Hard Fall (Trophy Boyfriends 2)

“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?”