“Maia! Maia!”

Maia turned from where she’d been peeking through the red velvet curtain to the frantic voice, careful to ensure her Zac Posen gown in hot pink didn’t tangle around her Hangisi pumps with the crystal buckle and send her tripping onstage. She held the mic in one hand, ready to click the switch from off to on at her cue.

On the other side of that curtain was a room full of women ready to bid on Texas’s most eligible football players. The room was a who’s who of Texas wealthy with a light sprinkling of Hollywood influential types. The bachelors were displayed at a large table up front like a buffet of muscles, testosterone, and fame.

Take your pick, ladies; you can have ’em.

Silver Sanchez, the organizer of the event, ran Maia’s way. She paused, breathless, and handed Maia a stack of cue cards. “There’s been a substitution.” She gasped, fanning her face with her hand.

“Who?” Maia asked. Tiny beads of sweat formed in places the dress designer would rather they didn’t. Certain factors couldn’t be controlled in life. She knew that with her head, but her subconscious always wanted to know the details before jumping in.

“The information for all the bachelors is on these cards.” Silver darted away just as quickly as she’d come.

“But—”

“The cards!” was all she got in return.

Maia chuckled in an effort to hide the unease that arose at having last-minute information tossed her way. She was a professional and could handle this, she told herself as she shuffled through names. She’d memorized last-minute lines for years. This would be cake. “Knox Sherman. Riker Dylan. Walker Kent. Cole Carmichael.” Her hand froze with the card in the air as she read the name on the last card: London Wilder.

Her fingers tightened around the mic, and she was suddenly sixteen again, standing in the tunnel that led from the locker room to the football field. There was no designer dress, no crystal buckle shoes, just her and a mic and the loudest audience she’d ever faced. Maia pressed the back of her hand to her mouth as the memory took her away.

“I think I’m gonna be sick.” Maia wished she hadn’t let her friends talk her into the control-top pantyhose. They weren’t controlling anything—not her thoughts and certainly not her nerves. They were so tight on her stomach, they were strangling the butterflies.

She double wished she hadn’t stolen the sparkling aqua gown from her mother’s closet. Though the dress had a high neckline and a cap sleeve, it gave away far too much of her innermost dreams in the lights it sent dancing across the walls as her knees trembled. Who was she to believe she could one day be onstage in New York? She adjusted her hold on the mic, her hands slick with moisture.

Stadium seats surrounded the mouth of the tunnel. She’d had to go through the stands to reach her spot. In the center of the student section were the baseball and basketball players and their girlfriends with shiny hair, perfect teeth, and school colors. Candy, the cheerleader who had tried to cut Maia’s hair during seventh-grade art class and who was now on the field as part of the pregame show, threw her leg in the air and waved her pom-poms like a possessed doll.

Maia’s throat swelled shut and her hand flew to her neck. She couldn’t walk onto the field like she was one of them. She couldn’t sing in front of Mrs. Miller, who predicted Maia would be pregnant by the time she was fifteen. If someone looked at Maia’s home life, they would think Mrs. Miller had a high probability of being right. However, Maia was sixteen and had only kissed, like, three guys. She had other things on her mind than following in her mother’s footsteps.

Maia peeked around the corner to tell the choir teacher, Mr. Adams, she couldn’t sing and they’d have to use the recording they used for every other game of the season. Whose bright idea was it to have a live performance at homecoming anyway? Mr. Adams was turned away, talking to the English teacher, and didn’t see her. She cupped her free hand around her mouth and called, “Mr. Adams.”

Her voice was overpowered by the sound of sixty guys in shoulder pads, grunting with each step as they jogged out of the locker room. Their primal hunting noises echoed onto the field, bringing the crowd to attention. The players clustered at the end of the tunnel, where they easily formed ranks to march onto the field military style. Helmets were tucked under the right arm and the left was bent at the elbow, the hand cupping the ear as a signal to the crowd to cheer.

Maia watched, mesmerized by their excitement.

In the flow of royal-blue uniforms, she somehow made eye contact with London Wilder. She’d seen him in the cafeteria and the hallways, and her stomach did funny things when he passed close enough for her to smell his body spray.

His jaw dropped open and he stumbled over his own feet, bumping the player in front of him, Jacob, who bumped the player in front of him, Peety.

“Hey, save the rough-housin’ for on the field!” yelled the coach. “Wilder, to the back of the line.”

London fell back, ending up standing in front of Maia. His eyes darted to the coach, the number of players left in the tunnel, and finally to her.

She held her breath. He was something to behold, but up until this moment, she’d beheld him from afar. Up close, she could see his short black hair was kind of fuzzy, and she wanted to run her fingers over it—and maybe through it.

“You nervous?” he asked. His voice was deep and did something strange inside her chest. It was like she had guitar strings inside of her and he thrummed them, making her chest hum.

She nodded, unable to speak with her throat so tight.

London stepped closer, towering over her. His shoulder pads made him so much bigger—imposing—safe. His body blocked out the field lights, fans, and even some of the noise. He leaned down and kissed her cheek.

In shock from his boldness, the band around her throat loosened and all the air escaped from her chest. It was like she’d been locked up tight, and London’s kiss was the key to opening her back up.

“For luck,” he whispered. Pulling back far enough to make eye contact, he added, “But I don’t think you need it.”

Maia’s hand went to her cheek. The spot was still warm and she thought it probably sparkled more than her dress. “I wanted it.” She gasped at the truth that had escaped. She had wanted the kiss from him, but she didn’t know that until right then. That kind of knowledge, the kind that revealed something deep inside of her, was intimate, and it wrapped around the two of them like a silk scarf.

London’s face brightened by degrees. Soon, they were smiling at each other, their faces only inches apart.

Maia moistened her lips.

“London, on the field!” screamed Coach.

With a backward hop, London flipped around and took his place in the last line of four.

Maia followed him out of the tunnel. Her steps were sure, her grip on the mic tight. She made it to the fifty-yard line before she realized where she was. Her name was announced over the loudspeakers. Her mom could probably hear it two blocks away in their run-down double-wide trailer.

Stage fright tried to close her off again, its paralyzing tentacles locking her knees. She touched her cheek, the one spot of warmth on her entire body. London had looked at her like she was something special. She closed her eyes. “Sing for him,” she whispered.

The first notes of “The Star Spangled Banner” played loud and proud. Maia lifted the mic and hit her cue. She sang as if no one was in the stands and the sidelines were empty except for London Wilder. She moved through the notes like he was the only one watching, and he watched with his dark eyes ringed in molasses, and she was not afraid.

She held the last note, not wanting to give up this time with London—even if it was all in her head.

The roar of the crowd filled her ears and her heart—if she wanted to, she could have tasted it, the noise was so thick. She’d believed there was more to her than everyone saw—she had carried a jewel inside her whole life. Tonight, with London’s encouragement, she’d thrust it out there for the world to see. And they loved it.

She owed this to London. He was the reason she made it on the field. She’d have to find a way to repay him for giving her the courage to take a chance on herself.

“Maia! That’s your cue!”

The hissing cut through Maia’s memories right before the curtain whooshed open. She switched the mic on, set the cards in one hand, and presented the smile the magazines had dubbed “America’s smile.”

“Hello, Titans fans!” She lifted the hand with the cards over her head and waved. The theme song for the animated princess movie she’d starred in piped over the loudspeakers. The movie was set to release in two weeks, but the previews had been playing in theaters for over nine months, skyrocketing her to a level of fame that left her breathless. Getting the lead was the thick, delicious layer of whipped cream on her wonderful life. A life she’d built for herself. A life that didn’t need complications like football players, ex-boyfriends, and memories of soul-to-soul kisses.

“Thank you so much for that warm welcome, but I know you didn’t come to see me … Let’s bring on the Titans!”

Tonight was just another job, and London Wilder was just another bachelor to auction off.