Hard Fall (Trophy Boyfriends #2) - Sara Ney Page 0,7

our giant bodies, but we kind of always have, hitting our growth spurts early on and filling out by the time we were juniors in high school.

Man-children she’d call us because even though we looked like grown-ass adults, we still acted like kids.

Still do.

“So, what have you two been up to besides work?” Dad asks, coming from the office off the kitchen. His thick mustache twitching, he pulls a chair out and plops down next to us.

Dad’s not nearly as big, not nearly as tall—we get our height from Mom’s side of the family, Tripp and I each measuring in at over six foot three and over two hundred sixty pounds.

“Practicing. Hanging out with Harding.”

Noah Harding is one of my teammates, the shortstop on the Chicago Steam, and my best friend. He has a sweet house with a huge pool and—more importantly—a fully stocked kitchen. I don’t know where all the food comes from because I doubt he does the grocery shopping, but I’m not complaining.

“Just hanging out with Noah Harding?” Dad’s brows go up.

“Working on one of the properties I just bought. Would be going quicker if this shithead would help me.” Over the past few months, I’ve been flipping houses, investing some of my income in properties that are run-down. Fixing them up, selling them for a profit. I’m on my third one. “It sure would be nice if I had a partner.”

I glare toward my brother and resentfully stab at the potato salad on my plate.

Tripp rolls his eyes. “Bet you’re still doing that matchmaking thing. You could get paid to do that, like that woman on television who matchmakes for millionaires.”

The fuck, Tripp! Does he have to blab everything?

Apparently so.

“What matchmaking thing?” Mom begins setting a casserole on the table and I take it from her; the ceramic pan must weigh ten pounds.

She kisses the top of my head and I sit up straighter.

Tripp scowls, shooting up out of his chair to fetch the rest of lunch, carrying it back to the table like a server at a restaurant, plates balanced on both arms like a fucking circus performer. “He meddles in people’s love lives without them knowing it.”

“What is he talking about, sweetie?”

“Nothing. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” I kick him again, this time grazing his calf muscle.

But Tripp won’t let it go now that he has me cornered and knows Mom is interested, too. Fuck!

“Your youngest here likes setting people up—on dates and stuff.”

“I think that sounds nice!” Mom gushes, clearly pleased to discover I’m a romantic at heart, even though I’m no romantic. I just love knowing someone is getting laid because of my matchmaking efforts.

Besides, it’s only been like, four couples total. I’m no expert; ain’t got no time for that.

“Mom, I don’t.” But I do.

“Then what do you call Noah Harding and Miranda?”

I don’t know her last name, but I know they’re a great match, one I helped facilitate because Noah—bless his soul—fucking sucks when it comes to putting the moves on a woman and following through.

“Okay, first of all—he needed my help, okay? He probably wouldn’t be with his girlfriend right now if it weren’t for me.” Duh. “Secondly, he knew I was trying to help him out.” Maybe. “Thirdly, I am not a matchmaker. I’m a guy—guys don’t do that.”

“Right. Keep telling yourself that.”

“Who are Noah and Miranda?” Mom wants to know. Dad grunts in his chair, reaching for a plate, helping himself to casserole. It’s cheesy, with pasta and red sauce, and baked to a crisp. As an avid sports fan, Dad would know who Noah Harding is. Mom? Not so much.

There are only two athletes in the majors she cares about and that is me and Tripp.

“Noah is a guy on my team and Miranda is his girlfriend. They’ve been together a few months, I think.”

“No thanks to Trace running nonstop interference,” my brother grumbles, always pissing on my bonfire.

Mom sighs, ever a romantic. “Aww, I think it’s nice that you’re trying to help your friends, sweetheart.” She ruffles my hair and I shoot Tripp a look of victory.

Suck it, asshole. “See?” I gloat. “Mom thinks it’s nice that I help my friends.”

“Alright,” our dad interrupts, irritated. “Enough talk about other people—we want to hear about you.”

Tripp flashes me his wide eyes—the ones that aren’t nearly as stunning as mine. They’re a little jaded, too. I don’t know what bug crawled up his ass and died, but he’s Captain Bitter-man today and it’s killing my