Chapter 12 - The Auction

As the charity event continued, the evening grounds were filled with laughter, dining, mingling of egos, discreet murmurs, and curious glances. Samira couldn't help but find herself gazing at people she'd previously only seen on television. However, an uncanny sensation prickled at the back of her neck, as though an invisible observer was tracking her every move. Samira decided to soothe the unsettling feeling by gently massaging her neck.

Erick, keenly observing her shift in demeanor, leaned in and inquired, "Hey, what's wrong?"

Samira hesitated for a moment, then replied in a hushed tone, "I don't know, but I feel like someone's watching me."

As they whispered, the stage's microphone crackled to life. A tall, well-dressed African-American gentleman began addressing the crowd. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I hope the food has been nothing short of spectacular." He went on to acknowledge the generosity of the attendees, all gathered to support the fight against malaria in Africa and India. Representatives from local charities sat in the front row, the evening's beneficiaries. "Without further ado," the auctioneer declared, "let's get the bidding started. Our first item for the night is a tennis racquet signed by none other than Alaric Gustav himself. What am I bid?"

Alaric, the charismatic German, flashed a smug grin after hearing his name.

Samira, turning to Erick, asked, "Is that...?"

Erick nodded with pride. "Yes, that's the man I defeated at Wimbledon final. I stopped him from doing the impossible."

Impressed, Samira simply shook her head in amazement.

Bidding paddles rose into the air, and the frenzy for the coveted racquet began. "$2,000!" someone from the back of the room called out. "$3,000!" immediately came the response. The auctioneer's gavel pounded down, sealing the deal at an impressive $3,500, which was met with enthusiastic applause.

The auction progressed with a variety of exclusive items and experiences. A luxury travel package to the Wimbledon Championship garnered intense interest. "Who will give me $5,000 for a week-long trip to Wimbledon, complete with VIP access and fine dining?" the auctioneer inquired.

The package was eventually sold for an astonishing $7,000, igniting more rounds of applause.

As the event approached its climax, the auctioneer announced, "And now, ladies and gentlemen, the grand finale. Who here wants a chance to play a singles set of three games against the Wimbledon champion, Erick Robertson?"

Erick smirked, ready for the bidding to commence. Samira, a bit taken aback, expressed her concern, "Are you sure about this, Erick? We just got off a plane."

Undeterred, the auctioneer began the bidding at $15,000, and an array of paddles shot into the air. "$25,000!" exclaimed one enthusiastic guest. "$30,000!" was the counteroffer. As the price soared higher, the auctioneer egged on the crowd, and the bids kept climbing. However, it was when a high-pitched voice cried out, "Fifty thousand dollars!" that the room fell silent, as the gravity of that bid sank in.

The auctioneer, with an impressed grin, declared, "Wow! Rebecca Cartwright, this should be interesting. Sold! Thank you for your participation. Let the match begin."

Erick, a bit surprised and a touch downcast, mumbled, "This is going to be a drag."

Amidst the laughter and jesting from the audience, Erick noticed a beautiful woman with fiery red hair waving and smiling at him. Samira, perplexed, asked, "Who is she?"

Erick, with a resigned sigh, answered, "She's my ex-girlfriend."

Samira's eyes widened. "And she just paid $50,000 to play with you?"

Erick nodded with a mixture of emotions. "Yeah."

Erick rose from his seat and approached Rebecca, who was already donned in tennis gear. She offered him a racket, and the two exchanged polite but somewhat awkward greetings. "Hi," Rebecca casually greeted Samira. "Well, Erick, let's play like the old times."

On the hard blue court, it was Rebecca's turn to serve. She bounced the ball several times while Erick discarded his jacket and tie, rolling up his sleeves. The crowd gathered, a sense of anticipation in the air.

Rebecca served a fiery shot as her red head that rocketed across the court. Despite all of Erick's assumed Tai Chi mastery, he struggled to neutralize the relentless ball. His frustration was evident as the umpire announced the score, "15-love."

Aces continued to fly, and it wasn't long before Rebecca reached the game point. She laughed and teased, "You've become rusty, my dear Erick. All those strawberries and cream must've fatten you up and slowed you down."

This time, Erick was determined and a little bit angry. He took a slow breath, picked a point, and struck the ball. However, the fast squeaking of Rebecca's shoes reached the ball, and she returned with a powerful backhand. A spirited rally ensued with the intense squeaking of rubber shoes, until Erick concluded it with a ferocious overhead shot. Samira smiled.

Rebecca smirked. "Well, someone decided to show up. It's about time."

The set continued with intense rallies, grantings, delicate drop shots, and powerful overheads, creating an engaging spectacle for the audience.

In the third set, it was Rebecca's serves that proved unstoppable. Fatigue crept in for Erick. The umpire declared, "40-love, game, set, and match, Rebecca Cartwright."

Irvine rushed over to assist his friend. "What happened, Erick?"

Erick, feeling drained, explained, "Just a jet lag... and maybe a faulty racket."

The crowd erupted into applause, and Rebecca graciously acknowledged their cheers. Alaric Gustav leaned over to his wife, who was watching the match. "Why did that match feel like an unwanted invitation into someone else's bedroom?"