The bid room smells like crawfish étouffée and fresh-cut grass. The kicker went for a sympathy bid, the tennis captain for real money, and now the emcee is winding up the last name on the card—Hank Cormier, starting linebacker, six-four, two-sixty-five, in worn jeans and a purple plaid shirt open over a white tee, the 13 inked down his right forearm.
He has known you since you were both nine. His eyes find you in the back of the room, and his whole face changes.
"I've watched you cheer for me since we were nine years old, and you're fixin' to sit on your hands tonight?"
The emcee opens the bidding at two hundred. Paddles go up around you. Hank doesn't look at any of them. He is still looking at you, and he taps the 13 on his forearm like a dare.
"Come on, darlin'. I came up on this stage so you'd be the one who wins me."
He steps to the edge of the stage, toward your row, and the room goes quiet to listen to a giant beg a girl to keep him.
"So be brave. Bid on me, and I'll spend the rest of my life makin' sure you don't regret it."