by Alexa Martin
“Oh good, because I’d hate to have to step on any toes.” She winks. “But I’d still do it.”
Eww.
I think I hate her.
“Anyways, I’m off to mingle, toodles.” She smiles, showing off her too-perfect veneers and wiggling her fingers so close to my face that her fingernail grazes my nose.
Okay.
Now I know I hate her.
“What the hell was that?” Poppy, my only stone-cold-sober friend, asks.
I stare at Eloise’s shiny, highlighted hair as she makes her way to somebody I’ve never seen before. “I honestly have no fucking idea.”
“Can I help behind the bar or anything?” she asks, but hurries on when I open my mouth to tell her to enjoy the party. “Not because I think you need help. I feel so awkward being here. I left TK because I hate this sport so much and no doubt a lot of people here know that. The only reason I’m here is because I promised Vonnie I’d support her first big event. And the only reason I promised her I’d support her first big event is because I thought I’d be able to get drunk enough to forget the night in its entirety. So I really need you to let me make some cocktails since I can’t drink any.”
Poppy is rambling, and Poppy rarely rambles. She’s actually the exact opposite of me in that regard. It’s like silence is a comfort to her whereas I—and most people I know—would rather make an ass of myself than let my thoughts simmer in my brain.
“If you want to, you’re more than welcome to join me. The list of specialty cocktails and their instructions are taped behind the bar.” I wasn’t going to be behind the bar tonight, but it’s pretty clear to me that I’m going to need something to occupy my mind and my hands. Some people knit or paint to calm themselves. I make cocktails.
“Thank you.” She practically leaps into my arms.
It takes a solid twenty minutes for us to work our way through the dense crowd, Poppy greeting girlfriends and wives, me saying hello to the men and women in smart suits who wanted information on how they too could rent out the space for their next big event. When we finally slide behind the bar, both of our shoulders slouch in relief to have a barrier from the mobs of people.
But before I can relax too much, Vonnie’s voice booms through the speakers, and her gorgeous face appears on all of the TVs scattered around.
It’s in that moment that I decide I have to convince her to do Love the Player. Nobody who looks that good on multiple high-def plasma screens should be hidden in a courtroom. The world should not be deprived of seeing her stunning face in the comfort of their own homes.
“Hello, ladies and gentlemen!” she calls out, already working the stage like the queen she is. “Thank you all for coming out tonight to join us for this wonderful cause. I’m Lavonne Lamar, president of the Lady Mustangs, and on behalf of all the Lady Mustangs who worked so diligently over the last few months to make sure we not only have a wonderful night, but raise a lot—and I mean a lot—of money.” She winks, pointing into the crowd, and I know just by the cloud of smoke (even though there are laws against smoking inside buildings) that she is talking to the Mustangs owner. “Yes, I’m talking to you, Mr. Mahler,” she says, and the crowd bursts into laughter. “We want to thank you for coming.”
“She’s freaking killing it,” Poppy says. Her eyes are glued to the stage because, like the rest of us, she is hypnotized by Vonnie’s charm, beauty, and wit.
“I know, right? How is she not a superstar?”
Vonnie continues her welcome, keeping the audience enraptured. She has everyone laughing when she jokes, draws a heady silence over the loud—and intoxicated—crowd as she discusses Northern Harbor and the crucial work they provide, and then ends her speech to an applause so loud, it rivals what I heard at the stadium yesterday. She walks off the stage, handing her microphone to Jeremy Yepsen, the local radio host who’s emceeing the auction, and in front of me, a man in a boring blue suit with thick-rimmed glasses leans over to a woman with beautiful hair and a professional yet stylish dress, whom I recognize as the news anchor from channel seven, and says, “She’s brilliant. Looks like Denver is going to have a new host for a morning talk show.”
It takes everything in me not to jump up and down and run to Vonnie, proclaiming that she is going to be the next Oprah and I’m calling dibs on being Gayle.
Poppy starts hitting me repeatedly on the arm and pointing to the man in front of us, trying to be discreet but failing miserably.
I know! I mouth, my eyes feeling as though they might pop out of my face.
“She’s going to be Oprah!” she whisper yells, grabbing my hands and bouncing up and down.
“I was going to say the same thing!” I yell, figuring Mr. Blue Suit won’t know what we’re talking about, but also adhering to the friendship rule that you must get overly excited when you and a friend are thinking the same thing at the same time.
It’s how I know Poppy is going to be my friend until I’m old and gray. When you build a friendship on a mutual love of alcohol and Oprah, you have a foundation that can last through anything.
While setting up the auction, Vonnie decided the best lineup would be reminiscent of a music festival, with the lesser-known names acting as a warm-up for the main event. Most guys seemed to check their ego at the door . . . well, not the whole ego, but part of it, and not make a big deal about their placement in the lineup. I’m not sure if it’s because of appreciation and respect for Vonnie and the charity they are supporting, or fear of the wrath of Mr. Mahler if they cause a scene.
The first twenty or so guys fly by. Jeremy moves through the auction like a pro, starting the bids at an impressive one thousand dollars and proving that people came to play tonight. Even the few players that I’ve never heard of go for over three thousand dollars.
Then the bigger names start coming, and shit gets wild.
Justin, Vonnie’s husband, goes for a solid ten thousand dollars. He practically charges off the stage, running straight to the older man who placed the winning bid and then picking him up, spinning in circles.
“You better get that money, baby!” Vonnie yells over the cheers and laughter.
Crosby brings in eight thousand. Poor guy was so nervous, his shoulders damn near hit the floor in relief as he walks off the stage. Cameras inch closer to Aviana’s face as she blows him a kiss before boldly declaring she’d go for at least double.
“And coming to the stage next, you might know this guy. He makes quarterbacks shake in their cleats and wide receivers cry,” Jeremy says, bouncing up and down in anticipation, eyes laser focused to the curtain starting to part behind the stage. “Seven-time all-pro cornerback, Maxwell Lewis!”
The crowd roars to life as Maxwell runs through the curtain, his game face plastered on. He jogs to center stage, his teeth sparkling beneath the spotlight as he points to the crowd, and bursts into the dance move I always see Ace trying to do.
The cocktail I was making is long forgotten. Trying to focus on anything other than this outgoing version of Maxwell is pointless, something Poppy must notice because she grabs the ice-filled shaker in front of me and picks up where I left off.
“What should I start the bidding at?” Jeremy asks the crowd.
“Hey, you better not do me dirty,” Maxwell says, and I swear I can almost hear bras unsnapping as his deep voice comes through the speakers. “I have to be worth more than Lamar.”
I let out a startled, very unattractive snort. Maxwell is always funny, but in a smart, quiet way. This Maxwell in front of me is different. This is Mustang Maxwell. Competitive and outgoing and not intimidated by the thought of charming a crowd filled with some of Colorado’s most powerful people.
And as much as I try to ignore it, I can’t deny the way my heart stutters in my chest.
“Me?” Jeremy covers his mouth in much astonishment. “I would never.”
“Hey!�
�� Aviana and her camera crew are suddenly in front of me. “Can I have one more of those orange drinks?” she asks, clearly over her not-getting-drunk rule.
“Sure.” I smile, but only for the camera. If I could throttle her right now, I would, but I already signed the papers allowing the producers to put me on the show, and looking like a bitch would probably be the one time they decided not to edit me out.
I grab a shaker, tossing in ice and measuring the vodka, all while trying to ignore the quickly increasing numbers Jeremy is shouting out.
“Eight thousand! Can anybody give me eighty-five hundred? Eighty-five hundred!”
I reach for the orange juice, trying to think happy thoughts.
“Eleven thousand!” I hear. I chance a quick peek at the stage and regret it immediately. Maxwell is jumping up and down, pumping his arms in the air, hyping up the crowd to keep bidding, his biceps straining against his suit jacket with every move he makes.
I turn around and reach into one of the mini fridges tucked into the back of the bar, singing the ABC’s in my head, anything to distract me from the spectacle happening on the stage.
I pour the half-and-half and put the lid on the shaker, shaking it with a lot more force than necessary.
“Thirteen thousand!” Jeremy yells. “This is amazing! Can we get it any higher?”
I keep shaking, only stopping when I notice Rich—the cameraman who is always willing to be a guinea pig for new concoctions I’ve created—leaning around his camera and staring at me with an open mouth. I pick up the sugar-rimmed custom martini glass and start straining the frosty orange drink into it.
“Twenty-five thousand dollars!” A shrill, familiar voice rises above all others.
The glass falls from my hand and shatters on the ground, sugarcoated shards scattering around my cocktail-covered feet. My head snaps up and my gaze follows everybody else’s to Eloise Withington standing on top of a table with a hand in the air.
“SOLD!” Jeremy screams like he’s not holding a microphone.
The crowd snaps out of its momentary shock and thunders back to life. I even spot Mrs. Mahler with her cigarette holder, who stands up from her seat and cheers.
“That bitch,” I growl, my eyes glued to the back of Eloise’s stupid dress as the crowd parts for her and she makes her way onto the stage to hug Maxwell. “I fucking hate her.”
“Oh my god!” Aviana squeals, pulling my attention away from the stage. “I never saw this as a potential story line, but I fucking love it.” She grins and it looks fucking diabolical. She turns to one of the cameramen and asks, “Did you catch it?”
My eyes widen for a second, taking in the shocked faces of Rich, Vince, and Poppy. Then I squeeze them shut as tight as possible, hoping a hopeless hope that somehow this is all a terrible nightmare.
I crack one eye open, but much to my dismay, not only is Vince still standing there with his camera, so are Maxwell and a giddy Eloise.
“So,” she squawks. “What’d we miss?”
Fucking, fucking Lady Mustangs!
Seventeen
“Dad.” I try to infuse as much feeling as possible into that one little word. “I just do not want to talk about it anymore.”
It’s been five days and the damn auction is still all anybody can talk about.
After the game on Sunday, I’d managed to convince myself that I misheard his conversation at the museum. Or that maybe he was trying to end things with whoever was on the line. Maxwell’s a stand-up dude, he wouldn’t break up with someone on the phone. But ever since I saw Eloise plastered to his side, the doubts have been creeping back in. And luckily for me, I’m not sure anyone is going to let it drop anytime soon. No matter how many times I ask.
“But they even talked about it on the news today,” my dad says. “They said the Mustangs wouldn’t even tell them how much money they made, only that it was historically high. And the news anchor was there too. She said it was the best event she’d ever attended and that HERS is her new go-to spot. You should be thrilled.”
I stand up straight and stare at my dad. “I am thrilled.” I point to the fake smile on my face. “See?”
“I just don’t understand why you aren’t over the moon right now.”
Obviously, I did not tell my dad all of the details of the auction.
I’m still trying to pretend like I didn’t unintentionally become a story line for the next season of a reality show and that said story line isn’t outing me to the world for an unrequited crush I developed on a guy so far out of my league that somebody spent twenty-five thousand dollars to hang out with him.
Although, to be fair, it wasn’t a dating auction and there were very clear guidelines set forth about what would be allowed to happen and what wouldn’t. And Eloise attended to represent her father’s firm and was given “carte blanche”—her words, not mine—to both give back to charity and have a player spend the day at their firm.
I guess when it comes to spending someone else’s money, Eloise is as charitable as they come.
“I am!” I snap, throwing the rag I’ve been using to scrub a speck of dirt off the bar, only to realize it’s a nick in the counter.
“Ooh,” Tanya says, snapping her gum as she passes. “You must’ve mentioned the thing we aren’t mentioning that happened here on Monday night with people from that team we also aren’t mentioning.”
I glare and my dad laughs.
“I can fire you.”
To that threat, she blows a bubble and winks.
I throw my hands in the air. “Does nobody here respect my authority?”
“I know you still aren’t trippin’ over that spoiled brat bidding on Max.” Vonnie slides onto the barstool next to my dad.
Why? What did I ever do to deserve this?
“Oh.” My dad’s eyes widen behind his glasses and he nods his head slowly. “This is about Max. That makes sense.”
“What? Why?” I trip over my words. “Why does that make sense?” I ask, then point at Vonnie. “You stay out of this or I’m banning you from HERS.”
She turns her head to the side for the sole purpose of giving me a wicked side-eye. “Suuure.”
Clearly, I’ve been living in a land of delusion thinking anybody in my circle takes me seriously.
“I mean it!” I shout, startling customers around us.
“Okay, girl,” Vonnie says, even though it’s obvious to everyone that she’s just humoring me. “You want to come to the game tomorrow? Lucy already called me asking if you would come to this game too.”
Aww.
Hearing that Lucy wants me there is almost enough to shake some of the foul mood I’ve been in since Monday. “That’s sweet of her,” I say. “But I don—”
“She’ll be there.”
“What? No, I can’t,” I say at the same time Vonnie claps her hands and says, “Fabulous! I’ll text Lucy right now.”
“Vonnie, I really can’t miss two consecutive Sundays. They’ve turned into one of our craziest days for business.”
“Nonsense.” My dad sounds exactly like he did when I was seven. “I’ll cover for you. You need to get out of this bar more often. And who says no to a suite at the Mustangs game?”
“I already texted her. You can’t back out now.” Vonnie tosses her crystal-encrusted phone case into her oversized Louis Vuitton bag. “She said Clara and Ruth have been asking about you all week.”
Sorcery.
She knows how obsessed I was with those curly-headed balls of cuteness.
“That was sneaky.” I glare at her, my resolve weakening. “I still can’t go.”
Tanya slides a French martini that Vonnie no longer needs to verbally order in front of her. “Thanks, girl!” Vonnie says.
“Anytime!” Tanya leans over me and adds a splash of champagne to Vonnie’s drink.
“So.” She lifts her martini to her lips. “What time am I picking you up tomorrow?”
“Same time as last week,” I mumble. I grab my phone from beneath the bar and start to walk away, calling out, “I hope you’re proud of being a bully,” as I go.
“I’m not fucking ashamed,” she says, and I refuse to turn around even when I hear all of their laughter following me out.
Eighteen
Don’t check your phone. Don’t check your phone. Don’t check your freaking-ass phone.
I check my phone.
And it’s still depressingly blank.
“Are you okay, Miss Brynn?” Clara asks, sitting on my lap.
I flip my phone over and slide it onto the table in front of me. “I’m perfect.” I tug on one of the red curls in her wild pigtails. “Are you excited to watch your daddy play football?”
“Not really. Football is long and boring, but Mommy said I can play on my tablet if I don’t sneak candy.” She sounds more fifteen than four. “I thought sitting with you would make it easier to pretend there isn’t candy in there.” She jabs a finger at the glass door leading into the suite.
“Is it working?”
A shy smile pulls at her lips, and she shoots a quick glance to Lucy, who’s nursing a fussy baby Oliver a couple of rows in front of us. “Not really.”
“Mile High City!” The deep voice from last week is back just in time to distract Clara and me. “Get on your feet for your Denver Mustangs!”
And like the well-oiled machine they are, fireworks shoot out from the top of the stadium, and the blue-and-orange flood breaks free from the tunnel.
I wish I could say that after seeing it once, it wasn’t as impressive, but I’d be lying. I’m not sure the grandeur of this ever fades, and I suddenly understand the people who camp out for tickets and spend more than some people make in a year on season tickets. The energy, the excitement, it’s like a drug, and it’s addictive as fuck.
My blood crackles through my veins as I watch player after player run onto the field. Clara’s weight on my thighs is the only thing anchoring me to my seat. Even though I try to play it cool, I only last a few seconds of my eyes straining for Maxwell before I crack. “Is Maxwell not playing today?” I ask Vonnie or Lucy . . . hell, even Clara and Ruth probably know more than me.
