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The table cracks up.

“Five foot, eleven inches …”

“Eleven and a quarter,” Lincoln chimes in.

“Babe, let her do her thing.”

“I claim that quarter inch,” Lincoln defends.

“We’re not counting your Nikes,” Jaxon says.

I laugh. “Okay. Two hundred eighteen pounds.”

“Of solid mass,” Lincoln says.

Shanay rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling.

Then I rattle off the stats I know. “Last season? Lincoln had an impressive one thousand four hundred twenty-five rushing yards, two hundred eighty-six carries, an average of five yards per carry, fourteen rushing touchdowns, and fifty-two receptions for a total of four hundred thirty-five yards. Longest run was sixty-eight yards. Not too shabby. Let’s see,” I pause.

The table is silent. All eyes on me. “Oh. Yes. Three receiving touchdowns, including that clutch one against the Panthers last year. We were at the twelve yard line with thirty-eight seconds on the play clock. Delaney faked a handoff to Linc. Linc slipped past the defenders and got open. Delaney stepped back and threw right into Linc’s arms. Lincoln pivoted and turned upfield. He got hit at the four-yard line, but he didn’t go down, he stayed on his feet to run it in.” My voice is more animated with each beat of the play. “Touchdown!” I almost shout. “You brought us from a potential loss at twenty-seven to twenty-four up to thirty-one to win the game.”

I sit back, taking a sip of my lemonade. Marcus’s hand brushes my shoulder and he gives me a squeeze. I look over at him. His face is inscrutable. He’s got that same half-scowl with a studious brow expression he had when we were touring Seventeen Cherry Hill and I discovered the reading nook.

The rest of the table erupts into exclamations of how incredible it is that I know all that.

“Seriously impressive,” Shanay says. “Have you considered sports broadcasting?”

“Me? No. I work at a real estate office in town. Hearthstone. I love my job. And I love the Thunder.”

“That’s obvious,” the man who started this ball rolling says. “I’m Clive Strickland. I own Strickland Farm Supply.”

“The store or the chain,” I joke.

“The chain,” he says.

I nod like it’s not a big deal to own an entire chain of farm supply stores.

“Cass has a charity here in town,” Shanay says to Mr. Strickland. “You might want to get involved.”

“For a fan of the Thunder? You betcha.”

I smile at Shanay. She smiles back like she’s my new hype girl.

Marcus is still staring at me like I’m some rare sea creature who happened to slither onto land for the evening and put on a gown to hang out with the two-legged land-dwellers.

A man walks onto the stage and says, “Before we get on with dessert and dancing, we’ve got some items to auction off.”

Servers come around handing paddles out to everyone while another man joins the first one on stage. Bidding starts in the thousands for signed memorabilia, premium game experiences and exotic travel packages. Dessert is quietly passed while the live auction continues.

“A signed jersey with all the offensive players’ signatures?” I say under my breath.

“Want me to bid on it?” Marcus offers.

“What? No.”

He leans in closer. “If you were my date, and you wanted something, I’d bid on it.”

“Well then,” I say, turning to him and speaking so quietly that only he can hear me. “Fake like you’re bidding with a fake paddle and your fake voice that doesn’t actually make any sounds.”