Hard Fall

by Ney, Sara

  She kisses the top of my head and I sit up straighter.

  Tripp scowls, shooting up out of his chair to fetch the rest of lunch, carrying it back to the table like a server at a restaurant, plates balanced on both arms like a fucking circus performer. “He meddles in people’s love lives without them knowing it.”

  “What is he talking about, sweetie?”

  “Nothing. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” I kick him again, this time grazing his calf muscle.

  But Tripp won’t let it go now that he has me cornered and knows Mom is interested, too. Fuck!

  “Your youngest here likes setting people up—on dates and stuff.”

  “I think that sounds nice!” Mom gushes, clearly pleased to discover I’m a romantic at heart, even though I’m no romantic. I just love knowing someone is getting laid because of my matchmaking efforts.

  Besides, it’s only been like, four couples total. I’m no expert; ain’t got no time for that.

  “Mom, I don’t.” But I do.

  “Then what do you call Noah Harding and Miranda?”

  I don’t know her last name, but I know they’re a great match, one I helped facilitate because Noah—bless his soul—fucking sucks when it comes to putting the moves on a woman and following through.

  “Okay, first of all—he needed my help, okay? He probably wouldn’t be with his girlfriend right now if it weren’t for me.” Duh. “Secondly, he knew I was trying to help him out.” Maybe. “Thirdly, I am not a matchmaker. I’m a guy—guys don’t do that.”

  “Right. Keep telling yourself that.”

  “Who are Noah and Miranda?” Mom wants to know. Dad grunts in his chair, reaching for a plate, helping himself to casserole. It’s cheesy, with pasta and red sauce, and baked to a crisp. As an avid sports fan, Dad would know who Noah Harding is. Mom? Not so much.

  There are only two athletes in the majors she cares about and that is me and Tripp.

  “Noah is a guy on my team and Miranda is his girlfriend. They’ve been together a few months, I think.”

  “No thanks to Trace running nonstop interference,” my brother grumbles, always pissing on my bonfire.

  Mom sighs, ever a romantic. “Aww, I think it’s nice that you’re trying to help your friends, sweetheart.” She ruffles my hair and I shoot Tripp a look of victory.

  Suck it, asshole. “See?” I gloat. “Mom thinks it’s nice that I help my friends.”

  “Alright,” our dad interrupts, irritated. “Enough talk about other people—we want to hear about you.”

  Tripp flashes me his wide eyes—the ones that aren’t nearly as stunning as mine. They’re a little jaded, too. I don’t know what bug crawled up his ass and died, but he’s Captain Bitter-man today and it’s killing my buzz.

  Buzz. Get it?

  Ha!

  “No girlfriends?” Mom always has to ask, always hoping one day our relationship status will change from bachelor to engaged to married. Our mother wants grandkids like a nun loves to pray.

  I hate when she starts up about our lack of relationships because I hate letting her down. The truth is the kind of girl she wants me to bring home? They want nothing to do with me.

  Like the girl today—the GM’s daughter, whatever her name is.

  “I met someone today, as a matter of fact,” I boldly lie. No harm in bending the truth when she can’t verify it. Give the old girl something to get excited about.

  Mom perks up like I knew she would—but instead of feeling gratified, I immediately regret lying. “Oh?”

  “Yeah, I bumped into her at work. She seems like a really nice girl.”

  “What’s her name?” Tripp wants to know.

  “Um.”

  “Her name is Um?” My brother stabs potato salad onto his fork and shoots me a smirk.

  I kick him again. Dickhead.

  “Her name is…it’s…” I look at my mom, drawing a blank. “Genevieve.”

  “Genevieve!” If it was possible for my mother, Genevieve, to perk up more, she does it. “Imagine if we had two named Genevieve in the family!” She gets up and flutters to the counter, opening the cabinet and grabbing a tea bag. Sets about brewing herself a cup, though it’s gorgeous outside and not even a bit chilly. “Genevieve and Genevieve Wallace!” she croons, smiling to herself with delight.

  Genevieve? Tripp mouths. You’re an idiot.

  Shut the fuck up, I mouth back.

  “What are the odds?” Mom asks.

  “Yeah, dipshit, what are the odds,” comes from my brother. “And don’t fucking kick me under the goddamn table.”

  My mother gasps. “Boys! Watch your mouths!”

  “He started it,” Tripp pouts, lips curled into a sardonic smile. “And his girlfriends name isn’t Genevieve. He made that up.”

  Mom looks toward me, bewildered. “Why would you make that up?”

  “He’s a dope, that’s why.”

  I earn another concerned look from my mother while she prepares her tea at the counter. “Is there actually a girl, dear?”

  My nod is slow. “Yes.”

  “Well. Are you going to tell us her name—her actual one?”

  “Her name is Hollis,” I finally supply, glaring at my brother.

  Tripp sucks and he’s dumb.

  “Hollis. That’s a beautiful name, tell us more about her.” Mom sits back down with her mug of tea, steam rising as she blows on the surface.

  “Yeah, tell us more.” This from the jackass to my right.

  “She’s younger than I am, but not by much…” I think. At least, she looked younger, but with women it’s hard to tell. “Feminine. Um…to be honest, I don’t know a ton about her.”

  “Where did you meet her?”

  “Uh…work.” At least that part is true.

  Dad’s brows go up and he lowers his paper to stare at me. “Work?”

  “I mean, she obviously doesn’t work there—she’s not like a ballplayer or anything. She was there doing something.”

  My brother laughs, cocking his head to the side. “Really, Trace? She’s not a baseball player?”

  Shut your face, my glare tells him.

  You shut your face, his says back.

  I hate you, mine says.

  But I don’t. I just hate being put on the spot and don’t want to disappoint our mother, which seems to be a common theme with me. Well, Tripp too—between the pair of us, the chances of my parents having grandbabies is looking slimmer and slimmer by the day.

  Tripp is a moody asshole who scares women off with his bad attitude and me? Well. Smart women don’t take me seriously, because I’m not serious enough.

  So, I get stuck “dating” women I would never bring home to Mom, and Tripp doesn’t date at all. I wonder when was the last time the fucker got laid. Maybe that’s his problem—sperm retention.

  The truth is, I’m trying.

  I’m just not sure how to change—I’ve been at this single game so long. Never had a long-term girlfriend; never had time. I busted my ass to get myself into the major leagues. I may have gotten a scholarship to play baseball in college, but I never got any offers during the MLB draft. Instead, I got an offer afterward, as a free agent, and spent a few years in the farm leagues, busting my ass in the heat some more to prove myself.

  Then, I was called up, by the grace of God, and I haven’t looked back—nor have I invested a single minute into my personal life. My team keeps me plenty occupied; my friends keep me sane. If I want sex, that’s easy enough—all I have to do is chat someone up at a bar or on an app.

  Lately though, no strings attached is beginning to feel hella lonely.

  And there’s that part about disappointing my parents. Sure, I may be an ass kisser and I may try to show my brother up every damn day of my life, but part of me wants a family of my own too, despite myself and my lifestyle. Sooner than later.

  Before my balls shrivel up.

  “Trace, sweetie?”

  “Huh?” I realize I was z
oning out based on the curious stares around the table. “Sorry.”

  Mom gives me an affectionate smile—which is more than I can say for Dad and the dickhead—letting the topic of girls go so we can move on with our lunch without the endless arguing.

  I sigh, not looking forward to the ride home.

  4

  Hollis

  “How do you talk me into these things?” I snatch sushi off a passing tray from a wandering server and stuff it in my mouth whole. Scan the area for the server with the alcohol, knowing I’ll probably need to be buzzed to get through the next hour or two.

  That’s the max amount of time I told Madison I’d be willing to spend in this godforsaken room, with these stuffy people, for yet another hoity-toity fundraiser.

  “It’s for a great cause. Stop whining or you’ll sound ungrateful.”

  “Ungrate—” I stop. Am I? God I hate when she’s right. I do sound ungrateful, but she has no idea what it’s like having to go to so many fundraisers your whole life.

  Shit. That sounded ungrateful, too.

  “Can you try smiling?” My best friend pokes me in the rib cage with her bony elbow. “You look terrifying.”

  I smile, gritting my teeth. “Better?”

  “Now you look like you’re trying not to shit your pants.”

  Jeez. She is the worst. “Remind me again why I brought you tonight?”

  “Correction.” She lifts a finger in the air then snatches a glass of champagne off another wandering tray. “I brought you—you did not want to come.”

  “I don’t know why my presence here was required. You seem to be doing just fine on your own.”

  And she is; she hardly needs me to stand here bringing down her mood. Madison has spoken to more men in the short time we’ve been here than I have in an entire week! She’s not messing around; she wants to date an athlete and she’s probably going to leave here with her talons sunk into one.

  “They’re all married,” she pouts. “And the few who aren’t won’t break away from the herd. What is it with men and huddles?”

  “How do you know they’re all married? Half of them aren’t.” I know this for a fact; the organization keeps statistics on its players, and I’ve seen the data.

  “Because I keep getting rejected. Duh.”

  While it’s true that my best friend is stunning, her overt confidence occasionally does keep men from biting. An alpha with sharp wit and no filter, it takes a special person to “handle” Madison’s special brand of outgoing.

  I tiptoe around her daily, and we’ve been friends for years.

  “Maybe…lay off the charm, okay? Try to enjoy yourself.” She’s the one who wanted to come, so I don’t understand why she’s so irritated. “Which reminds me, how long are you going to force me to stand here?”

  “No one is forcing you to stand there. You’re free to move about the space.” She nibbles on a small shortbread cookie she got off the dessert table. “Give me a few more minutes to eat lunch then we can go. I don’t want to have to go grocery shopping later.” Her eyes roam the crowd lazily, interested. Taking in this man and that. His WAG. The spouses of executives and community members. A few players from other teams, not just the Steam. Pretty sure some members of the football team are here, too, and I think Dad will regret missing out on this crowd.

  It’s right up his alley.

  “Oh shit.” Madison’s gaze turns from lazy to wide-eyed and mystified. “Incoming.”

  “Huh?”

  The crowd parts like the Red Sea at Moses’s command—or in this case, Marlon Daymon’s, with his tan skin and black hair and blaring white teeth, which now look absolutely ridiculous. The people step aside, as if he were a god or a prophet—I found out the hard way that he is not.

  “Why is he coming over here?” We broke up. I mean—I broke up with him, but it’s not like he wanted me back. No, that would mean he’d have to give up hitting on other women and being an asshole.

  “I could just punch that stupid smile right off his stupid face,” Madison announces, the classy dress she had to borrow from me providing the demure backdrop she needs to make such a statement. She only looks sweet and reserved. “Look at that arrogant fuck.”

  I need her to lower her voice. “Would you please zip it and be cool? This will all be over in five seconds. He’s probably not even coming over to me. I bet he’s—”

  “Hey beautiful.” Marlon leans down and kisses the side of my cheek, a show for everyone watching, none of whom know we even went on one date, let alone a dozen, or that he stomped on my heart and completely humiliated me.

  I wish he wouldn’t call me beautiful when we both know I’m not. I’m not his typical girlfriend, not someone he’d choose to date.

  He was using me, like he’s using me now.

  I pull away, stepping back, putting a few feet between us.

  Beside me, Madison tosses her hair. “Look what the trash man dropped off,” she sneers impolitely.

  See, the thing is, I wasn’t brought up to be confrontational like this, and certainly not in public, even though Marlon deserves it. Especially not in a crowd of people, particularly when I’m here representing my family.

  It looks bad. No matter how much I hate him, the last thing I need is my best friend talking shit to an ex in front of people who are here tonight to donate to a cause.

  I nervously smooth a hand down the front of my pressed slacks but still have nothing to say to him.

  “What do you want?” Madison asks for me, reading my mind, saying it like a person would say, This garbage smells like rotten eggs and congealed seafood—where do you want this leaky bag tossed out?

  “What do you mean, what do I want? I haven’t seen Hollis in months and wanted to say hello.” He knows she hates him and he doesn’t care.

  Marlon Daymon does not need to care.

  Perhaps I should let Madison sink her talons into him.

  “How you been doing, sweetie?” He reaches out to touch my arm, but Madison slaps it away.

  “Don’t call her that.”

  He gives her a long look, beginning at her feet, slowly dragging his gaze up before meeting her eyes. “Still a raging bitch, I see.”

  My best friend’s mouth gapes. Closes. “I guess I’d be slinging insults too if I had a tiny dick.”

  Oh god.

  Marlon glances at me. “Really?”

  I mean…for someone arrogant and cocky, his dick really isn’t that great. Average at best. Unexpected considering how he struts around like a prize stallion, waiting to impregnate anyone within a three-foot radius.

  I raise an eyebrow. Shrug.

  It’s pissing him off that I haven’t spoken two words to him, and he makes one last attempt to raise my ire.

  “I might have a small dick, but you’re still a frigid bitch.”

  Now it’s my mouth that opens and closes, and I can actually feel my eyes physically widen in shock, heat rushing to my face—I don’t blush often, but I am on fire now.

  “Hold me back,” my bestie says, taking one step forward toward a man who doesn’t have the common sense, or the decency, to leave. “Why are you such an asshole?”

  The brows I once thought were the most attractive part of his face rise. “Because I can be.”

  Gross. Just so gross. I cannot believe I wasted a single second on this scumbag.

  Movement catches my eye.

  A bright red shirt, stuck like a second skin to a toned, athletic body. A tall, tan god strutting toward us, appearing out of nowhere.

  Fuck. It’s that douche from the elevator shaft, and I bet you a hundred dollars if I said shaft out loud within earshot of him, the idiot would giggle like a twelve-year-old.

  “What’s going on?” He plants a kiss to the top of my forehead, but I don’t bristle the way I did when Marlon kissed me. “Babe.”

  Babe?

  What the hell is this guy doing? Is he nuts?

  Is he…is he trying to rescue me?

&nb
sp; “I…I…” don’t have any idea what to say.

  “Aww, did you miss me? You’re speechless.” He kisses the top of my head again, and this time, I swear he takes a long whiff. Exchanges a weird handshake-slash-fist-bump with his teammate, sizing him up the way Marlon sized Madison up before insulting her. “What’s up, Daymon? You behaving yourself or hardly behaving?”

  “I didn’t know the two of you were…” Marlon’s voice trails off, his finger pointing back and forth between Trace Wallace and me as Trace slips a protective arm around my shoulders and squeezes. “A thing.”

  “A thing? Oh, I don’t know about that—lovebirds, perhaps? And from the looks of it, you’re upsetting my poopsy-whoopsy here.”

  Oh Jesus. Somebody make him stop. Where is he getting these endearments from, the Cliché Guy’s Guide to Horrible Nicknames, circa 1950?

  I swallow back the saccharine vomit creeping up my throat.

  Madison laughs. “The three of us could be a thrupple,” she jokes, only half joking, poking Trace Wallace’s muscle with a fingernail, once. Twice. Three times.

  It’s as if I’m not even standing here.

  He promptly removes it, plucking it off and returning it to her like it’s rancid. “Uh…yeah, no—let’s not get carried away. No one is thruppling anything, ever. I don’t share.”

  Dear God, make it stop, Lord hear my prayer.

  “Since when?” Marlon blurts out.

  “Since none-yo-business.”

  Marlon stares. Glares? Turns red.

  In all this time, I haven’t managed—or needed—to utter a single word, Madison and Trace Wallace coming to my rescue from a man I didn’t want to see. Dreaded seeing. Now that I have, I’m enjoying his humiliation at the hands of his peer. His teammate.

  Why did Wallace come over here to bail me out?

  “So,” Marlon finally says. “I assume you’re bringing her to the barbeque at Harding’s house tomorrow?”

  “Say what now?” Madison interjects. I elbow her as best I can, hindered from jabbing her good by the weight of the massive arm still draped around me. “Did someone say party? What’s this about a team barbeque?”