Hard Fall (Trophy Boyfriends 2)

Thank god I had that pepper spray.

The officer types everything I say, word for word, asking me if I want to press charges and explaining what happens if I do. The steps to take, what comes next.

Then.

A loud commotion sounds from the far side of the room.

“Sir, you can’t just bust in here like this. Sir!”

The voices have my head turning toward the door, toward the looming, imposing figure that’s suddenly appeared there.

“Would someone stop him, please?” another voice calls out. “He can’t just be in here.”

“I’m confused,” someone else says. “Is that Buzz Wallace or am I hallucinating?”

He is most certainly not hallucinating and what the hell is Buzz doing at the cop shop?

“Hollis?” He’s speed walking toward me, weaving through desks, massive body seemingly taking up the entire place.

He is larger than life and he’s here.

At the police station.

It makes zero sense.

“Trace?” My mouth is hanging open; I can feel it. “What are you doing here?”

“Madison called me.”

How the hell would she have accomplished that? “How did she get your number?”

He shrugs his wide shoulders. “Must have gotten it the same way I got yours.” His hands clasp my upper arms and he crouches, so he can look me straight in the eyes. “Are you alright? Are you hurt?”

I glance at his body, up and down, then up at his face. “Why are you wearing a uniform?”

His head cocks to the side. “It’s a game day.”

He says it so matter-of-factly. As if it’s no big deal that he’s standing in a police station dressed in a uniform to play in a Major League Baseball game.

“Why are you here?” I’m horrified, actually. Panicked. Why is he here when he has a game—is he insane? “Are you nuts? You cannot be here!”

“Madison said you were robbed and that you were at the police station,” Buzz explains, as if his presence is the most normal thing about this situation.

“But why are you here? You. Have. A. Game.” Why do I feel like I’m talking to a brick wall? He isn’t listening—doesn’t seem to care that I’m frantically trying to reason this away. He cannot be here. This isn’t normal.

“They won’t miss me until the last few innings. Don’t worry about it.”

Oh my god. “When does the game start?”

“Half an hour ago.”

“When…” I swallow. “When did Madison call you?”

“’Bout half an hour ago,” he replies distractedly, checking me up and down for bruises. “He didn’t hurt you, did he? It was a he, yeah?”

He left a professional baseball game before they even sang the national anthem because I got mugged at work in a parking garage?

He left. A Major. League. Baseball game…because I got mugged at work.

And he hasn’t even taken me on an actual date yet. And he’s acting like him showing up is no big deal.

He dropped everything to be here.

Tears well in my eyes as his continue scanning my body, officers looking on, giving us our space. I notice, out of the corner of my eye, one or two of them taking pictures on the sly.

“Oh my god, Hollis, what’s wrong?” His hands are cradling my face now and the concern in his eyes has wet wells streaming down my face.

I wish he would stop.

I hate when I ugly cry.

“Babe. Talk to me.”

That makes it worse, and I cry harder, sniffling when he pulls me into his chest, face now pressed against his Steam jersey. The one with the Under Armour sponsorship logo. The one with his name plastered on the back side of it. The one that earns him millions of dollars per year.

This sweet, ridiculous man who thinks I’m crying because I was accosted today.

Even with my face pressed against his massive chest, I see another figure out of the corner of my eye. Think I’ve officially lost my mind, because—is that my dad? It can’t be. Why would he be here, too?

Perhaps Madison also called him.

She would call him—not only out of concern for me, but because she thinks he’s hot and will use any opportunity to hit on him. Ew.

The man isn’t approaching us, just watching from the lobby. I can see him through the glass which could use a good scrubbing, and realize…

It’s not my dad at all.

It’s another officer—probably a detective—wearing a suit and a badge and my shoulders sag.

It figures my father couldn’t trouble himself to come see about my welfare. Not on a game day.

But here is Buzz, squishing my face into his jersey, running a large palm down my spine to comfort me. Patting my head and muttering, “Shhh, shh…” into my hair.

I wrap my arms around him and squeeze. Bury my nose deeper into his shirt and give him a sniff. He smells like fresh shower, laundered sports apparel, and cologne. And old gym socks.

He must be superstitious.

A deep voice clears its throat, and I peel myself out of Buzz’s embrace to find the detaining officer and her colleague watching us with raised brows.