Hard Pass (Trophy Boyfriends 1)

I bust out laughing. “Yes, that’s good.”

Miranda is quiet after that, clearly mulling this news over, piecing together the bits of what she now knows about Noah Harding, and I let her ponder, uninterrupted.

After a few tastes of her dinner, a tender piece of ribs on a bed of rice that looks insanely delicious, she rests her fork on the edge of the plate. Swallows. Leans back to study me, arms crossed.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner that you’re a ballplayer? I kind of feel like an idiot.”

I fidget, as if she’s the teacher and I’m the student, who’s just been busted doing something naughty.

“I wasn’t sure how to tell you and honestly? I didn’t think I would have to.”

“Because you weren’t planning on seeing me again?”

Bingo! “Sort of.”

“Hmm.” She hums low in her throat, but it makes its way across the table.

“The baseball thing—it’s just a job.”

Just a job? Wow. No bigger load of bullshit has ever left my mouth and I want to take the words back immediately. She and I both know it was a ridiculous thing to say.

“It’s not just a job—don’t lie. It’s a big freaking deal.” She glances around at the people watching us like we’re their entertainment for the evening. “Look around you…everyone is watching us.”

That actually makes me blush. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Just…” She huffs. “I don’t know what to say right now.” She sets her napkin next to her plate and pushes up out of the chair, rising. “I’m going to go to the bathroom, okay?”

“Promise you won’t crawl out the back window?”

At least she laughs. “Please, this is Chicago—I’d fall into a dumpster occupied by a homeless person and a dozen rats.” Her finger taps the table twice. “Be right back.”

I’ll be waiting.

12

Miranda

“I’m sorry, can you repeat that?” The reception on my call to Claire is terrible. The sound was breaking up when I stood near the sink in the women’s bathroom, so I’m in a stall with my hand cupping the receiver and pressing my body against the cold, tile wall.

Four bars when I hover.

Two bars when I stand up straight.

Shit.

“Did you say Noah Harding?”

“Yes. I thought I already told you his last name—why do you keep repeating it?” She’s being a weirdo.

“Eh, I don’t remember—but like, Noah Harding?”

“Yes, Claire—focus! This is DEFCON-1 level shit! What do I do?” Only my best friend can help me get out of this mess. Or help me fix it.

“What do you do? Girl, you’re at dinner with a freaking major league ballplayer—why are you in the bathroom whining about it?”

“Because he never told me! He lied!”

“Lies by omission? Big deal! Are you listening to yourself? If I were there I would slap some sense into you.” I hear her rip open a bag of something—chips, probably. “Everyone knows who Noah Harding is, Miranda. Even my six-year-old brother.”

“Well I didn’t,” I declare snippily. “He should have told me.”

“Uh, what could he have said that wouldn’t have made him sound like a total douchebag?”

Okay, true. “I don’t know. Anything.”

“Oh hey, by the way, I play baseball for the Steam and just signed an 80 million dollar contract for three—”

“What!”

“What are you shouting about now? Read the google, for crying out loud. He’s worth a friggin’ fortune.”

80 million dollars.

Well no wonder he could afford those baseball cards—forty-five grand is less than he pays in income tax!

“I’ve never dated anyone with a decent job, let alone a professional one.”

“Yes, well—welcome to adulting.”

“Could you dial down the haughty attitude? It’s not helping.”

Claire snorts. “What do you want me to tell you? To go in there and throw water in his face because he’s AWESOME? No. You’re the one who needs a bucket of water tossed on you. Get a grip.”

I sputter. “Claire!”

“No. Put on more lip gloss and get your bony ass back out there. Do all us single girls a favor and give the guy a chance. I’m hanging up—goodbye.”

I stare at a blank screen, the line dead.

A few seconds later:

Claire: Don’t forget to call me later, whore.

I do what she says. Dig into my purse for the lip gloss I tossed in before leaving home and put some on before leaving the restroom stall. And, on second thought, I should probably try to pee while I’m in here, since I’m in here.

Finish up, wash my hands, stare at my reflection in the mirror.

“You never would have known if he hadn’t told you,” I say to myself. “He is a nice, sweet guy.” Shy and a bit aloof, but I can see he has a good heart. “Give him a chance. Don’t judge him because you’re intimidated—he doesn’t deserve it.”

I acknowledge that last thought again: I am intimidated. Who wouldn’t be? Fans. Women. Reporters. Lack of privacy. Nice things, but at what expense? Not even being able to have dinner without being interrupted by strangers? Having your photo taken without your permission while you stuff your face?