be Canners.

All eyes in the room are currently on us so I now gesture with both hands for him to sit back down.

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