The Rival: A Washington Rampage Sports Romance

by Megan Green

  “But you can’t take the country out of the farm boy. I’m pretty sure that phrase was coined in reference to Carter. Truer words have never been spoken.”

  “You two stop that. Carter is such a nice boy,” Mom says, giving us that look all mothers seem to develop the moment their children spring from their loins.

  My mother has used those words to describe my best friend since the first time I brought him home. Never mind the fact that Carter is now a twenty-one-year-old professional baseball player who makes more money than the whole town of Stetson, Wyoming, combined. But he will always be “a nice boy” to my mother.

  “That he is, Mrs. G. And we’re not trying to be mean. It’s just…can you imagine him in this place?”

  My mother eyes the racks of white dresses and the fancy tufted chairs and love seats scattered around the room. She clears her throat and turns her attention back to me. “Well, I guess it is rather…white. And Carter always did have a knack for dirtying clothes. A knack that seemed to rub off on you until you were about seventeen,” she adds with a pointed look.

  I shrug. “What can I say? Dirt and the outdoors always seemed more fun than Barbies and tea parties.”

  “You were such a little tomboy. Aside from your crazy obsession with weddings, that is.”

  I want to argue and tell her I wasn’t obsessed with weddings, that I just always liked them. But that would be a lie. From the moment I first saw a bridal magazine in the checkout line in a grocery store, I knew there was nothing I wanted more than to get married. I wanted it all. The big white dress, the fancy venue, the overabundance of flowers on every surface. The linen-covered chairs packed full of all my friends and family.

  But, mostly, I wanted to be someone’s wife.

  I know that’s not very modern woman of me, but it’s the truth. My entire life, I’ve been anticipating the day that I’ll finally be able to look at a man and call him my husband. To know that we’ll grow old together, have babies together, make a life together. To have someone there, by my side, rooting for me every step of the way, lifting me up when things get hard, and celebrating with me when things go exactly as they should.

  In short, I want a love like my parents’.

  Growing up, I always knew that they loved me. That they would do anything for me. I was the apple of their eye, the sun in their sky, their pride and joy.

  But I also knew that their love for each other was just as important as their love for me. Maybe even more so.

  I can’t count the number of times I came home from Carter’s house, only to find my mother wrapped in my father’s arms, the two of them swaying in the kitchen to a song only they could hear. There was never a night we didn’t spend settled in the living room with a movie where my parents weren’t curled around each other, my dad’s fingers running through my mom’s hair while she fed him popcorn mixed with Milk Duds, his favorite treat. And I was never embarrassed by it. So many of my friends would groan whenever their parents so much as pecked one another on the cheek. But I loved watching my parents love each other. It gave me something to hope for. To strive for.

  And, now, it’s finally here.

  I grin as I look down at the oversize diamond on my left hand, feeling little butterflies swarm in my chest as it glints under the fluorescent lighting. True, it’s a little bigger and a whole lot flashier than what I always imagined myself wearing. But then again, I never in my wildest dreams pictured myself marrying a Major League Baseball player. I guess this sort of thing just comes with the territory.

  No doubt, Carter would have something to say about the rock on my finger though. Not only because of its insane size, but because it’s also so far off from the dozens of photos I cut out of magazines and pasted into my notebooks over the years.

  My stomach dips a little at the memory of those notebooks. I finally retired them once I got to high school, and it was no longer cool to wander around with a black composition book everywhere I went. But I never got rid of any of them. And, now, with a wave of nostalgia washing over me, I can’t help but wonder what happened to them.

  “Hey, Mama, do you know what happened to that box of my old notebooks? You know, the ones I liked to keep my wedding stuff in.”

  Please don’t say you trashed them. Please don’t say you trashed them.

  My mom spins from where she was looking at a veil, a wide grin spread across her face. “Up in the attic. I was wondering if you’d want to pull those out and look at them again now that your big day is approaching. Might get some ideas, you know. I never knew a girl who kept such detailed notes for something that was years and years away.”

  I nod. “I like to be prepared. And I’d love to flip through them when we get back to your place. You think Daddy would mind getting them down?”

  She waves her hand. “Not at all. I’ll call him right now and see if he’ll do it before we get there. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind a look-see either. I think we’re all in need of a walk down memory lane now that our baby girl is getting married.”

  I grin and go back to staring at myself in the mirror. After another ten minutes and a pointless look through the racks one more time, I head back to the dressing room to change out of my dress and back into my normal clothes, a little shocked that the first dress I tried on turned out to be the one.

  I always pictured myself taking days, trying on dozens, if not hundreds, of dresses before I found the perfect one.

  But this dress was made for me—a fitted bodice with a sweetheart neckline that shows just the right amount of cleavage. The mermaid skirt is the stuff dreams are made of, and the lace overlay covering the entire thing is absolutely perfect. If I could take all the elements of my favorite dresses and mash them together to make my perfect dress, it would be this one. There is absolutely no point in continuing to look because nothing will ever look or feel as right as this one.

  I pull the curtain shut behind me, taking one last look at myself in the smaller mirror in the dressing room. I almost hate to take it off.

  Would anybody say anything if I just lived in this thing until the wedding?

  Probably. But it might be worth it.

  I debate on snapping a pic and shooting it over to Carter before changing, but I quickly decide against it. My best friend is far too busy to worry about things like wedding dresses. Besides, he’d probably just tell me it looked like all the others I’d shown him over the years, not understanding how momentous this really was.

  Men.

  Then again, Carter never has understood my fascination with weddings. To him, weddings are just an over-the-top waste of money that make people feel secure in something fragile.

  Don’t ask me how I managed to get stuck with such a cynic for a best friend. But that’s probably why we work so well. We balance each other out. He’s the cynic to my fanatic. And I’m the joy to his moodiness.

  I slide the zipper down the side of the dress, my mind flashing to the first day I met Carter.

  “It looks like you could use a friend. And I need somebody to be my husband.”

  Carter played wedding with me every day at recess that first week. And then the next week. And the next. Before I knew it, the two of us were inseparable, spending all of our playtime together after school and as much time together as we could on the weekends. Our mothers always used to joke that we were attached at the hip. And, honestly, if it had been possible, I think we totally would’ve elected to become surgically adhered to one another. We were that close.

  Carter is the best friend I’ve ever had. And it kills me that he can’t be here with me during all this. I know it’s not really his thing. But something about him not being here just doesn’t feel right. He’s always been such a huge part of my life, always there for every big moment and helping me navigate the waters when things get rough.

  It occurs to me that, in all my years of dreaming about my wedding day, Carter has always been involved. He is always there, helping me decide on my dress, the cake, and the tab
lecloths. He’s supposed to be here with me, every step of the way, keeping me sane and levelheaded during all the times I know I’m going to get overwhelmed and go full-on bridezilla.

  Carter not being here sucks. And, as soon as I get out of this damn dress, I’m going to call and tell him just how much I miss him.

  And then I’m going to convince him that he needs to be my Man of Honor.

  Because I’ll be damned if I get married without him up there, by my side.

  Chapter 3

  Carter

  “Wait, wait, wait,” Brandon Jeffers, my teammate and supposed friend, manages to breathe out between laughs. “You’re telling me, you’re going back to Bumfuck, Wyoming, this weekend. And the reason is…” He trails off, waiting for me to supply the rest.

  I flip him the bird and grab my beer, taking a long pull. The asshole knows the answer to that damn statement.

  “Give him a break, B. He said she’s his best friend. And she’s getting married. People with hearts will endure a few hours of sitting at a bridal shower in order to support their friends,” Ian “Tag” Taggart, my other friend and teammate, says, throwing me a supportive smile.

  Brandon leans forward, banging his fist on the table as he struggles to pull in air. “A fucking bridal shower. You’re wasting your few free days off to go home and…fuck, I don’t know. What do they even do at those things? Play Pin the Apron on the Housewife?”

  I finish my beer before reaching over and snagging his right out of his hands. He gives me a surprised look, his mouth falling open in shock as I bring the bottle to my lips. Serves him right for being a motherfucker.

  “I’m going to let that slide because, if anybody needs alcohol, it’s you, bro. What the fuck are you going to do at a bridal shower?”

  I shrug. “No idea. Maybe hook up with some hot bridesmaids,” I add with a wink.

  I expect this to shut Brandon up—at least about the bridal shower. And, a few months ago, it would have. He’d have taken the bait and launched right into all the ways I could show those bridesmaids a good time. But, now, Brandon has Liv, and the man-whore I used to know has all but disappeared.

  “Except you won’t. I don’t know who you think you’re kidding, Carter. We both know you won’t hook up with anyone while you’re there. Except maybe…wait. Is this the girl?”

  I shoot him a look, a look that I hope says, Shut the fuck up, Brandon.

  But it’s no use. Before I can get a word out, Tag pipes in, “What girl?”

  Son of a bitch.

  My head falls forward as Brandon launches into the tale of our evening out a few months ago. The night he hounded me with questions instead of just leaving me the fuck alone like I wanted.

  “Seems our boy here has a bit of an unrequited love.”

  Tag’s brow lifts as he turns his gaze to me. “That so?”

  Brandon doesn’t let me answer though. “Yep. A while back, when the two of us were out after a win, little Carter here let it spill that he has someone he loves back home. That’s why he never hooks up with any of the cleat chasers after the games.”

  “Or maybe I just don’t want to be a walking, talking billboard for STDs,” I interject, giving B a pointed look.

  He cracks a smile. “Oh, ho-ho. Props, my boy. We’re going to make a smart-ass out of you yet. But I’ll have you know, I’m as clean as a whistle. Always have been. Only amateurs dip their sticks without wrapping up first.”

  I roll my eyes. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, man.”

  Tag brings the topic back around. “So, tell me about this girl.”

  I down the rest of my—er, Brandon’s beer before wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “Nothing to tell. Because there’s no girl.”

  “So, you’re saying, you’re going all the way back to Hicktown to go to a bridal shower just for some random friend,” Brandon says dubiously.

  “Stetson. Not Hicktown. And, no, she’s not just a random friend. She’s my oldest friend. My best friend.”

  “Who you also want to bone,” Brandon says, holding his thumb and forefinger up in the shape of a gun and firing it at me. “I so have you pegged.”

  I shake my head. “It’s not like that with Avery and me. She’s like my…she’s like my sister or something.”

  Brandon stifles a laugh, and my eyes shoot to Tag to see what the hell is so funny. I don’t miss the slight hint of amusement that passes across his lips when my eyes catch his.

  “What?” I ask, clearly confused by what I’m missing.

  This time, the laugh escapes Brandon’s chest, and he leans over and claps Tag on the shoulder. “You wanna tell him, Tag, or should I?”

  My eyes shoot between them, my irritation rising as they continue to laugh at what apparently is my expense. “What the fuck is so goddamn funny?”

  Tag finally puts me out of my misery. “You, Carter. You tried so hard to sound convincing just now. But you should’ve seen the way your eyes glazed over the second you said her name. You’re in love with her, bro. Ain’t no ifs, ands, or buts about it.”

  “No, I—” I start.

  But Brandon cuts me off before I can even think of a good response, “Save it, C. We can smell our own kind a mile away. And you, my friend, you’re a goner. Just like the two of us.”

  I lean forward, propping my elbows on the table before burying my face in my hands. “Fuck me.”

  Brandon reaches over and slaps me on the back. “No, thanks. No offense, bro, but you ain’t exactly my type. Besides, Liv would ream my ass. Now, back to more important matters. What the fuck are you going to do about this?”

  I drop my hands from my face, my brows pulling together in confusion. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, your girl is about to marry another dude. What are you going to do about it?”

  I lean back in my chair, blowing out a slow breath as my gaze flicks back and forth between them. “I have no fucking idea.”

  The sight of the old house I know almost as well as my own childhood home feels a little surreal. It’s only been a few months since I’ve been back here, but it feels like a lifetime. The familiar blue door looks exactly the same, the white siding still peeling in a few places, Mrs. Grant’s beloved roses still trimmed to utter perfection, even this late in the season. But so much has changed since the last time I stepped through that door.

  I’m now a Major League Baseball player.

  And Avery is engaged to a man who isn’t me.

  My mom pulls into the driveway and puts the car in park. “Didn’t Cathy do such a good job with the decorations?” she asks, her chipper voice breaking through the sullenness of my thoughts, her eyes flicking up to the porch.

  It’s only then I notice the balloons and streamers, all white and covered in glitter, along with tiny little wedding cakes made of what looks like cardboard and decorated with paper flowers taped all over the front window and door. A large banner with the words, Congrats, Avery, hangs across the front railing along with a smaller one underneath that reads, Bride-to-Be.

  It’s completely over the top and cheesy. And so perfectly Avery.

  I nod, clearing the lump in my throat with a well-timed cough before climbing out of the car. Walking around to the driver’s side, I open the door for my mother, reaching in to help her out.

  She picked me up from the airport, and we drove straight here, so all my shit is still stuffed in the back seat. Including the present I brought.

  “Damn it,” I mutter under my breath, knowing damn well my mother would never let me live it down if she heard me curse.

  Lucky for me, the door to the house swings open at that exact moment, and my mom’s attention is drawn away from me and to the person standing in the doorway.

  Cathy Grant waves to us, the woman a carbon copy of her daughter other than a few wrinkles and the gray hair she’s let naturally grow out. I’ve always thought Avery’s mom is beautiful. And I know Avery will be even more gorgeous when she gets to be that age.


  Too bad Miles will be the one watching as she ages into a silver beauty.

  I bite back the thought, placing a hand on the small of my mother’s back and giving her a nudge toward the door. “Go on in, Mom. I’ll be along in a sec. I just need to find Avery’s gift in my bag.”

  She gently pats my arm. “Don’t take too long. I know that girl is dying to see you. She planned this whole thing around when you could be here.”

  My heart surges at the words even though I already knew that.

  When Avery called to tell me the date and time, she started by telling me she had already checked the team’s schedule and knew I could make it, so there was no use in trying to get out of it.

  “I know you don’t want to come hang with a bunch of girls, Car. But please, do it for me. I miss you, and I need you here for my shower. It would mean so much to me.”

  I wasn’t able to say no even if my reasons for not wanting to be here were different than what she thought. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to come because it was girlie and sappy and yadda, yadda, yadda. I mean, it is all of those things. But Avery knows that shit has never bothered me.

  I didn’t want to come because I don’t want to see her wearing another man’s ring. I don’t want to see her as she shows it off and recounts their engagement story over and over and over again, even though pretty much the entire town was there when it happened. I don’t want to listen as she tells everyone what an amazing man Miles is and what a terrific husband he’s going to be.

  Because she shouldn’t be marrying him.

  She should be marrying me.

  I slide into the back seat and unzip my bag, moving aside some clothes until I find the small wrapped package I’d picked up in Seattle before leaving. My fingers brush against something cool, and after a small tug, I pull out a dark metal flask. There’s a note attached to the front, and I can’t help but smile when I read it.