and steaming hot, loaded with cranberry stuffing (my favorite) and I prematurely cram a piece in my mouth.
It scalds my taste buds. “Dammit!”
Fuck I’m so hungry.
I barely taste it as I pack it down my gullet, trying to finish my meal, so I can take another hot shower. And when I’m finally upstairs in my bathroom, I study my reflection in the mirror.
Do I shave or leave it?
If I don’t, I’m going to look even stupider and lumberjackier in that dumb plaid shirt—but it’s such a hassle getting out the razor and going through the motions and I’m not exactly in the mood anymore to put in an effort.
I text my mom.
Me: Do I seriously have to wear this outfit? I’m going to look like a douche.
Mom: Yes. This is not about you.
Me: This is about me not wanting to wear this outfit.
Mom: This is your brother’s big night, be a team player.
Me: This is NOT THE WEDDING MOM, could we not call this his “big night?” Everything is not always about him.
Mom: Tripp Francis Wallace I’m not going to say this again. If I hear that you didn’t do your part, I’m going to be so disappointed in you. Your brother has finally met someone decent and you are not going to ruin his bachelor party.
Me: Someone else will probably do that.
I can’t help adding that little jab; let’s be real—Buzz has invited a bunch of freaking idiots who’ll probably get wasted and destroy property.
Mom: Tripp, just wear the goddamn shit
Whoa. She’s getting pissed—Mom almost never swears and she just did it twice.
Mom: Shirt. Just wear the SHIRT, it’s not too much to ask. This is ONE night.
I want to point out that it’s not one night. It’s one of three; bachelor party, rehearsal dinner, wedding and reception. Except there is no reasoning with Genevieve Wallace—nothing has given her a purpose to live more than her youngest son getting married. Nothing can dull her sparkle. Anyone getting in her way will be obliterated and I will feel her wrath if I do not wear this fucking stupid outfit.
Buzz, Buzz, Buzz, it’s always about Buzz.
Me: Fine. But I’m not shaving.
Mom: Oh you’re going to look so handsome! Text me and tell me how it’s going, I want all the details!
Um, yeah—that’s not happening. I’m not going to gossip about some dumb stag party with my mother. I’m lame, but I’m not that lame.
Mom: You’re a good brother, Tripp. We’re so proud of you.
No one lays on a guilt trip quite like my mother.
“Proud of me for going axe throwing,” I mutter, grumbling as I climb into the shower. The water shoots out of seven heads—ceiling, three in front of me and three in back. It’s excessive and pampering, but after an entire day outside, battling the elements during the games, it was well worth installing the additional plumbing.
Or rather, Buzz did.
I bought this house from him after he flipped it and the shower was one of the selling points.
He’s one smart son of a bitch, I’ll give him that. And sure, his fiancé is pretty fucking awesome. But that still doesn’t mean I want to hoof it to Axe to Grind, the throwing bar where the party begins.
Ugh. An entire night of drinking, shooting the shit, and bar hopping.
My worst nightmare.
Most of the wedding party on the grooms side is professional athletes—baseball players from his team, the Chicago Steam, and myself. No big deal, not impressed?
That doesn’t mean other bar go-ers won’t be. All night we’re sure to be inundated with fans, super fans, jersey chasers and gold diggers, interrupting us for autographs, photos, and forced chit chat.
I’ll have to be polite when I’d rather be myself.
Showering takes my mind off how my day went, at least. Drill after drill at the stadium, followed by an ice bath and a rub down by the teams massage therapist. My body aches. My head hurts.
My dick is soft.
Through the glass shower door Sven watches me, bored, no doubt wondering when I’ll be done showering, so we can play, his favorite ball lying at his paws full of slobber.
A twinge of guilt forms in my stomach and I shut the water down. Grabbing the towel I’d tossed over the barrier, and dry off, tossing on a pair of sweat pants, so I can rough house with the dog. Tire him out a bit before the dog sitter comes.
I hate leaving him alone.
When it’s time to dress, I rip the tags off these godawful