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It’s been a while since I’ve been in a tux, and I can’t say I feel comfortable. Anything but jeans and a T make me itch. But all this shit is for a good cause and it’s my last hurrah as an NFL player. Rooster asked, so I stepped up because what else am I supposed to do?
“I hope there will be a few hotties out there,” Bernie says from where he sits on a fold-up chair, drinking beer. “Charity is so much more fun if the bidders are hot.”
“They’ll all be older women looking for fun when they can’t find it anywhere else.” I sound bitter.
“Then you’re bound to find someone you like,” Darrel quips at me and I shove him away.
He just laughs. The whole thing is a joke, so I try to force a smile.
“Who knows,” Bernie adds. “Maybe one of us will find our Mrs. out there.”
I groan. It’s only the three of us at this charity auction because we’re the only ones single and willing to do it. The other guys are all dating or married and made financial contributions instead.
“I doubt it. People don’t fall in love at events like this. Maybe get laid.” Lately, getting laid without any attachment is overrated in my book. I don’t know why but I’m over it. I can’t say I want a serious relationship because after my ex…No thanks. But I don’t want something fake, either.
“That’s what they used to say about online dating,” Bernie keeps pushing. “And these days, people meet their soul mates on online platforms.”
“Not me,” Darrell says. “I’m not here for anything other than a good night of fun. What about you?” He waggles his eyebrows at me.
“Who the fuck knows what we’ll get,” I grumble.
When Rooster asked us to do this, I was optimistic. He suggested taking one for the team—literally—and I was all for it at the time. But I’m not in the mood for it now. I want to see my mom, who’s still in hospital after three weeks. I want to kick back and think about the restaurant business and how I’ll go about it. I want to do my own shit on my own time.
“Who pissed in your coffee?” Darrell asks.
“No one,” I sigh. “I get this is for charity but I don’t always get why people are always so hung up on finding someone to be with. Sex or love, both seem ridiculous to me.”
Bernie and Darrell exchange glances with raised eyebrows.
“I didn’t realize you’re so against love,” Bernie says.
“Or sex,” Darrell adds.
I bristle at that. “It’s just another weakness where the woman you’re with can fuck someone else. If you’re not dating, you don’t have to worry about shit like that.”
Darrell whistles through his teeth but he keeps his mouth shut.
“We’re starting,” an attendant comes to tell us and we walk to the stage area together. From the side, I take it all in. The hall is beautifully decorated with sheer material draped over strings of fairy lights, giving the illusion of stars. Guests sit around tables scattered around the hall and background music floats from invisible speakers. I’m hot in my tux and I try not to fiddle with my collar or tug at my bow tie.
The presenter announces the five of us—I don’t know the other two men who step up—and explains the rules for the auction. While he talks, I study the women in the audience, giddy with excitement to win dates with us. They’re all varying ages, and they’re just as dressed up as we are.
Bernie is called up first, and after the bet starts at five-hundred dollars, paddles go up. It’s a bidding war between two older women. When one wins with a bid of twenty-two hundred dollars, Bernie doesn’t look as pleased with the idea as before we stepped out.
Darrell is next, and the bidding is over quickly with a woman who starts with a bid so high, no one can match it. He walks off with a smug grin and a three-thousand-dollar contribution to the cause. He looks pleased with himself.
It’s my turn.
The lights are bright when I stand on the stage and I offer my most charming smile. I can’t see the women bidding in the sharp lights but it doesn’t take long. My number falls between Darrell and Bernie at twenty-seven hundred and I step off the stage to meet whoever decided I was worth that much money.
She’s prettier and younger than I thought she’d be, with short auburn hair and an a-symmetric dress.
“I’m Michelle,” she says with a smile, holding out her hand. “I’m with Ruby Blue fashion house.”
“Mason.”
“I know,” she laughs. “Popular name.”
“Is it?”
