Hard Fall (Trophy Boyfriends #2) - Sara Ney Page 0,3

not so much.

Tripp says it’s because I have a shitty reputation, and none of those women want to end up splashed across the tabloids, potentially having their careers ruined after being photographed with me. Which sucks, because at some point, I’d like to make my parents proud by producing Buzz Wallace, Jr., heir to the baseball legacy, fruit of my loins.

My mother would fucking kill me if I brought home a career bottle girl from the club. One time, I dated a girl whose job it was to sell shots, and she spent her evenings with her tits out and glow sticks hanging around her neck—which is all fine and good, but not the type my mother wants popping out her grandbabies.

This petite sadist screams good girl and respectability, although I’d bet the farm she has one helluva potty mouth.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” I try again, laying on the charm.

Another eye roll. “I didn’t throw it.”

Cheeky.

I like it.

“What’s your name?” There. Try evading that.

“I’m not telling you.”

The elevator rises to its destination a short few moments later, dinging as the doors slide open, and we both step out on the parking level.

She glares at me as I trail along. “Stop following me.”

Pfft. “I’m not. I have to grab something from my car.” The lie would be more plausible if I had a set of keys in my hand or pocket, which I do not.

“Whatever.” The wind kicks up, lifting the hem of her pretty, floral dress, tan legs exposed. Smooth. Lean. Great legs. “Stop checking me out, creep.”

Creep? What the…

We both walk past the security booth, and I nod to Karl, the guard, slowing my gait on the way to my car since I can’t actually get into it. I need her to get to her car first and drive off so she doesn’t know I’m a liar.

Her gait is confident, her gaze trained on the horizon, not on her phone, as she scans the parking lot, key fob for a luxury SUV in hand. Nice wheels. Nice legs. Smart mouth.

With a glance over her shoulder, she meets my eyes before she grasps a pair of sunglasses and slides them on, opening her door and climbing inside. She spares me no second glances after that—not a single damn one.

Rude!

Shuffling my feet like a loser, I meander my way back from pretending to get something from my car, nodding again at Karl, who has his head sticking out the side of the guard booth.

“You sweet on Ms. Westbrooke?”

“Who?”

“The young lady you were just with—that’s Thomas Westbrooke’s youngest. Don’t see her around here too often, but Ms. Hollis sure is a nice young woman.”

My eyes stray to the departing vehicle, its blinker on to take a right-hand turn out of the parking lot, apparently carrying the general manager’s daughter. Which makes her the team owner’s granddaughter which makes me look like a giant asshole.

Jesus H. Christ, I just hit on the GM’s daughter.

Thank god she doesn’t know who I am or I’d be a dead man…

2

Hollis

“You sure the guy hitting on you at the stadium was Buzz Wallace?” My best friend Madison reaches across the counter and nabs a French fry, digs around in the brown paper bag, and stuffs three in her mouth at once.

She was scrolling through her phone on my front porch when I got home, waiting for me to feed her dinner like a stray cat, wanting to have a quick chat—mostly to mooch off me, since she always seems to be broke—utterly bored. As usual. I’ve known Madison since college and she’s always been the girl who has to be entertained, has to be busy. Never settling, forever restless.

She’s restless now, leaning over my kitchen counter, stealing the food I was too lazy to make. I grab a fry too and chew. Suck the salt off my fingers and crook an eyebrow.

“Yup, I’m sure it was Buzz Wallace.” Trace Wallace, his biography online said. “I got curious, so I looked up the roster online. He’s such a douche.”

“But he’s so hot,” she argues, filching my cheeseburger to take a bite, the melted cheese oozing out the side. I scowl, grabbing it back out of her hand.

“Get your own! If I knew you were going to be here when I got home, I would have gotten you one.” The burger isn’t big enough to share when I’m this hungry. “Go make a frozen pizza,” I snip.

“I don’t like the loaded pizzas you buy.” She sniffs,