by Ney, Sara
Lovely.
“What kind of friend would I be if I just ghosted someone because my dad told me to?”
“Ghosted?”
Oh that’s right—my dad is old and out of touch with what we young people are doing these days. “It means shut someone out. Stop talking to them for no reason and not tell them about it. Block them.”
He nods, satisfied. “Good. Do that.”
“Dad! I am not ghosting Buzz! He hasn’t done anything!”
“He doesn’t have to—he has a job to do and I don’t want you getting in the way.”
“I am so flattered you think I’m capable of—”
“Hollis Maxine Westbrooke.” He slams his fists on the desk and rises. “I am not asking.”
Whoa. He is being such an asshole, throwing out that horrible middle name and making demands.
“I’m not a child.”
“Then stop acting like one.”
I rise. “How am I acting like a child? You’re the one who has an issue with me being friends with a player. It’s not even a big deal—you’re making it a big deal and now I’m pissed!”
His eyes get wide. “Don’t curse at me.”
“Pissed is not a curse word, Thomas.” I grab my purse and head for the door.
“And don’t call me Thomas—I am your father.”
I roll my eyes like I’m fifteen. “You can’t tell me who to be friends with.”
His cosmetically enhanced dental caps grind. “That man uses women and throws them away—you’re a diversion and nothing more.”
Wow. Just…wow. “What are you trying to say, Dad? Spit it out. That I’m not good enough for him, or that he just wants to have sex with me a few times before he dumps me? That I can’t trust him because he’s a piece of shit? One you hired, I might add.”
One you pay millions of dollars.
“I’m saying he couldn’t possibly be interested in a serious commitment when his commitment is to the Steam.”
I’ve heard enough. It’s not what he’s saying that stings; it’s that the things he’s saying are thoughts I’ve already had. Hearing them from my parent is a mental slap I didn’t want to experience. Not when I was already filled with so many doubts.
Trace is not with you because he is using you, Trace is not with you because he is using you, Trace is not with you because he is using you.
I repeat it three times.
He isn’t.
Buzz likes likes me. I know he does.
“For the record, Dad, we haven’t slept together, and we haven’t gone on an actual date—we are friends. So you can go to bed tonight and sleep easy.” I am stomping toward the door in a huff.
“Get back here—we are not done with this discussion!”
“I’m not one of your lackeys. You can boss Fiona and Lucian around, but you can’t boss me around.”
“I can and I will.”
That gives me pause, and I turn. Narrow my eyes. “Even if I didn’t want to date Trace Wallace, even if I didn’t want to be friends with him anymore—that is my decision, not yours. He is a great guy, and we’re having fun. Remember what fun is, Dad? F-U-N. That’s it. We’re not having sex and it’s not romantic, but if it were, I doubt I’d tell you. I can’t even believe we’re having this conversation.”
I still can’t believe it when I’m halfway down the hall, or when I’m pounding on the elevator buttons, willing the damn thing to move faster so I can get the hell out of this building.
It’s suffocating me.
The door opens and I step out, eyes on the ground—the polished concrete floor of the ground level.
Dammit! I’m on the wrong floor. Why does this always happen?
Try paying attention for once, I chastise myself.
My eyes go from my phone to the tips of my cute, black shoes…to a solid, masculine chest.
This time when I look up, it’s not Trace I see, as I did the last time I got off on the wrong floor.
It’s Marlon, and he has his hands on my arms to steady me.
Gag.
Could this day get any shittier? I am not in the mood for this.
“I assumed you missed me, but I didn’t think you missed me this much,” Marlon rumbles with a chuckle, the vibrations from his chest a familiar sound. “I won’t tell Wallace if you won’t.”
I step back and out of his arms, revolted. “You’re a pig.”
“What?” His hands go up defensively. “I didn’t say anything perverted, just said I wouldn’t tell your fake boyfriend if you don’t. You know you miss me.”
“What would make you think that? Have I called you? Have I texted you? Have I slid into your DMs? No. The second you took my car for a spin was the second I was done with your ass.”
I try to step around him, but he’s tall, and big, and makes it impossible. “I’m not trying to fight with you, baby girl. I’m just trying to talk some sense into you.”
“Sense? Oh Jesus, do not call me baby girl—the jock chasers you pick up at the club might think it’s a cute nickname, but I don’t.” I pause. “And speaking of chasing, let’s cut the crap, okay? We both know I’m not your type. The only reason you pursued me was so you could date the general manager’s daughter.”
There. I said out loud what I’ve been speculating, except this is the first time I’m acknowledging it to him. Marlon has the audacity to look stunned by the declaration.
“Hollis, babe—you know that’s not true. I screwed up, okay? You can’t hold it against me forever.”
Yes. I can. “We are not together. Get out of my way, Marlon.”
He doesn’t move. “Did you tell your dad about any of this?”
I knew it! I knew he was only in it for my father!
“No, asshole. I didn’t tell him we went out, let alone dated.” Thank god. Because if Dad is upset about me befriending Buzz Wallace, I cannot imagine what he would think about me having dated Marlon Daymon, the Steam’s biggest playboy. Thomas would not only have been disappointed, he would want to kill me. “I’ve had it with men today—get out of my goddamn way.”
“Whoa—stop being a bitch.”
Oh no he did not! No one has ever called me a bitch. “What did you just call me?”
“You heard me. Stuck-up snot is what you are. You think you’re too fucking good for me, don’t you? Little princess looking down her nose.”
My mouth gapes. No one has ever called me that either—at least not to my face.
Marlon knows he’s upset me; I can see it by the way he tilts his chin up and the glint in his hazel eyes. Cocky, arrogant prick.
Still, I’m shook—it’s not often I get called stuck-up. Usually it was by girls in high school who were from well-off families themselves and had no room to judge. Mean girls being mean—not grown men with hero complexes.
“What’s going on?”
A new voice joins us, and my body sags with relief. Noah Harding has rounded the corner with a concerned arch to his brows, eyes darting back and forth between Marlon and me, trying to get a read on the situation and failing.
“‘Sup, Harding.” My ex-boyfriend greets him, fake smile plastered on his pretty face as he tries to fist-bump his teammate—too bad he’s not fooling anyone with the over exaggerated enthusiasm.
Noah looks at me—really looks at me hard. My infuriated eyes. The flush in my cheeks. The downturned line of my mouth. I feel sick, as if I’m about to puke.
I hate confrontation to begin with; bumping into Marlon and having it out with him in a public place is giving me hives.
“What are you two talking about?” Noah does not mince words, getting straight to the heart of the matter. I like his style.
“Just catching up. Gotta see how our girl here is doing.”
Our girl. Our girl?
Puke.
No.
“Our girl?” Noah repeats, scratching at his chin. “That’s a weird way to put it.”
He’s right—it is. “I don’t think I was your
girl when I was your girl for that entire ten minutes you were using me.” The words fly out of my mouth in a rush. “I’m with Wallace now, so you can stop harassing me every chance you get.”
“Oh, I’m harassing you now? That’s rich coming from a rich girl.”
Wow, he is bitter.
“Alright, Daymon, that’s enough. You should get to where you’re going. Hollis, I can walk you to your car.”
“You don’t need protection from me, babe—especially not by Harding. I’m twice the man he is.”
Noah looks at him. “What’s your problem today, man?”
My ex scoffs. “Pfft. Me? Don’t got a problem. Man.”
He is acting so strange.
I mean—he’s a dick most times. Once upon a time, that was one of the things that attracted me to him, the arrogance and confidence pouring out of him. The way he walks into a room like he owns it and everyone notices. The way people respond to his charisma.
Turns out it’s all smoke and mirrors. He is not Mr. Wonderful.
Far. From it.
Noah Harding, however? He is much more than I ever expected, showing up like this and…I wouldn’t say he’s standing up for me, maybe giving me backup. He’s certainly trying to steer me away from my ex.
He gives him another wary glance then nods his chin my direction. “Hollis, let’s bounce.”
“Bye Marlon.” I don’t have a clue why I tell him good-bye; common courtesy, I guess, though he doesn’t deserve it. He throws a peace sign, kisses it, then turns his back.
Together, Noah Harding and I walk side by side to the parking lot, not knowing what to say.
A few seagulls eating leftover snacks fly away when we pass, my car parked close enough that we don’t have to go far.
“That was…” When I find my voice, it trails off. I have no idea what to even say.
Noah is at a loss for words, too. “Honestly? I think he’s juiced up—he doesn’t usually act like this.” He’s mumbling as much to himself as he is to me, like he’s talking his way through the pieces of a puzzle, putting them together in his mind.
I would agree; something was off. I’ve never seen Marlon act like this, either—not even the few times I saw him drunk.
“What do you mean by juiced up?”
He seems torn about his next choice of words. “Steroids. He just came from the gym, but I’d bet he’s taken something.”
Steroids? There is no way. Marlon? No. I mean…I don’t know him all that well, and I do know he’s an asshole, but Major League Baseball has strict policies about performance-enhancing drugs. Also, he doesn’t need them, so why would he take them?
Although to be fair, Marlon’s body did look jacked up.
“I didn’t think those were legal.”
He shuffles me through the door, past Karl. “They’re not.” It looks like his jaw is clenching, white knuckles gripping the handle of his navy duffle bag.
“Then why would he do that?”
Noah shrugs, hefting his bag from one shoulder to the other. “I’m not sure—probably because of weightlifting and wanting body mass?” He looks down at me. “Are you going to say anything?”
“To who?”
He gives me an Are you serious? look. “Your dad.”
“Oh.” Him. “I thought for a second you meant Trace.”
“I’ll probably tell him myself, if you don’t mind.”
I nod—of course he’d want to be the one to tell him and I have no intention of snitching. But the information is going to weigh on my mind, despite the fact that it’s merely speculation. Noah would know, wouldn’t he? He’s been around it and seen it—he would know what someone who’s injected themselves with steroids looks like, right?
“The trainers are going to notice eventually, so I don’t think…” He clamps his mouth shut. “Eventually they’re going to notice.”
I nod slowly. God, this sucks.
This whole day has sucked, and I just want it to end.
* * *
Unknown Number: Hey sweetie, this is Gen! I wanted to tell you how lovely it was meeting you!
Mrs. Wallace’s text comes through a little after five o’clock; it’s dinnertime and I imagine her toiling away in her kitchen, getting ready to prepare Roger’s supper with freshly chopped vegetables and meat, regular Suzy Homemaker that she is.
A knot of longing forms in my stomach at the quaint family life I have never known, caring parents and a mother who makes dinner every night, who drives her kids from one sport to the next in a minivan.
Me: I had such a good time. Thank you for your hospitality—I even had fun at our little impromptu slumber party. I’m sorry we didn’t stay for breakfast.
Genevieve: Oh, I know you kids are busy, no worries!
I stare at the message, unsure about what to say.
Genevieve: So I was wondering if you want to sit with Trace’s dad and me at the next home game this Thursday!
She uses lots of exclamation points and I find it adorable—she sounds so incredibly enthusiastic. I’m here for it.
Also.
His parents want me to sit with them during Buzz’s next home game? Um…I wonder if he knows she’s texting me, then suspect it’s not something he would mind, since it does seem like he’s actively trying to date me.
Still. Sitting with his parents?
Bold move.
Not one I’m too keen on, considering we’re not in an actual relationship. I cannot in good conscience perpetuate more lies to this poor woman.
Me: I’ll have to check my work schedule, and offhand, I feel like I won’t be able to. I’m editing a book that has to be sent back to the author before another editor—you know what, I’ll just have to get back to you on this, if you don’t mind?
I am babbling in a text.
Genevieve: Oh, no worries dear. Let me know when you can. We’re driving up and staying at a hotel **wink wink** We could do dinner after the game if that would be convenient.
This woman is determined to see me on Thursday.
Me: Gosh Mrs. Wallace, I really don’t know…
Genevieve: Call me Genevieve. Perhaps breakfast Friday would be better for you?
She wants to be my friend because she’s harboring illusions that I’m going to be her daughter-in-law one day.
Perhaps you should check with your son, I want to tell her, because I have a feeling he has no idea you’re messaging me! How do I know this? He would never turn down food; the man loves eating too much!
Great, now I’m overusing exclamation points too.
First my dad. Then Marlon. Then Noah. Now Mrs. Wallace.
When will this day end?
Madison: I’m coming over. You need me.
Add my best friend to the clusterfuck and it’s a well-rounded day of nonstop chaos.
Perfect.
I flop down on my pillow and stare at Mrs. Wallace’s messages. She’s such a lovely woman, so much warmth. The kind of mother I wish I’d had growing up—not that my mom wasn’t loving. She was just…caught up in a world where children did not come first. Socializing and popularity were the orders of the day, always.
That’s just how it was.
Nope. Can’t do this to Buzz’s mom.
I cannot have dinner, brunch, or breakfast with Buzz Wallace’s parents. Not Thursday, not next week, not ever.
I roll to my back, waiting for Madison.
She might not have answers, but she almost always brings ice cream.
16
Trace
“He what?”
I need more clarification from Noah—the story he just told me about Marlon and Hollis isn’t surprising, but it is infuriating.
“I walked up as he was getting nasty, calling her a snob and shit. She looked like she was going to cry and he looked crazy. I think he’s juicing—something isn’t right with him. He went from zero to eighty in three seconds.”
“No bullshit?”
“No bullshit.”
&n
bsp; Damn. Marlon Daymon is using? What the hell for? The dude is at the top of his game. One drug test by the establishment and he’d be done. Well—okay fine, maybe not fired done, but it would leak to the press, and he’d probably face a suspension then get fined up the ass. Thousands and thousands of dollars in penalties. For what?
Faster speed? More endurance? To look ripped?
Baseball players are not football players. You don’t see too many of them walking around like the cover models of fitness magazines.
Often enough, I’ve heard my sister complain about our baggy pants and baggy shirts, about our players having no definition. Basically the dad bod of professional athletes.
So if he’s seriously trying to pump himself up, people will notice. And when they do, there will be consequences.
Besides, how dumb do you have to be to call the fucking owner’s granddaughter a snob? To call the general manager’s daughter a princess? That shit doesn’t fly—we have our own set of rules down in the locker room, our own code of conduct that has nothing to do with the establishment’s. First one: don’t shit where you eat.
Meaning: don’t piss off the boss by insulting his family.
Second? If you have a side piece, don’t bring her to the game—any game.
Thirdly? If you’re dating someone new, do not have her sit in the family suite with the wives. Too much gossip—too many diamonds and expensive purses fill a new girlfriend’s head with all the wrong ideas.
With Hollis, I wouldn’t have to worry about any of that.
Hollis is the game. I don’t have to play it.
“You should call her,” Noah tells me, as if it weren’t obvious. We’re in his kitchen and I’m eating a slice of leftover pizza I nabbed out of his fridge. I was enjoying it, but now it’s just a lump of dough in the pit of my stomach.
“I will.”
I’ll do one better; I’ll head directly to her place from Harding’s so I can see her face, gauge her mood. Is she going to blame me for this? Is she going to hold this against me and all other men who come after Marlon, for the rest of her life?
Dramatic, sure. Unhealthy, yes.
