Hard Fall (Trophy Boyfriends #2) - Sara Ney Page 0,67

or two of them taking pictures on the sly.

“Oh my god, Hollis, what’s wrong?” His hands are cradling my face now and the concern in his eyes has wet wells streaming down my face.

I wish he would stop.

I hate when I ugly cry.

“Babe. Talk to me.”

That makes it worse, and I cry harder, sniffling when he pulls me into his chest, face now pressed against his Steam jersey. The one with the Under Armour sponsorship logo. The one with his name plastered on the back side of it. The one that earns him millions of dollars per year.

This sweet, ridiculous man who thinks I’m crying because I was accosted today.

Even with my face pressed against his massive chest, I see another figure out of the corner of my eye. Think I’ve officially lost my mind, because—is that my dad? It can’t be. Why would he be here, too?

Perhaps Madison also called him.

She would call him—not only out of concern for me, but because she thinks he’s hot and will use any opportunity to hit on him. Ew.

The man isn’t approaching us, just watching from the lobby. I can see him through the glass which could use a good scrubbing, and realize…

It’s not my dad at all.

It’s another officer—probably a detective—wearing a suit and a badge and my shoulders sag.

It figures my father couldn’t trouble himself to come see about my welfare. Not on a game day.

But here is Buzz, squishing my face into his jersey, running a large palm down my spine to comfort me. Patting my head and muttering, “Shhh, shh…” into my hair.

I wrap my arms around him and squeeze. Bury my nose deeper into his shirt and give him a sniff. He smells like fresh shower, laundered sports apparel, and cologne. And old gym socks.

He must be superstitious.

A deep voice clears its throat, and I peel myself out of Buzz’s embrace to find the detaining officer and her colleague watching us with raised brows.

“Um…this is my friend Trace. Sorry, my other friend called him to tell him I was here—he didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“I’m her boyfriend.” His smile is huge and affectionate. “The little scamp will deny it, of course, since we haven’t been on a date yet, but it’s inevitable.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.” Oh my god, he needs to tone it down a notch. “Now is not the time for your shenanigans.”

“Pfft. It’s always a good time for shenanigans, am I right, officers?” He shoots them a wink.

They’re speechless. I mean, what the hell are they supposed to say to that? To him? A god among mortal men, standing in their precinct.

“Ms. Westbrooke, if you wouldn’t mind having a seat so we can finish up here? Then you can be on your way.” They’re still staring at Trace.

“They called you Ms. Westbrooke—that’s so cute! You know what’s cuter? Hollis Wallace.” He pulls my chair back out, so I can sit, then pulls out the one next to it. “Holly Wolly.”

“If I threaten to murder him in front of you, does that lead to an automatic conviction?” I’m asking the officer in front of me. I can’t decide if she’s amused or not, but I’m certainly not, and he NEEDS TO GO. Away. Now.

“There she goes, role-playing the Lifetime Movie Network. Love it when she does that.” He presses a soft noogie to the top of my head.

My hand covers the seat, so he cannot sit. “You need to go,” I tell him.

“But I’m here.”

I roll my eyes. “No, Buzz—go back to work.”

He rolls his eyes back at me. “They can wait.”

They. The people. The fans. The team owners and investors. The millions of people watching from their homes, on television.

The entire statement, delivered so calmly, makes me laugh. Makes the female officer’s eyes widen—fortunately she doesn’t interject or ask questions because the last thing I need is someone encouraging his obstinate behavior.

The team can wait? A stadium filled with fifty thousand people can wait? Has he lost his damn mind?

“You can go. I’ll be fine.” I look to the officer. “I’m in good hands, trust me. You can call me when you’re done.”

Like we’re discussing him going back to work at an office. Or at a restaurant. Or as if he works retail. Yeah, sure, give me a shout when you’re off work! No big deal!

The reality: give me a shout when you’re done playing baseball in front of a crowd of nearly fifty thousand. A crowd that will generate millions upon millions of dollars in