The room erupts. This is the biggest fundraiser of the night. The players get auctioned off for charity, the winner gets a dance, signed merch, VIP tickets, suite passes, and a private training session. It’s all in good fun and raises an obscene amount of money for a great cause. The guys are herded onto the stage, and I have to say, seeing them all lined up in tuxedos and suits looking like a very expensive buffet is something to behold. Billie has the camera on the stage, and I’m supposed to be getting crowd reactions, but I can’t stop watching.
Sully goes first, he plays to the crowd, unbuttons his jacket, and does a slow turn that has women screaming. The bidding climbs fast, reaching thirty thousand to a redhead in the front row who looks like she’s about to eat him alive.
“That woman is terrifying,” Marlowe whispers.
“Sully can handle himself,” I tell her, but I’m not sure I believe it.
Pierre goes next, fifty thousand. Issy doesn’t bid because she doesn’t need to, she already owns him. The woman who wins looks thrilled. Issy looks unbothered, which is power.
Felix goes for forty. Harper watches with an amused smile, completely secure. That’s what trust looks like.
Bouch goes for thirty, charming the crowd in French. Nelly goes for thirty-five, looking mortified the entire time, which somehow makes the bidding go higher. Evan stands on stage, arms crossed, jaw set, and says absolutely nothing, which drives the crowd insane. He goes for forty-five to a woman who looks like she might actually faint.
Then Fish.
“And next up, number twenty-two, Justin Crawford!”
He walks to the center of the stage, and the room gets loud.Really loud.He grins, that grin, and does this thing where he adjusts his bow tie and tilts his head, and every woman in the building collectively loses her mind. He’s eating it up. Of course he is. This is his element, being wanted, being the center of attention, being adored.
The bidding starts at five thousand and climbs fast, ten, fifteen, twenty, thirty. I watch the numbers rise and tell myself the tightness in my chest is from the underwire in this dress, forty, forty-five.
“Fifty-five thousand!” A voice rings out from the front row.
It’s the brunette, the one who’s been touching his arm all night. She stands tall, all long legs, red lips, and a confidence that comes from never being told no. Fish looks at her and smiles. The room cheers and the MC slams the gavel, and it’s done. Fifty-five thousand dollars for a dance with my best friend.Suddenly, my stomach doesn’t feel so good, must have been a dodgy bit of salmon.
Emmett goes last and the bidding is insane. A woman in a red dress, with dark hair, curves, all sharp edges, and predatoryenergy, bids one hundred thousand dollars. The room gasps. Emmett looks like he wants the stage to swallow him whole. I glance at Jo, she’s watching from her table, champagne in hand, and the expression on her face is one I recognize because I just felt it myself.
The dancing starts,and I work the room, getting candid shots and capturing moments. I film Sully waltzing with the redhead. I film Bouch trying to teach his bidder a hockey celebration dance. I film Pierre pulling Issy onto the dance floor even though she didn’t bid on him because Pierre doesn’t care about rules when it comes to that woman.
Then I see Fish.
He’s on the dance floor with the brunette. She’s pressed against him, her arms around his neck, her face close to his ear, whispering something. His hand is on her waist, polite, not low, but still.His hand is on her waist.A hand that was on my waist. A hand that was on my throat. A hand that ran its thumb across my lips in a corridor.
Stop!
I watch them dance, and I feel something ugly and hot rise through my chest. She laughs at whatever he says and tilts her head back, and he looks down at her. I have to turn away because if I watch one more second, I’m going to do something unprofessional.You have no right to feel this way. He’s not yours.
I throw myself into work, more candids, more crowd shots. I interview a couple of the donors and get some quotes about the charity. I’m professional, focused, and absolutely not tracking Fish’s location across the ballroom every thirty seconds.
Jo appears beside me, looking flushed. “I need air.”
“You okay?”
“Fine. Just hot in here.” She disappears toward one of the terrace doors.
I watch her go, and then I watch Emmett excuse himself from his table a minute later and head in the same direction.Interesting.
The evening wears on, more champagne, more dancing, and more of the brunette hanging off Fish like she bought him at a store and not a charity auction. I’ve lost sight of him over the last twenty minutes, which is fine because I’m working and don’t need to know his whereabouts all the time.Except you do.“I’m going to do one more loop for candids, and then I think we’re good,” I tell Marlowe.
“Sounds good,” she says.
I weave through the ballroom toward the far side, where there’s a smaller, second terrace that wraps around the corner of the building. It’s quieter here, away from the main event, with the music muffled by the glass doors. A few people are smoking near the railing. I keep moving, rounding the corner toward the part of the terrace that’s tucked away, darker, more private.
And that’s when I see them.
The brunette has Fish pressed up against the wall of the terrace, her hands on his lapels, her mouth on his. The world tilts, everything goes sharp and bright and wrong. My chest caves in, the champagne turns to acid in my stomach, and I can’t breathe. I can’t fucking breathe. I take a step backward, my heel catching on the stone, and I press my hand against the wall to steady myself.
You have no right to feel this. You told him you were just friends. You drew the line. You made the rules.