Hard Fall (Trophy Boyfriends 2)

He grins. “My mom called me Butter Bean when I was growing up and I have a few buddies that call me Dick Weed.”

That makes me laugh, and we keep laughing until he’s pulling up to my curb and we’re awkwardly saying good-bye in the dark.

He waits while I get out, walk up the stairs. Waits while I turn the key in my front door and turn to wave at him.

I wait until his taillights are out of sight before stepping inside.

I cannot get him out of my head.

I try, but toss and turn in the dark. Check my horoscope, scroll social media, eventually shimmying my sleep shorts down my hips and run my hand over my abdomen, down to my—

My phone buzzes on my nightstand, interrupting my anticipated self-love session. Irritated, I reach for it.

Marlon: I can’t believe you actually showed up with Wallace. You’ve proved your point—you can stop pretending now and come to Daddy.

Daddy? I gag in my mouth a little, in no mood for texts from the ex—especially not one calling himself Daddy who tries to hit on me because he’s in a jealous pissing contest with his teammate. It’s shady that he’s messaging me to begin with when he knows I’m with someone new.

Creep.

Light in my room off, I glare at the text with one eye squeezed shut, half blinded by the cell phone light.

Me: What do you care? We broke up, but then again—were we even dating?

Marlon: Yes.

Marlon: Let me take you for drinks and make it up to you.

Is he out of his damn mind?

Me: You couldn’t pay me to sit and have a drink with you. Also, Buzz wouldn’t like it. We’re not seeing other people.

Marlon: I won’t say anything if you don’t say anything.

Yeah right. If I went out with him, even for an innocent drink, he would blab to the entire locker room so Buzz heard him. If there is one thing I learned about Marlon in the brief time we were together, it’s that he is a one-upper. A showman. Braggart.

How did I not know that when I agreed to the first date?

Because I am a damn fool, and I was seduced by his pretty face and easy lies.

Me: That was always part of the problem—you are shady as fuck.

Marlon: Pfft, whatever. You’re probably not even dating him. I bet it was all for show.

Me: What the hell would make you say that?

Marlon: Because I ruined you for other ballplayers.

Me: Um, true, but not because you’re so amazing—you’re an asshole and I would never go out with you again. So, please stop texting me. I’m finally happy.

Marlon: Wallace isn’t going to make you happy, give me a fucking break.

Me: Leave me alone, Marlon.

Marlon: Whatever you say, mama.

Me: Don’t call me mama. And don’t ever text me again.

7

Trace

It’s Taco Tuesday.

It’s Taco Tuesday and I’m hungry.

Normally this wouldn’t be a problem. Normally, I’d drive my ass to the Taco Warehouse, buy a dozen—both soft and hard shells—sit at a picnic table, and scarf them down like a slob.

Normally.

Today, however, is not a normal day.

Today I woke up thinking about Hollis Westbrooke. Thought about her on my commute to work, on my way to the stadium to practice for the game on Thursday. Thought about her in the batting cage, on the pitching mound. While washing my hair in the locker room shower. Pulling on a clean pair of shorts.

Fuck.

Distracting is what this is, which is why it’s not a smart idea to date someone during the season. Not only can you not give them the time they deserve, it’s shit like this that can fuck up a career, having your mind somewhere else. On someone else.

Instead of focused on the ball.

And in professional sports, it’s always about the ball.

I scratch my nuts, adjusting myself, the hammer in my hand suspended over a two-by-four I’ve been pounding at the fixer-upper I’m renovating. I’ve pulled down all the drywall in the main living room to make it an open floor plan and am staring at the studs—starving.

I should eat.

I could go by Noah and Miranda’s with a box of tacos, but…Noah would probably hate that. Not that I typically care. I do what I want where he’s concerned, which could be the reason he gets so pissed off at me…?

Whatever.

Not my problem.

Against my better judgment, I fiddle with my phone and text the one person I shouldn’t send a message to.

Me: What are you doing?

There. Straight to the point.

Hollis: Who is this?

She knows damn well it’s me—we’ve texted before.

Me: It’s Buzz. Stop pretending you lost my number.

Hollis: Fine. But why are you texting me?

Me: It’s Taco Tuesday.

Hollis: Ummmmm…so?

Me: I’m starving, that’s why. And I want company.

Hollis: That sounds like a YOU problem, not a ME problem.

Me: That’s a little harsh, don’t you think? Who says shit like that?