Hard Love (Trophy Boyfriends 3)

I text my mom.

Me: Do I seriously have to wear this outfit? I’m going to look like a douche.

Mom: Yes. This is not about you.

Me: This is about me not wanting to wear this outfit.

Mom: This is your brother’s big night—be a team player.

Me: This is NOT THE WEDDING, MOM. Could we not call this his “big night”? Everything is not always about him.

Mom: Tripp Francis Wallace I’m not going to say this again. If I hear that you didn’t do your part, I’m going to be so disappointed in you. Your brother has finally met someone decent and you are not going to ruin his bachelor party.

Me: Someone else will probably do that.

I can’t help adding that little jab; let’s be real—Buzz has invited a bunch of freaking idiots who’ll probably get wasted and destroy property.

Mom: Tripp just wear the goddamn shit.

Whoa. She’s getting pissed—Mom almost never swears and she just did it twice.

Mom: Shirt. Just wear the SHIRT. It’s not too much to ask. This is ONE night.

I want to point out that it’s not one night; it’s one of three: bachelor party, rehearsal dinner, wedding and reception. Except there is no reasoning with Genevieve Wallace—nothing has given her a purpose to live more than her youngest son getting married. Nothing can dull her sparkle. Anyone getting in her way will be obliterated and I will feel her wrath if I do not wear this fucking stupid outfit.

Buzz, Buzz, Buzz, it’s always about Buzz.

Me: Fine. But I’m not shaving.

Mom: Oh you’re going to look so handsome! Text me and tell me how it’s going. I want all the details!

Um, yeah—that’s not happening. I’m not going to gossip about some dumb stag party with my mother. I’m lame, but I’m not that lame.

Mom: You’re a good brother Tripp. We’re so proud of you.

No one lays on a guilt trip quite like my mother.

“Proud of me for going axe throwing,” I mutter, grumbling as I climb into the shower. The water shoots out of seven heads—ceiling, three in front of me, three in back. It’s excessive and indulgent, but after an entire day outside, battling the elements during practices and games, I know it was well worth installing the additional plumbing.

Or rather, having Buzz do it.

I bought this house from him after he flipped it and the shower was one of the selling points.

He’s one smart son of a bitch, I’ll give him that. And sure, his fiancée is pretty fucking awesome—but that still doesn’t mean I want to hoof it to Axe to Grind, the throwing bar where the party begins.

Ugh. An entire night of drinking, shooting the shit, and bar-hopping.

My worst nightmare.

Most of the wedding party on the groom’s side are professional athletes—baseball players from his team, the Chicago Steam, and myself. No big deal, not impressed.

That doesn’t mean other bar-goers won’t be. All night we’re sure to be inundated with fans, superfans, jersey chasers, and gold diggers interrupting us for autographs, photos, and forced chitchat.

I’ll have to be polite when I’d rather be myself.

Showering takes my mind off how my day went, at least. Drill after drill at the stadium, followed by an ice bath and a rubdown by the team’s massage therapist. My body aches. My head hurts.

My dick is soft.

Through the glass shower door, Chewy watches me, bored, no doubt wondering when I’ll be done showering so we can play, his favorite ball lying between his paws, covered in slobber.

A twinge of guilt forms in my stomach and I shut the water off. Grab the towel I tossed over the barrier and dry off, throwing on a pair of sweatpants so I can roughhouse with the dog. Tire him out a bit before the dog sitter comes.

I hate leaving him alone.

When it’s time to dress, I rip the tags off the godawful cargo pants; complete with side pockets and heavyweight fabric, they are truly fit for a mountain man.

They fit perfectly.

The shirt fits too as I pull it on, rolling the sleeves up to my elbows. Leave the top two buttons undone so I don’t choke myself, or maybe that’s the solution to get out of this hellish evening.

Viewing myself in the mirror again, I cringe. Dammit, I should have shaved this scruff off. I look ridiculous. Like an actual fucking lumberjack.

I am going to kill my brother.

Whose dumb idea was this?* * *I have my answer as soon as I step into Axe to Grind and find my brother and his group of friends. They’re easy to spot—large, loud, and not wearing plaid shirts.

I stomp over, my sights set on one person: Buzz.

He has his back turned, but I’d know him anywhere; broad-shouldered and tall, he’s the spitting image of yours truly—the Irish twin I never wanted, born only a year after me.

He’s clean shaven and freshly shorn, no doubt in preparation for his impending nuptials.