Hard Love (Trophy Boyfriends 3)

Having plans with Tripp is one thing; having them with his parents is another entirely.

Mrs. Wallace is always full of questions; what if she asks me something I don’t know how to answer? Or what if I say something stupid and she repeats it to her son? What if she reads more into things than what they actually are and gets her hopes up?

I am not daughter-in-law number two!

I am also not on time.

The crowd roars from inside the stadium, echoing in the night, filling me with that familiar adrenaline rush I used to feel when I was younger and felt less pressure to fit in with my parents, cousins, aunts, and uncles. When games were just games to me and not a money-making machine.

Games were about hot dogs and popcorn and the occasional soda I was only allowed to have when we sat in the stands—usually with my nanny.

I stand in line at security while they riffle through my tiny purse then hop into a different line to gain entry. Weave my way to the suite level, quelling my nerves by placing a hand on my stomach.

When I reach the room we’re watching the game in, Genevieve Wallace greets me with a welcome so enthusiastic it startles me, her cheerful and loud “There she is!” causing heads to turn from the crowded hallway.

“Hi! Sorry I’m late—the traffic was terrible.” I hang my jacket in the small coat closet, remove my scarf and mittens. “I’m so sorry,” I apologize again.

“We’re so glad you came!” She ignores my apologies and rushes over to hug me. “Aren’t we so glad she’s here, Roger?” Tripp’s mom smacks her husband on the arm until he shifts his gaze from the playing field below to me.

“Uh, sure.” It takes him a few seconds to register that it’s me, lost in his game day daze. “Oh, hey Chandler.” Mr. Wallace blinks. “For a second there I thought you were Hollis.”

“We just love her so much.” Mrs. Wallace has her arm around me, gushing about my cousin. “I love having another girl in the family—not that we don’t adore our True, but it’s so fun having an even number. Imagine if we outnumbered the boys and had control over the TV on Sundays.” She cackles out a laugh, as if that’s the sneakiest thing she could think of inflicting on the men in her life.

“Are you hungry?”

I am. “Starving!”

“Let’s get you some food,” she enthuses, eager to please, ushering me to the kitchenette that comes with each suite. The spread is mouthwatering: platters of carved meat, cheeses, fruit, dips and chips, hot dogs and buns, salads, and desserts.

I’m blissfully loading chips onto a plate and salsa into a small bowl, adding guac, pretzels, and queso while Genevieve fills two plastic cups with wine from a nearby bottle.

I add pasta salad and two cookies, eyes bigger than my stomach. But a girl’s got to eat and this one hasn’t had a meal all day.

Once I’m done, instead of sitting at one of the little tables set up in the room, we make our way to the three rows of stadium seats.

Giant, panoramic glass separates us from the harsh, cold fall weather, but the view is incredible.

Gorgeous.

The Chicago Blues football field stretches out below us, surrounded by row upon row of seating, lights, and people. Screaming fans, dressed for winter.

Lord I’m glad I’m not sitting in the stands; I’d be freezing my ass off.

When Mrs. Wallace and I plunk down in our seats, she hands me a plastic cup of wine.

“Here honey, you might need this for your nerves. You’re going to want alcohol in your system for the first hit he takes.” She tips her cup forward and drinks. “This is my second, though I’m still anxious as all get-out.”

My eyes go down to the field; it’s a fantastic view, but we’re so far up the men look like ants, impossible to distinguish from this vantage point.

Luckily, there’s a flat-screen television monitor in each corner of the room broadcasting the game, and within seconds, I spot Tripp Wallace on the sidelines, hands stuck inside a hand warmer.

Tight blue pants. Wide, padded shoulders. Helmet tipped back so an assistant can squirt water into his mouth from a bottle.

Holy hell he looks good.

Like a man’s man, only…mine? Maybe?

As I continue eating, Mrs. Wallace chats away beside me, and I keep one eye on her, one on the game below. She’s telling me more about Buzz and Hollis’s honeymoon, the new grill she and her husband bought for BBQing on game days that are out of town, and the dog they’re thinking of getting.

She tells me about what Tripp was like as a teenager.

“Oh that boy has always taken everything so seriously. I don’t know where that comes from—Roger and I can certainly take a joke. Trace and his sister can too, so I don’t know why our oldest is so serious.” She sips her wine, and I take a dainty sip of mine. “And of course the girl thing…I think he was sixteen by the time he discovered what those were.”