Page 100 of Lovesick
Even while guilt carries out its rampage, Crew still shields me with everything he has—everything he is. “I’m sorry. We shouldn’t have lied, but you never made us feelcomfortableenough to come clean,” he retaliates.
My dad steps into Crew, seeing if he’ll fall back in line with brute force. “Listen here, boy. You’re coming between me and my family. My daughter doesn’t date my players, and I made thatveryclear to you.”
“With all due respect, sir, your daughter is capable of choosing who she does or does not want to date. I care for her deeply. So much more than you could possibly ever imagine. You want to punish me? Fine. Just leave her out of it.”
I stop hiding. I shove my way out of Crew’s shadow before he can stop me, my eyes harboring a fire so powerful that it has the outreach to submerge the entire world in beautiful ruination—to paint the sky in the same shade of scorned as the heart that’s been taught nothing but compliance.
“Crew isn’t some secret, Dad. I wanted to make one decision that was mine before you decided to weigh in on it like you always do. This is what I want. Can’t you be supportive for once?”
I’m hitting my very own event horizon, entombed by absolute blackness and stranded in space where I’ve lost my father’s light to guide me back to fecund earth. Drifting mindlessly with no destination in sight, heart puttered out from disuse,survival stripped of every humanistic facet that gives life meaning.
My father’s mouth opens to respond, but Irelyn—out of nowhere—does a drive-by and ferries me toward the split in the curtain, cutting our conversation short and leaving me on the worst cliffhanger.
“Showtime, love! You’re gonna do great out there,” she chirps, completely oblivious to the quarrel transpiring moments before.
What was my dad going to say? I’d forgotten all about presenting up until now. How can I put on a brave face like I didn’t just sabotage the most important relationships in my life?
I don’t even have a microsecond to digest our interaction because I’m suddenly stumbling onto the stage and facing an expectant crowd of unblinking faces. An esteemed gathering of people waits before me—long-time donors of the college, high rollers with unimaginable amounts of money burning holes through their silk pockets, a portion of the student body who won’t hesitate to circle me like sharks if I royally mess this up.
The spotlight isn’t too egregious, but it still makes me unreasonably nervous. I pause for a bit too long. When I try to breathe, it feels like there’s fiberglass embedded in my lungs. The sound of a cough and the shuffling of catalogs permeates the atmosphere.
A killing floor.
A disembodied arm hands me a microphone, and I take it with slippery fingers. “Thank you, everyone, for joining us this evening,” I announce, unfortunately enduring a brief moment of feedback that makes a handful of guests wince.
Great start.
I can’t stop worrying about Crew. I should be present right now. I should be proud of what my peers and I have accomplished but…I’m so far from celebrating.
This night isn’t even about me. It’s about the kids who wish upon a dream despite their financial circumstances. It’s about the kids who’ve had the odds stacked against them for no other reason than getting dealt a shitty hand at life. I know a little about that, don’t I?
Brandishing a smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes, I proceed with the opening statements, hoping that the perspiration on my face isn’t noticeable. “As you know by now, all proceeds from tonight will go toward the sports departments of inner-city schools. Marketing 101 has worked closely with the Minnesota Mustangs to make this endeavor a reality, and none of this would be possible without all of you.
“Tonight, we’ll be auctioning off dates with MU’s very own hockey players. The lovely Monacelli’s has donated an all-expense-paid three-course dinner to the bidders and their plus-ones. Starting bids will begin at ten dollars and rise in increments of five. If you see your favorite player up here, don’t hesitate to raise those paddles!”
Everyone breaks out into applause while my heart uses my inflexible vertebrae as a trampoline, launching itself harshly against my sternum. The expected run time of our practice auction was an hour, not including the vital component of the actual audience. That means I’ll most likely be up here for several hours trying not to puke, pass out, or do some awful combination of both.
This is going to be a long night.
I step to the side to give the players clearance, waiting for our sound technician to start the club music for some much-needed background noise, because, according to Irelyn, a man’s sexual appeal rises when he’s strutting to some European pop beats.
I situate myself behind the podium and grab my cue cards. “First up, we have left-winger, Knox Mulligan. Self-proclaimed chef, lover of long walks on the beach, and undefeated MarioKart champion, Knox is the perfect company for a night out on the town.”
The man of the hour makes his catwalk debut, sauntering down the runway without a care in the world and machismo about as thick as his cologne. Some of the middle-aged moms down frontoohandaah, readying their paddles for aHunger Games-esque battle to the death.
Knox poses with an effortlessness that tells me he’s done this before, flexing his hockey muscles and serving up a side of panty-dropping grins.
“He specializes in puns, dad jokes, and innuendos, and he’s not afraid to…”
I hesitate, staring down at the godforsaken words that I’m about to have to utter in public. There’s no way this passed Mrs. Burke’s strict guidelines.
“…drop it like it’s hot for some cold, hard cash. Or if there’s a pole in the immediate vicinity.”
Apparently, Knox forgot that this was a PG event because he rips his suit jacket and pants off—a tearaway conundrum that somehow evaded the wardrobe department—and begins to sway his hips like a go-go dancer.
Oh my God. He’s shirtless. He’s wearing the shortest shorts in existence. What in the living hell am I witnessing right now? This has to be a fever dream.
There are some startled gasps (appropriately), but before I can even toss out the starting bid, a woman in the back throws her paddle into the air. “One hundred dollars!”
