Hard Luck (Trophy Boyfriends 4)

She rolls her eyes. “Nada? That’s what girls say when there’s something wrong but they want you to beg.”

“So? Maybe I’m not ready to talk about it yet.”

Her head gives a slow nod. “Okay, fair enough. All you had to do was say so.”

“Te lo dije.” I did say so.

Glory nods again, letting a stretch of silence grow. “We can’t stand here all night. They’re going to come looking for us, and unless you want to tell everyone your business…”

I glance over my shoulder toward the rest of our family, gathered around the long table at the restaurant where we’re gathered for our Aunt Zoila’s birthday. Salads and chips and salsa and queso line the table, along with pitchers of margarita and sangria, the whole Espinoza clan taking up the entire room.

I don’t want to tell everyone my business, but I do want to get this off my chest.

“I’m being ghosted.”

My sister’s eyes go as wide as saucers, and she damn near spits out her drink. “You have a ghost in your condo? I thought it was new!”

Ay. “No, dumbass, I’m being ghosted by a girl—she wants nothing to do with me.”

Glory leans against the counter, two frozen margaritas in her hands—one for her, one for our sister Mariana, although she’s slurping on them both.

Gross.

“Who would be dumb enough to ghost you? Eres asombroso.” You’re amazing.

Spoken like a protective younger sister.

In Glory’s eyes, I can do no wrong. Throughout the years, I’ve protected her, stood up for her, shielded her from the bullshit surrounding her—mostly the normal sibling rivalry crap that comes with being the youngest in a family of seven. Older sisters suck sometimes.

But guys do, too—and since Glory is in her early twenties, she has lots of learning left to do and has already been screwed over enough times.

“It doesn’t matter who.”

My sister doesn’t agree. “Of course it matters.” She sips from one of the glasses. “Who is this person? Was she born on Mars? Did someone drop her on her head when she was a baby? Why would she not want to talk to you? This doesn’t make sense.”

I preen at my sister’s indignation.

“How many dates have you been on?” Glory asks.

“Er…officially? Cero.” Zero. Zilch.

None.

“You haven’t been on a date? Why?”

I can’t tell my baby sister I hooked up with someone once and didn’t have the decency to ask her on an actual date—not when I constantly lecture her on men being pigs who only want to bang.

“We…”

“This woman isn’t a jock chaser, is she?” Glory pulls a face, curling her lip—a clear display of her thoughts on the gold diggers who routinely circle athletes like vultures.

“Have you ever met a self-respecting gold digger who ghosted a famous baseball player?” I swipe my glass up off the bar and turn toward our family, who have all but forgotten about us. Loud, boisterous, celebratory.

“Famous?” My sister laughs. “Listen to yourself.”

“Please, we both know I get recognized on the street.”

“By men,” Gloria teases. She follows behind me, trailing as we weave back through the restaurant to the table. It was quicker coming to the bar for a drink than asking the server, who’s been overwhelmed by our party since we all flooded the restaurant. “I’m not going to let this go, you know—you’re going to have to give me the scoop on this person. It’s not every day my big brother falls in love.”

She says it amidst a cluster of our relatives, and I nod so she’ll quit talking—Nona doesn’t need to hear this, nor does our mother, who brings up a wedding any chance she gets.

Besides, I’m not entirely sure my ego can handle retelling the story of True and how she got away. How she wants nothing to do with me.

I’m not about to tell Glory that a couple months ago, I slept with someone only a few short hours after meeting them, even though I fucking know there was a connection True Wallace refuses to acknowledge.

My mind drifts, despite my loud, boisterous family.

I hadn’t realized True is so pretty, but I do now as she takes a seat across from me at the wedding for Buzz Wallace and stares at me across the table.

Huge dark eyes framed by masses of even darker hair, and a grin so eerily like her brother’s. She smiles at me far too long and looks away, shyly lowering her head before tipping it to listen to whatever the bride is saying.

True Wallace is magic.

I’m not normally aloof when I approach a woman, but this isn’t just anyone—this is the sister of my good friend and teammate, and messing with sisters is no bueno.

Off limits.

Hard no.

Still, it seems we can’t keep our eyes off each other. The bro code rules go unspoken, unwritten, and unobserved.

Don’t date your friend’s sister, don’t sleep with your friend’s sister, don’t…