"Guess."
Something flickers in his eyes. Uncertainty, maybe. Or the first stirrings of genuine competition. "Good luck with that. But this one's mine. I've been waiting a long time."
Quentin's voice cuts through the noise. "So has she. For you to leave her alone."
Chad's face goes red. Kevin grabs his arm, muttering something about not letting us get to him, and then Chad turns back around with his shoulders tense and the back of his neck turning a deep red. I have to physically stop myself from grinning.
"That was hot," I tell Quentin.
"Shut up."
"The way you just went for the throat like that—"
"Shut up."
The lights dim before I can needle him further, the events committee woman taking the stage, her excess energy making me wonder how long she’s prepared for this.
"Welcome to Fab Feb, everyone! You know the rules—bid high, bid often, and remember, all proceeds go to Knotlocke's athletic programs!" She pauses for cheers, which the crowd obligingly provides. "Now, let's meet our Alphas!"
This is wildly different than last month when Avery bid on his own stepbrother, Declan and now they’re mates. The energy tonight is higher and there’s a sensual aspect to everything because it’s so close to Valentine’s.
The first few auctions pass in a blur. A basketball player goes for two thousand, which seems like a reasonable baseline. A swimmer with abs for days but the personality of wet cardboard goes for eighteen hundred. Then they bring out the hockey twins—two players sold as a package deal—and the crowd goes absolutely feral.
Four thousand dollars. For two hockey players.
I look at Quentin. He looks at me.
"We have more money than that," he says calmly.
"We do?"
"I've been saving."
"Since when?"
"Since I started thinking about this."
I don't know what to say to that. Quentin, who treats emotions like an inconvenient medical condition, has been saving money in case we got the chance to bid on Iris? It takes me a few seconds to realize my brother isn’t as tough as he portrays. "Q, you softie."
"Shut up and watch."
I roll my eyes but do as he says, settling back into my chair. The auction continues on stage, Alpha after Alpha cycling through, but my attention keeps drifting to the front row. Chad can't sit still. Every thirty seconds he turns around to check the backstage area, craning his neck to see who's coming out next. His knee bounces so hard his chair creaks against the floor, and Kevin keeps shooting him looks that he completely ignores.
"When's Iris coming out?" Chad asks, loud enough that people in our row glance over. "She's near the end, right?"
"Bro, stop fidgeting."
"I'm not fidgeting, I'm prepared."
He's definitely fidgeting. I'd enjoy it more if my own nerves weren't eating me alive. My palms are sweating against the paddle in my lap, and I have to keep wiping them on my jeans.
The announcer steps back up to the microphone, consulting her index cards, and the room quiets down.
"And now, a special participant... our very own Iris Delacroix! Bookkeeper extraordinaire, math whiz, art prodigy, and yes, ladies and gentlemen, Coach Delacroix's daughter!"
Murmurs ripple through the crowd. Someone behind me whispers something about Coach not being here tonight, away game scouting, and I file that information away as potentiallyuseful. But then Iris steps into the spotlight and I forget about Coach entirely. I forget about everything.
The oversized sweater from practice is gone. She's wearing a deep teal blouse paired with fitted black pants, gold jewelry layering at her throat and wrists. Her braids are pulled half-up with gold pins, the teal beads at the end clicking softly against each other as she walks to center stage.
