Hard Fall (Trophy Boyfriends #2) - Sara Ney Page 0,68
a single evening, with music and cheering and billionaires looking down on you from boxes in the sky.
Yeah. No big deal.
Go do that then give me a shout, but thanks for stopping by.
Once again, everyone is staring at us—more Buzz than me. I’m just some random girl who experienced an attempted robbery. All in a day’s work for the police, but it’s not every day a professional athlete comes busting through their doors, dressed in his complete uniform, straight from the stadium a few blocks up.
“How did you even get here so fast?” I can’t help asking.
“I took a cab.” Of course he did. “They’re everywhere around the stadium today—only had a little trouble getting through the fans who recognized me, but most of them just thought I was some freak dressed like me.”
Again. Super casual, no big deal.
He is really something else…
And growing on me with every passing second. My heart flutters and contracts. I hope I’m not watching him with doe eyes. Ugh.
He relents to my nudging, hesitating. “Are you sure you’re going to be alright?” His hand is on my shoulder now, because I’m sitting down, and he’s looking down at me like I’m looking up at him. “I feel horrible just leaving you here.”
He showed up, though, because he wanted to see that I was okay.
And I am.
In fact, I’ve never been more okay than I am tonight.
Me: Did Madison call you today by any chance?
Dad: She did.
Me: And did you hear about what happened…?
Dad: She mentioned something about you being robbed in the parking structure at your office.
Me: I half expected you to come walking into the police station.
Dad: There was a game today, Hollis—you know I cannot miss a home game.
Me: Right. You had to work. While I was in the police station because I was almost robbed.
Dad: But you were not.
Me: But I could have been.
Dad: Well I will say this, Hollis—if you were working for me, alongside your brother and sister, this wouldn’t have happened. We have secure parking at the stadium.
Me: I can’t believe you just said that.
Dad: Forgive me if I’m still—pardon the pun—a little steaming mad that one of my star players left the game before it even started to hold the hand of my grown daughter.
Me: I did not call him to come. And how can you judge him for wanting to be by my side?
Dad: I told you not to be a distraction. We discussed this.
Me: I can’t control what he does—I had no idea a man I’m not even dating would show up when my own FAMILY wouldn’t. So now I know whom I can depend on.
Dad: You know the rules about game days. There are to be no events planned on days I have to travel or work.
Me: Events? You call my being mugged an EVENT? LOL omg Dad.
Dad: There’s no need to be churlish.
Me: There’s no need to be an uncaring, selfish ass, but here we are.
Me: This is the reason
I almost say, This is the reason Mom left, but I can’t bring myself to send it. It’s cruel and uncalled for. I’m not hurt he didn’t come to the police station—I never expected him to in the first place. What I am upset about is the fact that he isn’t showing the least bit of concern for anything that happened to me. In fact, he’s irritated at the mere thought that I’ve forgotten the Thomas Westbrooke cardinal rule: no emergencies or events on game days, and this includes birthday parties, baptisms, retirements, communions, graduations, weddings, bat mitzvahs, funerals, and births.
Yes, we’re not allowed to give birth on a game day. Not that he would come to the hospital anyway.
Let’s be honest here: Dad wasn’t at much of anything. I played sports through school, but he probably couldn’t tell you which ones (volleyball and field hockey). I was on prom court once, but he wouldn’t know that, either—he wasn’t there for the grand march. Prom wasn’t during the official baseball season, but when wasn’t it baseball season in our house? It was never not in season.
He was never not too busy.
Including today.
Dad: I don’t know why you’re upset—your boyfriend was there.
Me: He’s not my
I pause before finishing the sentence and hitting send. Pause and stare at the sentence I’m about to write. Trace Wallace might not be my boyfriend, but so far, he’s acted more like one than any guy I’ve ever dated. Or not dated.