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Thank God Mom didn’t come.

And thank God Bobby didn’t have his phone out filming. It’d be bad enough if David streamed it for the team.

“Five hundred?”

One dropped out. Damn. How much were people willing to lay out for a date? Charity sure, but five hundred?

“Remember there are more guys coming up, so if this gets too rich for your blood, you’ll have other opportunities to nab a hockey player. Who’s got five fifty?”

Only two went for that.

I moved back to the end of the catwalk, and Booker joined me. One paddle belonged to an older gentleman who seemed to be egged on by two friends. The other bidder…

Holy shit.

Austin.

Why would he bid on me? Sure, we’d hung out yesterday—at least until he’d decided a call was more important.

“Seven fifty?”

Wait. What?

I needed to pay attention. Both paddles acknowledged that increase.

“You know I’m not the guy on the ESPN cover, right?” Thankfully that got some laughs and helped break my anxiety.

“Nine hundred,” Austin shouted out as he held his paddle higher.

“Yeah, Kyle! Go, man.” G’s voice rose over the din of the crowd as he called out from backstage.

I fought the urge to bury my face in my hands. The blush became uncontrollable. I got no relief from Bobby or Seb, who just smiled and nodded excitedly.

“Okay, we got nine hundred over here.” Booker pointed toward Austin.

The other bidder talked with his friends—a lot. Reading expressions from this distance was difficult, especially with the lights constantly moving over the audience.

He raised his paddle high and shouted, “Nine fifty.”

“How about that. A bidding war. Can we get a thousand dollars for this speedy hotshot?” Booker waved his hand next to me as if I was a letter for Vanna White to turn.

“Eleven hundred.” Austin again.

Waves of nervousness radiated out from my chest. I contained shudders as best as I could. Not much rattled me, but man, I’d never experienced anything like this before.

“Twelve hundred.” The other bidder didn’t relent.

The crowd cheered.

This was crazy. Great for the charity though.

“Fifteen hundred.” Austin sounded defiant.

With the money he must make, could anyone in this room beat him?

The men conferred again, and one seemed to be emphatically trying to make a point. Whether it was to bid or not bid wasn’t clear.

“I’ve got fifteen hundred for Kyle Pressgrove, number forty-two for the Detroit Arsenal. I need at least fifteen fifty to continue.”