Livia nodded, and then she was splitting the crowd of people like Moses split the sea, every head turning to watch her as she passed.
I took my time ambling over to the tables of items up for bid, mentally planning out the video and photo content I’d put together of the night. I made sure to take multiple video angles and transition options, knowing I wouldn’t be able to come back and re-do any of them later. My parents often laughed at my job — not because they were mean, but because they genuinely didn’t understand it. Not many did.
You tell someone your job is in social media, and the first reaction is almost always a staunch laugh.
But as confused as I was about where my life would go next, I loved what I did. I especially loved that I’d built an audience online who cared about the same things I did, who wanted to meet the game changers in their community who were the unsung heroes. I’d built a loyal following on that mission — one I wanted to take to greater heights with the Tampa Bae Babes.
But first, I had to do my time as the sports girl.
When I made it to the tables, I held my phone steady and walked slowly down the line of items up for bid. The Gibson Gala was hosted by the athletic teams in the Bay, a rare coming together of our hockey, baseball, and football teams as they raised money to benefit the many charities they supported. As such, most of the items were sports-related, everything from signed balls, pucks, and jerseys to suite tickets and player experiences.
I wished I found it impressive, that I could look at the outrageous bids already scribbled on the books in front of each item and find it awe-inspiring. Instead, I fought the urge to roll my eyes at every person in the room who felt so generous just by attending this event, never knowing what it really felt like to give back, to be face to face with those in need and extend a hand out to help them.
When I came to a rather ugly and oversized vase that stood out from the sports memorabilia surrounding it, I paused, frowning and letting my eyes assess it. It was oddly shaped, the mouth of it warped like a watch in a Dalí painting, and the body was misshapen like it had been melted instead of carved to perfection. It looked like a pottery piece made by a child trying their hand at it for the first time, the whole thing devoid of color and a proper finish. It was just a gray, weeping heap of clay posing as something of value.
“Fan of art?”
“Is that what this is supposed to be?” I asked before even looking at the person behind the low, smooth voice that asked me the question. When I glanced back over my shoulder to place a smile with my joke, it fell flat at the sight of Vince Tanev.
I didn’t have to be even mildly interested in hockey to recognize our hotshot rookie, the one who had been taking the city by storm since he burst into headlines this preseason. He caught everyone’s attention with all the goals and assists he racked up early in the regular season soon after, and he held that attention with his activities off the ice — namely partying, stumbling into his condo with three girls on each arm, and becoming known for randomly showing up in popular shops and restaurants, hanging out with fans like he was a regular person.
Which he was, I reminded myself, as I let my smile slip farther off my face.
I knew him not only because of all that, but because he was frequently spotlighted in the local news for being a community hero. But from what I could tell, the events were all a public relations sham, and he was all too happy to pretend like he gave a shit long enough to have his picture snapped before he was back to being a playboy.
Vince Cool.
Tampa had bestowed the affectionate nickname upon him, inspired by Snoopy’s alter ego Joe Cool, and the rest of the nation had been quick to jump on board. He was hot, young, cocky, and, worst of all, the kind of player who backed up his shit-talking effortlessly.
Because he just kept getting better and better with every fucking game.
I didn’t have to study him long to note that his usually messy hair was tamed tonight, styled in a sleek wave that accented the lines and edges of his handsome face. Those cheekbones were enough to make a poet dedicate their life’s work to him. Coupled with his thick lashes and lips that always remained in a rich boy pout, Vince was impossible not to find delectable. Those attracted to the male variety went especially apeshit over the little scar on his right eyebrow, the one that gave that pretty face just enough edge to make you wonder if he’d tie you up in bed.
He was stoic and severe, the kind of man who exuded power without ever having to say a single word.
His pouty lips crooked just a little at the corner the longer I stared at him, especially when my eyes flicked to the column of his white throat exposed by the top two buttons of his dress shirt being carelessly left unfastened. No neck had a right to be that hot.
Finally, I met his gaze, his hazel eyes simmering the longer we stared at each other. I couldn’t tell if they were more green or gold, the two colors battling for dominance as his lips quirked up a bit higher.
My smile flattened as I turned back to the vase, and Vince sidled up beside me, his posture confident and relaxed as he slid his hands into the pockets of his slacks.
He was at least a foot taller than me even in my heels, so I stood a bit straighter, holding my chin high.
“It is quite hideous,” he said.
That made me relax marginally, because at least we agreed on one thing. “And yet, some rich prick is going to make an outrageous bid on it and pat themselves on the back all the way home.”
“Why does bidding on an ugly vase make them a prick?”
“Because they think being charitable means throwing their inheritance money at some absurd piece of art,” I spat that part with a laugh. “And suddenly now they rest easier at night, feeling like God’s gift to mankind.”
Vince tilted his head a bit. “Well, I suppose that’s better than using their money on blow and hookers, right?”
“Oh, I’m sure they get plenty of that, too.”
“A lot of charities depend on financial support from events like this.”
“Sure,” I snapped without meaning to, my teeth grinding a bit. Livia had given me the tough love only a best friend can many times and told me I have the tendency to come off as a bitch to people who don’t know me well — especially when we got on the topic of the state of the world.
But that was the infuriating truth, wasn’t it? Any woman who wasn’t smiling and laughing and being amicably pleasant was a bitch.
I wore the insult with pride.
“And a lot of the people here will donate maybe one percent of what they make in a year and brag to all their friends about how involved they are in the community.”
Vince angled himself toward me then, and I met his gaze with my chin still held high.
“So anyone who doesn’t dedicate their life and finances to activism is just a shit human, huh? You must be a perfect little angel — a modern day Mother Theresa.”
“At the very least, I don’t do community events for PR stunts,” I shot back, folding my arms over my chest. That called attention to the camera still strapped around my neck, and Vince arched a brow.
“Right. You just cover the stunt and pretend to be above it all.”
“Aw, were you expecting me to fall at your feet and fawn over how amazing you are like the rest of your doting paparazzi?” I asked with my bottom lip poked out. “That’s so cute. Go ahead.” I held up my phone and pretended like I was recording. “Tell me about all the charity work you do, and I’ll pretend you do it because you want to and not because it looks good for the team.”