Page 49 of Lovesick (The Minnesota Mustangs #1)

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 Mario Kart 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 front ooh and aah , readying their paddles for a Hunger 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!”

My jaw hits the ground.

A lady in a red, skin-tight dress challenges the price with blaring confidence. “Two hundred and twenty dollars!”

“Three hundred dollars!”

“Four hundred and fifty dollars!”

It’s absolute artillery fire as each woman one-ups the other without any guidance from yours truly. Knox is still showing off the goods like he predicted this outcome, and I can hear Mrs. Burke squawking in my ear about how unprofessional this is.

Finally, the first bidder stakes her claim, proclaiming an astonishing “Eight hundred dollars!”

Kicking back into presenter mode, I try to pretend like my eyes haven’t been violated by the sight of Knox’s thrusting crotch region. “Eight hundred dollars. Going once, going twice…sold to the lovely lady in the back!”

Mrs. Burke makes an unexpected appearance as she escorts Knox off the stage, and the bidding procession continues without a hitch.

By the time we’re halfway through the team, we’ve raised over five thousand dollars, latent blisters have formed on the soles of my feet, my stomach is eating itself from hunger, and I’m still replaying the disaster from earlier.

When I flip to my next card, Crew’s name is written in big, bold letters.

My voice, candied in guilt, cracks. “And next up, center and captain, Crew Calloway.”

The moment he steps on stage, the world stops.

I blanch as a second heartbeat manifests in my temples, my chest convulsing on an intake of recycled air. The starchy, dog-eared pages of our past flit before my eyes at a speed I can’t keep up with, flipping to a blank plane of parchment that holds our nonexistent future.

He stares at me—eyes bluer than a stovetop flame—and shades of sadness maim his handsome features. In a split second, our halcyon exchange is over, and Crew resumes his trek down the catwalk, nowhere near as theatrical as his other teammates.

I hate that I brought him into my mess. I want to cry and break down, but I can’t.

“Hockey enthusiast at a young age, Crew has dedicated his life to making a name for himself on the ice. He’s a huge horror fanatic, he’s a sucker for good food, and he’s a great listener if you’re ever tight on money and need a qualified therapist.”

Oh, God. He is. He’s all of those things.

And here I am, about to give him away on a date to someone who will probably treat him better than I ever could.

I don’t want to. I know it’s just for the fundraiser, but something tells me that if I let go of him, he’ll never come back.

I don’t want to live in a world where I’m not waking up next to him or falling asleep in his arms—where he’s not silencing my worries or doing outlandish things to get my attention.

I don’t want to live in a world where I’m not… loved …by him.

I blink away the wetness in my eyes. “Starting bid: ten dollars.”

An older gentleman raises his paddle politely. “Thirty dollars.”

Then a younger-looking woman with big hoops and a classic red lip. “Seventy dollars.”

Another voice slices through the chaos like a scythe mowing through limber stalks of wheat. “Two hundred dollars.”

“Five hundred and fifty!”

“Eight hundred!”

I can’t keep track of how many people are bidding. There are so many conflicting tenors competing with one another, and my booming pulse has now infiltrated the mix.

Crew is as still as an obelisk. I know he doesn’t want to be here. I wish I could just run away with him.

Run away from the crowd, my dad, the noise .

“One thousand dollars!” someone screams, instigating a susurrus throughout the disorderly mob.

I’m losing control over the auction.

And then, to hammer the final nail in the coffin, a woman who can’t be much older than me stands up in the most breathtaking, glittery minidress, flourishing her paddle with a coy smirk draped over her lips. “Three thousand dollars.”

Nobody dares to match her bid. Everyone looks at me to declare the final statement, but the words never leave the safety of my mouth.

My senses roll around haphazardly like billiard balls, and I experience a sudden onslaught of lightheadedness.

Fractals glimmer in my panoramic vision as sounds garble beyond my hearing.

There’s an abrupt, stabbing pain in my heart—one that I’ve only felt once before, and one that I’d hoped to never feel again—before the whole world goes dark.

Gravity pulls me down to the ground as if my body is made of sandbags, and the last thing on my mind is Crew.

I love you.