Page 22 of Scoring Slater
"Got it. Thank you." He jogged past her. Soon, the room's doors came into view. He wrenched one open and all but fell inside the ballroom.
Wall to wall, people were everywhere. On stage, Kyle Pressgrove stood at the center while the event's emcee Booker Blake, asked for bids.
Noah glanced at the paddles in people's hands. Now, how did this work? And where did he get one?
He spied a registration table to his left and sucked down deep breaths as he approached. "Has Slater Knox gone yet?"
"Not yet. Would you like to register as a bidder?"
"More than anything." He filled in his information. The crowd grew loud as a bidding war waged over Kyle.
"Going once… going twice… sold," Booker's voice boomed across the room.
His palms were sweating and anxiety skyrocketing. He silently urged the registration person to hurry. The room echoed with Kyle's voice answering something Booker had asked. Noah leaned on the desk, drumming his fingers. He couldn't concentrate on anything aside from getting that paddle.
Finally, he held it in his hand. Noah peered through the thick crowd. He had to get closer. Most of the back of the room were spectators, not bidders.
On stage, Booker adjusted the microphone at his podium. "Up next we have Slater Knox of the Buffalo Bedlam. Slater is six foot three. Two hundred and thirty pounds. His hobbies include comic books and photography. He leads the league in penalty minutes this season, something he also accomplished five other times throughout his days playing junior hockey and in the minors. Can he be both a lover and a fighter? Bid on him and find out."
Waving to the crowd, Slater strode to the stage's center. He paused, struck a pose, and then lifted his phone and took a selfie.
Catcalls came from every direction. Slater grinned and strutted down the catwalk, moving to the beat of the music blasting from the speakers. He stopped at the end and turned like a runway model, posing to a chorus of whistles and applause.
Noah's mouth dropped open. Damn, he looked good. Then his brain registered Slater's attire. The dark jeans, boots, and Noah's favorite shirt.
"The opening bid is one hundred dollars."
Paddles raised in all sections of the room.
Noah thrust his in the air and fought through the throng. He had to get to the front, where he could be seen.
The amount grew higher and higher. By the time he reached the stage, the bidders were down to four men.
"We have twenty-five hundred dollars. Do I have three thousand?"
All four of the men nodded and held up their paddles.
"Thirty-five hundred?"
Three paddles went into the air. The other guy tossed his paddle on the table.
"Four thousand?"
One of the men shook his head. The other two raised their paddles. Noah did the same.
"Forty-five hundred?"
Another man dropped out. Down to one guy. And Noah.
"Five thousand?"
The guy, slick-looking in a gray suit, grinned—a smug, too-polished, too fake grin—and raised his paddle.
Bile rose in Noah's throat. No way would he let all of that skin-crawling slime anywhere near Slater.
"Ten thousand dollars," he shouted, waving his paddle in the air. His heart thudded so hard, like it was trying to escape his chest.
Gasps and murmurs came from the crowd. A spotlight landed on him. On stage, Slater's mouth dropped open and his eyes widened.
