Page 20 of Bleacher Report
The way she says it—cool, casual, not quite daring me but absolutely daring me—almost makes me laugh. Almost.
It’s not about the Speedo. It’s a power move. She wants to see if I’ll jump through hoops for her. If she’s the one in control.
“Fine,” I say, mostly because, at this point, I’ll agree to anything. “I look damn good in a Speedo anyway.”
“And,” she adds, voice softening, “you come to my nephew’s career day.”
That one lands differently.
“Your nephew’s career day?”
She nods. “My brother’s stationed overseas. My sister-in-law’s an ER nurse, and she’s slammed. Jesse’s a huge Hawkeyes fan, and he just switched schools again. This would mean the world to him.”
It’s a small task that she’s asking for. And if a hockey player from my favorite team had come to my school for my career day when I was a kid, it would have been the highlight of my life.
“Done. Are we in agreement now?” I ask, catching Everett headed our way from across the room.
“I guess so. How much can I spend on the bid?” she asks.
“Whatever it takes. Bleed my bank account dry if you have to, but don’t let her win a date with me,” I say, my eyes shifting to Everett as he walks up.
“Bleed your bank account dry?” Peyton asks with a twinkle in her eye. “With pleasure number seventy-two.”
Everett's voice cuts through the crowd. "Mr. Reed. We need you backstage."
I take one last look at her, unsure if she’s going to follow through or if she agreed to all of this just to screw with me and leave me with no other options. At this point, I have no other choice than to trust she’s going to make good on our verbal agreement as I follow Everett back through the crowd to the stage.
“Bethany Richards is a motivated negotiator,” he says over his shoulder. “Do you two have history I should know about?”
Shit…she’s serious about trying to make a trade for me.
“There’s no history between us that’s of any relevance,” I tell him.
He nods, though I can tell that he’s thinking through something she said to him earlier. “If there’s anything I need to know, you’ll be sure to tell me?”
“Yes, sir,” I say.
Then he turns and heads for the podium as I head backstage.
Backstage is organized chaos. Luka's practicing his runway walk, completely in his element, while Aleksi critiques it. Wolf's adjusting his tie for the hundredth time. But all I can think aboutis Bethany out there, stalking the front row like she already owns the outcome. My stomach tightens.
I can hear the auctioneer warming up on the mic, already cracking jokes with the crowd. The curtain might as well be paper-thin—every cheer and laugh from the audience punches right through it.
Wolf adjusts his tie again. He’s been doing it every thirty seconds.
"Why does it feel like I’m about to walk into a shootout, not a charity auction?" I ask.
Trey claps me on the back. "Because you're about to be objectified for a good cause. Just smile and pretend to be charming."
I try. But the smile doesn't quite land. My hands curl into fists at my sides.
Bethany’s sitting in the front row with a bid paddle in hand and a smile sharpened into something dangerous on her face.
“Hard to smile when your ex-girlfriend is out there with her soon-to-be ex-husband’s money to burn,” I mutter.
Trey’s head snaps toward me. “Your ex is here?”
I nod toward the curtain. “Blonde. Red lipstick. Sitting between Penelope and Everett’s empty seat.”
