by Alexa Martin
Not getting drunk on camera is a second-season rule she came up with. During the first season, they took a trip to Miami to watch an away game. Aviana got so drunk and caused so much drama, they stretched it into two episodes. I thought it was brilliant. Aviana was understandably mortified.
I push a glass of water her way. “You know drunk Aviana thoroughly entertains me, but I can make this for you anytime.”
“Oh good, because being embarrassed on camera is one thing, but Crosby might not be thrilled if I show my ass at a charity event hosted by his job.” Considering the champagne-sequined dress she’s wearing has no back, I’m not sure if she means that literally or metaphorically. “When is everyone else going to get here?”
It’s still early in the night. Aviana usually makes a fashionably late entrance, but Crosby is part of the auction and wanted to get here early to make sure he knew where to go and what was going to happen. In their relationship, Aviana is definitely the one who flourishes under the spotlight, and Crosby is all too happy to take a back seat to his gorgeous wife. Right now, a few of the rookie players are lingering around the bar, soaking in the attention they are getting without the veterans around, and Vonnie is in the back with her makeup artist getting ready.
“They should be here soon.” I glance at my phone, which is conveniently tucked away underneath my bar. “The event is officially starting in eight minutes.”
“Ugh. This is why I’m always late, I hate waiting.” She rolls her eyes and throws her head back, dramatic responses coming as naturally as breathing to Aviana. “I guess I’ll just have to have another cocktail.”
I can’t help but laugh at her. “Oh, the hardship.”
She sticks her tongue out at me, but she has somehow managed to even make that look like it should be made into a Snapchat filter.
I give Aviana her Dreamsicle and then walk down the bar, greeting people as they arrive and making sure the bartenders I brought in for the night are doing okay.
“This is why I fucking love working here.” Paisley grabs my arm so hard I’m sure her fingerprints will be there tomorrow. She’s practically radiating with joy, bouncing in heels that don’t seem to bother her.
Because I was able to hire other bartenders for the night, I gave Paisley and Tanya the night off and two tickets each for tonight.
“It looks freaking amazing!” Tanya says, looking up at the lanterns, her hand intertwined with her girlfriend’s. “Too bad you have to give this back.”
“Tell me about it.” I’ve already considered asking to buy the lanterns and lights from the company who set them up, but I’m trying not to blow all the money I made from the event before the night even begins.
Something that will be a struggle when Maxwell’s fine self steps foot on that stage.
Dammit.
Maxwell.
I’ve been doing so well at not thinking about him and our almost kiss from last night. Any lingering effects of lust were zapped up the second Ace and TK plopped down on either side of me on the couch and turned on ESPN. Maxwell and I kept accidentally catching each other’s eyes throughout the night, but there was never any heat behind his gaze, and after a while, I started to wonder if I had imagined the entire encounter. Even when I left with TK and Poppy, Maxwell didn’t even give me the hug he gave Poppy. Instead he lifted his hand in the air for a high five.
A fucking high five.
WHAT?
I lay in my bed until I started hearing the birds chirp outside of my windows, trying to dissect everything before I decided I had to shut it down until after the auction. Something I had succeeded at until this moment.
“Hello?” Fingers snap in front of my face. “Earth to Brynn, are you in there?”
I blink hard, shaking my head. “Shit, sorry!”
“Damn,” Charli says, laughter thick in her voice. “Where’d you go?”
“I didn’t get much sleep last night. Now that everything is set up, the adrenaline is fading and I’m tired,” I half lie. “But holy shit, look at you! You look freaking amazing!”
And that is not a diversionary tactic—well, not totally. Charli is pretty. She has big doe eyes and naturally rosy cheeks. She’s petite and somehow manages to have curves, but also a dancer’s body even though she couldn’t keep a beat to save her life—her words, not mine. Her style ranges from preppy to bohemian. But tonight? Tonight she pulled out all the stops and she looks hot as hell. Her hair, which she recently dyed black, is down in loose waves that just graze her shoulders. The contrast between her hair and pale skin is already striking enough, but add her scarlet lipstick and emerald beaded dress, it’s hard to pull my eyes away from her.
“How did you manage to get Shawn to not lock you in the bedroom?” I ask.
“You should see how hot he looks,” she retorts. “I had to pull out all the stops to keep his ego in check. He can’t look all hot and have random people bid to spend time with him without getting a little reminder of who the good-looking one in this relationship really is.”
“Well, mission fucking accomplished.”
One of the controversial rules to this auction was that the wives and girlfriends are not allowed to bid. Vonnie actually had to duck from flying french fries when she announced it. It wasn’t her idea, and after all the calls I’ve had with her while planning this, I know she might be the most pissed-off of all of them. But Mustangs management decided it wouldn’t be a good look to sell tickets to the public for an auction only to have them all lose out to WAGS.
I kinda agree.
Even though I never said that to Vonnie.
What can I say? I like living.
The other plus side of this is the next Wednesday meeting is going to be fucking amazing. I can’t wait to listen to them air their grievances about who won their husbands—which is a sentence I never thought I’d say.
“Thank you,” Charli says. “And look at you! Are you wearing heels?”
My feet hurt so bad that I almost snarl. “Don’t remind me. Vonnie forced me.”
Even though, seeing everyone around me, I might be a little bit thankful. This really isn’t a tennis-shoe-appropriate event.
“Damn right I did,” Vonnie semi-yells, making her grand entrance. And hell, if it’s not the grandest damn entrance ever, I don’t know what is.
Where everyone else is in a cocktail-length dress, Vonnie’s is floor length . . . and bright yellow. It has cape-style sleeves and a slit up the middle of her skirt, and with every step, it moves as if she has a fan blowing directly on her. The deep V cut and cinched waist hug her body perfectly and make my angular body ache for curves . . . any curves at all.
“Yassss, queen!” Aviana slow claps and motions Vonnie to do a spin. “You. Better. Work.” She snaps between each word. “You know the executives of Love the Player are going to lose their minds until you agree to sign on, right?”
“I hope they have a good psychiatrist then, because there’s not a chance in hell I’d ever sign up for that nonsense.”
Most people would be offended by someone turning their nose up at their job like they’re too good for it.
Not Aviana. It’s why she’s so great on reality TV. She loves herself enough for everyone in the entire world.
“We’ll see.” Aviana pulls out her lipstick, reapplying the vampire-red shade without a mirror like some kind of witch. “You should see the pay raise we got for this season.”
“Lawyer,” Vonnie says. “I’m a lawyer. I cannot go on your ratchet-ass show and get my spot back at the firm I want.”
“The Bachelorette was a lawyer and she’s still working.” Aviana is always ready with a reality show rebuttal.
“You know what?” Vonnie lifts her French martini to her lips, still not changing her drink even though she helped me pick out the specialty drinks for the night. “I’m not letting you get me worked
up tonight. I have to talk in front of people. I should be meditating, not dealing with your crazy asses.”
“You made me wear torture devices, you are stuck with us or I will heckle you,” I threaten her, and she knows I mean it.
“You’re evil.”
I point to my feet that might be bleeding at this point. “Heels!”
“Oooh! Those are cute!” Poppy, my puking, mood-ruining friend, says. “I didn’t think you owned heels.”
“I don’t,” I say. “I came in my fancy jeans and my HERS T-shirt. Vonnie provided this entire outfit.”
Vonnie lifts a single appraising eyebrow. “She says things like ‘fancy jeans.’ I knew to come prepared or she’d be sticking out like a sore thumb in dark denim and scuffed sneakers. Even the bartenders and waitstaff you hired are in black skirts and white button-up shirts.”
She has a point, but again, I ignore it. “My shoes were not scuffed.”
“And that’s exactly why I dressed you. Maxwell is going to be here and someone is going to bid on him.” Vonnie reminds me of something I do not want to think about. “You want him to walk out of here looking at all the women who will be, without a doubt, throwing themselves at him while you’re in the back wearing fancy jeans and sneakers?”
“We’re just—” I start, but Vonnie does the zip-it motion in front of my face . . . so I zip it.
“That was a rhetorical question,” she says. And even with the music playing on the speakers and the growing crowd chatting around us, the laughter of my friends still rises above the noise. “And knock it off with the ‘just friends’ crap. We all saw you two together after the game last night. I thought you guys were gonna rip each other’s clothes off in the hallway.”
“Oh, you are so full of shit.” I roll my eyes.
“Girl.” Vonnie tilts her head to the side, pursing her lips like she can’t believe she has to have this conversation with me. “Are you really trying to stand there and tell me you weren’t staring at Max looking fine as hell in that suit for a solid two minutes before your mouth remembered how to form words?”
“I did not!”
“You should have seen them both when we showed up at Max’s with dinner last night,” Poppy, the traitor, chimes in. “He must’ve forgotten that we made plans. Even though I was midstride to his bathroom when he opened the door, I still didn’t miss the crestfallen look on his face, and I swear I could hear Brynn’s heavy breathing from across the room.”
“Fine!” I throw my hands up. “Yes, I think he is extremely handsome. I mean, I do have eyes. But,” I rush out before the squeals of my crew rupture my eardrums. “Whenever we are together, he’s always dodging texts or taking calls out of the room. We are friends, but I don’t think he’s in the position to commit to one person. And I’m not really a relationship person anyways.”
There. Now maybe they’ll leave me alone.
“Bullshit!” Charli does a terrible job of masking the word in a fake sneeze.
Okay, maybe they won’t.
“You know.” I glare at the group of laughing faces circling me, noticing that Jacqueline snuck into our huddle at some point. “I don’t know why I’m friends with any of you.”
I turn to leave, trying my hand at an exit as dramatic as Vonnie’s entrance, but I only make it three steps before someone steps in front of me. Thanks to my numb feet, I can’t stop in time, and topple into a hard, suited body.
Maxwell’s hard, suited body to be exact.
His hands wrap around my waist, preventing me from going down, and with my luck, starting a domino effect with my affluent guests.
“You all right?” he asks, staring into my eyes, making my insides melt and my cheeks blush. I hope he didn’t overhear my crush declaration!
“Yeah. Sorry. Heels,” I say, suddenly unable to form complete sentences.
“Like I said, bullshit,” Charli says behind me, followed by a gaggle of giggles.
Ugh.
Fucking Lady Mustangs.
Sixteen
I remember when—all those hours ago—I thought Maxwell looked as good as he was ever going to look.
It’s such a shame, because I thought I was prepared to see him tonight.
Update: I was not prepared.
Yesterday he was professionally dapper.
Tonight? Well, tonight he’s “I want to be the hottest player on the stage and bring in the most money” hot. And let me tell you, it’s a level of hot I’ve never encountered in real life.
I think he must have gone to the barber again, a barber who used facial hair as a contouring tool, because his cheekbones and jaw—while always notable—are striking . . . like cut-from-granite, what-mythological-gods-are-modeled-after striking. His full lips look fuller, and I’m not sure if that is from another contouring trick, the lighting, or my imagination replaying our time on his couch. And he’s in a red suit.
Quiet and shy Maxwell in a red suit.
A red suit that fits so well, it might as well be his second skin. And that’s saying something. While Maxwell isn’t a lineman, he’s still an athlete and his legs are thick, solid muscle. Wearing a slim-cut suit like it’s the only thing you were made to wear is impressive as fuck.
It would probably be a good thing if I had enough shame to at least pretend I’m not ogling him, but I don’t and I’m taking my time adhering this image to my brain so I can think back on it in bed . . . I mean at some random time in the future. Then my gaze reaches his feet and I gasp.
“Oh my god.” I grab his shoulders, personal space obliterated because of a fantastic fucking shoe. “Please tell me those are not the Louboutin loafers.”
“Um . . .” He glances down at his spike-embellished black loafers. “They are.”
I struggle not to fall to the ground to inspect them closer. “Holy shit, they are even more beautiful in person.”
“I’ve never seen a woman get so excited over men’s shoes,” he says.
I manage to tear my eyes away from his feet. “I usually don’t. But I’m strapped and locked into shoes that make me feel as if a new bone in my foot is breaking with every step I take.” I point to the deceptively beautiful metallic stilettos I’m wearing. “And I’ve been lusting over a pair of Louboutin slip-on sneakers for months, and after my car debacle, I’m pretty sure this is going to be the closest I get to them.”
“Aren’t all of your girls wearing Louboutins right now?” he asks, looking around at all the women congregated in circles throughout the space.
“Yes, but theirs are high heels, which, while gorgeous, are my archenemy. I can’t properly admire them because all I can do is think about how much they hurt, and make a mental list of all the reasons I would never wear them. I want the comfort and the extraness.”
Maxwell’s face screws up in confusion and, somehow, still manages to look ridiculously handsome. “Is ‘extraness’ a real word?”
“I mean, we both just said it, so I’m gonna go with yes.” I shrug, fighting back memories of the evil eye my English teachers always directed my way.
He shakes his head, his smile stretching across his face like he doesn’t know whether or not he wants to gift me with a dictionary or appreciate my quirks.
But before I can find out, a hand with long, thin fingers and short nails painted a predictable red that nearly matches Maxwell’s suit wraps around his Apple Watch–covered wrist.
“Maxwell,” Eloise cries like he’s her long-lost lover. “How lovely to see you again!”
Maxwell’s mouth snaps shut, and I watch as the man I was just laughing and joking with slides away and a polite, professional version of him takes over. His smile dims, shutters slam over his eyes, and his back straightens.
“Yes,” he says. Even that one word sounds stiff and forced. “Nice to see you again, as well.”
Eloise clearly came prepa
red for tonight, considering last night she couldn’t even close her mouth.
“Hey, Eloise.” I wave carefully so I don’t lose my balance. “Love that dress.”
I don’t, in fact, love the dress.
But mainly because she looks fucking hot in it and still has her hand on Maxwell.
Hi, Jealous, party of one. Thanks.
“Brynn!” she yells with the fake, sugary sweetness that makes my teeth ache. “This place looks fantastic!”
Suddenly, I feel like I’ve been zapped from HERS and straight into a scene from Mean Girls. I’m sure that as soon as I turn my back, Eloise is going to tell everyone that this is the ugliest fucking bar she’s ever seen.
She doesn’t even wait for me to respond before her attention—and other hand—is back on Maxwell. “So, Maxwell—” she starts, getting so close I’m afraid she might start dry humping him.
“Please,” Maxwell cuts her off, his white teeth on full display. “Call me Max.”
Her eyes sparkle at the invitation, and my eyebrows furrow together.
I think of all of my friends . . . all of his friends . . . and how I’m the only one who calls him Maxwell. He’s never, not once, asked me to call him by his nickname, and it’s such a mind fuck that I don’t even notice that Maxwell—or Max—has excused himself until Eloise has invaded my personal space.
“God, he is such a dish.” She fans herself as he disappears into the crowd. “Sorry I interrupted you guys. You two, aren’t, like, a thing, are you?”
She doesn’t sound sorry at all.
“No, not at all. We’re just friends.” Or at least I thought we were.
No.
We are.
We binge-watch a show together, he had dinner with my dad, he saved me from getting smushed on the highway. I am not going to let a stupid nickname and a woman who makes me want to get my eyebrows threaded doubt myself.
