Page 3 of Gossip Game

There were a few groans mixed in with the applause from the crowd as the woman handed the microphone off to the auctioneer.

“First on the docket is the ever-popular Shepard Academy carpool lane street sign,” he announced.

A cheer rose, along with the tension in the room, as everyone scooted to the edge of their seats. Charlotte exchanged a “who-knew” look with her brother when the bidding reached nearly two thousand dollars for the chance to have the carpool lane named after their child for a year. That was followed by an opportunity to have the principal dress up as a bumble bee and chauffeur a student around in her yellow VW “punch bug.” The good-natured bidding volleyed back and forth throughout the room. The parents were becoming much more animated as the night wore on.

“And for our last experience,” the auctioneer announced thirty minutes later. “We owe a special thank you to Jay and Bridgett McManus, parents of rising kindergartners, Vivian and Grayson, for their one-of-a-kind donation.” He raised his arm to gesture to a man standing in the wings, waving him onto center stage. “An afternoon of bowling with Blaze quarterback, Noah Hudson.”

A chorus of gasps filled the room when the auctioneer was at once dwarfed by six-foot-five feet and two hundred thirty-five pounds of well-honed muscle. Charlotte had long ago memorized his stats from the Blaze website. His sandy hair was neatly combed, except for the perpetual cowlick that always seemed to have several strands standing at attention above his left eye. This far away, it was difficult to read his expression, but she was sure those soulful, dark brown eyes were quickly sizing up the room just like they do on the football field right before he snaps the ball.

Decked out in khakis and a Blaze quarter-zip, Noah gave the crowd a shy head bob and a wave. He wasn’t much for words. Charlotte knew that firsthand.

Just as she knew his lips were skilled in activities that didn’t involve talking.

“Let’s hope ‘Dudson’ can bowl better than he can pass,” a guy behind them shouted.

A few nervous laughs rang out, while most of the audience applauded politely. Beside her, Jay let out a low growl of disgust at the nickname that odious sports podcaster, Bucky Kincaid, had saddled the Blaze quarterback with. Charlotte didn’t dare take her eyes off Noah. Other than his shoulders inching up a notch, he took the crowd’s reaction in stride.

There had been lots of chatter among the talking heads on sports radio and television about Noah’s abilities as a pro quarterback during the off season. Kincaid’s voice being the loudest among them. He was always at the forefront of any discussion, questioning whether the second-round draft pick had the mental toughness to make the cut in the league. Especially after sitting five years behind Blaze legend, Shane Devlin. It didn’t help matters that the Blaze were three and fourteen last season, Noah’s first as the team’s starting quarterback. In a town used to winning championships, that sort of record didn’t sit well with the fans.

“Let’s get the bidding started at one hundred dollars,” the auctioneer said.

“That’s probably higher than his bowling score,” the loudmouth at the back yelled.

Charlotte watched Noah’s lips twitch ever-so slightly as he struggled to maintain a relaxed smile. She squirmed in her seat, anxious for the quarterback.

“You couldn’t simply donate a case of wine from your vineyard or something?” she hissed at her brother.

“We did,” he snapped. “In the silent auction.”

“I’ll take him for a hundred dollars,” a woman at the front offered.

Jay groaned at the obvious double entendre while the crowd tittered.

Another woman waved her napkin and offered two hundred dollars. Suddenly, women throughout the room were bidding on Noah.

Charlotte glared at her brother. “Who thought objectifying one of your players was a good idea?”

“The experience is a damn bowling party with kids. A way to connect with fans.” Jay tugged at the knot in his tie. “His school age fans. I have no idea what these women think they are getting.”

With a huff, she pulled her phone from her purse and swiped through social media until she found the video Bucky Kincaid posted yesterday on his site. It was intrusive footage shot by the paparazzi of Noah washing his vintage Bronco, wearing nothing but a pair of skimpy workout shorts. Fifteen seconds of mouthwatering, rippling muscles and damp, sun-kissed skin, before Noah realized he was being filmed and threatened the paps away. Twenty-four hours later, the video had over seven hundred thousand likes and tens of thousands of comments. Most of them women leaving their DM handles.

“This should give you some idea what these women ‘think they are getting.’” She slammed the phone down on the table.

Her brother blanched as he watched the video. “Fuck.”

The room was buzzing around them, and the bidding climbed to twenty-four hundred dollars.

“Twenty-five?” the auctioneer called. “Do we have twenty-five hundred?”

Charlotte shot from her seat. “Twenty-five!”

“Twenty-five hundred dollars to the lady in the back.”

“No,” she shouted. “Twenty-five thousand dollars.”

TWO

“No! Twenty-five thousand dollars!”

---