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When the fuck did my life become a goddamn Instagram reel?

Music, lights, people yelling out bids like we’re at a damn cattle auction—and me, standing on a stage in a button-down so tight it might as well be a second skin.

A bachelor auction.

For charity.

For fuck’s sake.

This wasn’t in the contract.

This wasn’t in the player handbook.

This isn’t what I signed up for when I left my family’s legacy and all their gold-plated expectations behind to chase a ball around a field.

Now I’m supposed to smile, wink, and parade my ass around like a Chippendale reject while strangers throw money to win a date with me?

No.

Absolutely not.

I’ve spent my whole life around women with money and perfect hair and dead eyes.

Poor little rich girls with $1,200 handbags and souls as shallow as a champagne flute.

I know their game.

And I have zero intention of being a prop in some bored socialite’s photoshoot.

But then the spotlight hits her.

Her.

She’s not dressed for attention.

Not dripping in jewels or posing for Instagram.

She’s just standing there, holding her bidder paddle, with this casual confidence like she doesn’t owe anyone an explanation for taking up space—and holy hell, is she taking up space in the best fucking way.

Curves for days.

A mouth that looks like it was built to argue.

And eyes that say I’m not impressed, even as she sizes me up like she already owns me.

Then she raises her paddle.

Final bid. Won.

Sold to bidder number 69.

Is that a cosmic joke?

And now I’m sporting a half-chub just thinking about it.

She approaches like she’s walking to a dentist appointment.

“Hi,” I say, trying not to look like I just forgot how to breathe. “I’m Luca.”

She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t flutter. Doesn’t play coy.

“Annabeth Martinez,” she replies crisply. “Nice to meet you. If you come with me, we can get this over with fast.”

Just like that, I’m the one who’s off balance.

Because she’s not what I expected.

She’s not interested in me. It’s obvious.

Not my looks, my name, my money, or my stats.

She doesn’t want a show pony.

She wants out of this just as much as I do.

And somehow, that makes her the most interesting woman I’ve met in a long, long time.

I’m not supposed to care.

Not supposed to feel anything.

But walking off that stage beside her, all I can think is— maybe I’ve been wrong about everything.