Page 18 of Bleacher Report
She makes a scoffing sound and looks around like everyone nearby should be cracking up right along with her at the absurdity of my request.
I get it. I wasn’t expecting to ask her either, but here I am, and I just so happen to know that she wants something from me too.
An interview.
“You’re kidding, right? I can’t think of anything I’d like less than to go on a date with you.”
Her insult should sting, but it doesn’t. I’m too focused on my goal.
“I’m not asking you to go on a date with me, and no, I’m not kidding. I’m serious.” I drop my voice. “My ex-girlfriend, Bethany—she’s here. She’s planning to bid on me tonight. And I can’t—” I stop, exhale. “I just can’t let her win.”
The bartender sets Peyton’s drink on a napkin, muttering something about a blueberry lemon drop with a marinated vodka blueberry garnish, then glances at me.
“Nothing for me,” I say, stepping aside so the next guest can order. Peyton follows.
“Hold on a second,” she says, pulling the metal skewer from her drink. She slides one blueberry off with her perfectly straight white teeth and painted pink lips, chewing as her expression shifts—processing everything.
“Bethany Richards is your ex? As in, the soon-to-be ex-wife of Kevin Richards, the owner of the team you used to play for?”
“I dated her first,” I say, sharper than I mean to. And stupidly, without thinking about the fact that Peyton is the last person I should be spilling this to since she has a podcast that she could use to air this information.
Her eyebrows lift in question. I know exactly what she’s about to ask, and I cut her off fast.
“But that was a lifetime ago. And that’s not what this is about.”
Not exactly, anyway.
I’ve spent years killing the rumors—shutting down every whisper, every question about why I was demoted mid-season. I know what people assumed. What they still wonder. And the last thing I need is a podcaster sniffing around for a viral story to save her syndication deal.
That chapter of my life is closed.
Or at least, it was until thirty minutes ago.
“Okay, so why me?” she asks, arms folding across her chest. “There are at least fifty women in this room alone who’d sell their souls for a date with you. Ask one of them to outbid her.”
“I can’t ask any of them because you’re the only person here who doesn’t want something from me, except for an interview.” I pause, watching her slide another blueberry off the skewer with her lips. “This is transactional. We both want something. We make the trade, and when it’s done, you never have to see me again.”
She doesn’t respond right away. Her eyes narrow, she’s considering it. She’s sharp—too sharp for my own good.
“And you’ve already seen me at my worst,” I add. “You’ve got more to gain than lose.”
“I have plenty to lose,” she fires back. “Like the last shred of professional dignity I have, after you basically accused me of being a puck bunny, then told me to find another teammate to screw in front of a packed bar of players and fans.”
I flinch. No comeback. No defense.
“I deserved that.”
“You did,” she agrees easily, uncrossing her arms and shifting her weight from one hip to the other, clearly enjoying this.
I take a breath. “Let me make it up to you. If you bid on me—and win—I’ll do the interview.”
“You want me to bid against a billionaire’s wife for an interview with you? Are you crazy? I don’t have that kind of money. I just bought a new townhouse outside of town and renovated it for my podcast studio. I blew through my savings.”
The news of her townhouse and a place to crash, away from The Commons, sparks a thought, but I need her to agree to one thing at a time. If I show all my cards, she’ll bail out immediately.
“I’ll pay for it. Whatever you bid, I’ll cover the bill. You just have to win.”
Peyton glances over in Bethany’s direction, and I follow her line of sight, cringing when I see Bethany chatting up Everett, who’s making his rounds with guests.
