Page 77 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
Scotty shrugs and flaps his paddle. “It’s for charity. Plus, we’ll give him all the fresh eggs he can carry.”
Up on stage, Clément’s eyes dart to the corner of the room where we’re sitting. The moment he sees Scotty waving his bidding paddle, his expression cracks. And he laughs.
Ashlyn is still chuckling, fanning the crowd with delight at the unexpected bid. “Looks like our goalie’s headed to the farm, folks. Any more takers?”
But Clément isn’t watching the crowd. His wheels are turning and I see it happen. That tiny lift of his chin and a flash behind his eyes. The moment a lightbulb goes off.
He's got an idea.
Someone else in the crowd raises their paddle. Scotty grins and tosses his paddle onto the table. “Guess I’m off the hook.”
The crowd laughs, and Ashlyn is hyping it up.
Clément steps back from center stage, scanning the crowd. Then he jumps down. His shoes thump on the floor, and he strides toward the audience like he’s the star of a one-man show. My stomach lurches.
He's coming this way.
But he veers at the last second and heads straight for Scotty.
He leans in close, whispering. Scotty’s eyes widen, then he bursts out laughing and nods, handing Clément his paddle.
Clément lifts it high in the air.
“Clément, that’s not how things are done,” Ashlyn calls out. “You need to let the audience bid.”
“Why?” he demands. “I thought the whole point of this charade was to make money. My money is as good as theirs, no?” He waves his paddle at the crowd.
Ashlyn stumbles. "Well, folks, you know how those Europeans are. Eccentric!"
Clément turns, gives Ashlyn a mock salute.
"Do we have any bids higher than nine thousand five hundred?”
Clément lifts his paddle. His own paddle.
Gasps echo through the room and Angel chokes on her cider. "Did he just?—?"
Scotty lets out a belly laugh. "That man is out here bidding on himself."
And just like that, the bidding spirals.
We are well into five figures when Clément calls again, lifting his paddle.
The crowd is wild now, people laughing, hooting, clapping.
I don’t even realize I’ve covered my face until Angel pries my hands away. "You have to see this,” she says. “He’s winning."
"He’s insane."
"He wants to beyours."
I don’t answer that.
Finally, there’s silence. Ashlyn waits, but no one else speaks.
"Going, going, gone! The Frenchman wins a date with himself!”
The room erupts. Laughter, cheers, applause, and many comments about “those Europeans.”
