Page 11 of With the Assist

Bidding starts immediately. Our football team, then basketball.

I glare at Avery as if she can help me escape the literal spotlight on me. She tosses out a bid on my team’s behalf, but it’s immediately overtaken by softball. She shoots me a silent apology as the numbers climb higher than what she can afford to bid.

Eventually, the knot in my chest loosens when the bids slow with men’s soccer in the lead. I was nervous about nothing. A ten-minute conversation at the bar doesn’t justify spending over seventy-five thousand dollars on a day with me. Right?

Then a deeper voice carries over the crowd.

“One hundred thousand.”

Every head swivels.

Nathan Wilder sits casually in his chair, hand raised like he’s ordering appetizers instead of publicly buying a day of my time. His teammates exchange looks, a combination of amusement and confusion on their faces.

I glare at him.

He smiles back, looking far too entertained.

Another bidder counters. Nathan raises without hesitation.

Another team joins in.

Nathan matches, eyes never leaving mine.

I can feel the shift in the room as the playful charity tone turns into something else entirely. Reporters lean forward, and phones come out. My palms sweat, but I refuse to show it.

Avery whispers, “Oh my god, he’s doing this on purpose.”

Of course he is. I can’t decide if I’m furious or flustered.

The bidding war escalates until it’s only Nathan and the owner of the Boston Guardians, our baseball team.

When Nathan places the final bid over two hundred thousand dollars, the baseball team bows out. I hate that it makes my body start buzzing. It’s the highest bid ever, according to the mayor.

“To the Blades, courtesy of our very own Nathan Wilder.”

My team erupts. The Blades table claps loudly, already discussing cleats and cardio and ‘whatever soccer people do.’

Meanwhile, I stand frozen with one horrifying realization. Next week, I’ll lead a workout with an entire professional hockey team, Nathan included. I’ll be running them through soccer drills and conditioning. The works.

I glance at Nathan on his feet, bowing and basking in the attention. Satisfaction is all over his face, smug with the glittering knowledge that he has rattled me more than any flirtation could.

My skin prickles when he crosses to me for photos of the award winner and the winner of the auction.

“Hi, Wesley.” His voice dips, warm and teasing.

“Nathan,” I mutter, crossing my arms.

“They want our photo.”

I roll my eyes.

He grins wider. “Smile pretty.”

Arrogant ass.

I want to smack the smile right off his perfect face. He should be groveling for insulting me, not teasing me. I’m about to tell him to shove it when I catch Avery mouthing Coach Bennett’s name at me.

Right. Best behavior.