Hard Love (Trophy Boyfriends #3) - Sara Ney Page 0,18

his filet mignon leftovers out of his fridge? “No need to be hasty.”

Buzz isn’t the only Wallace who can be tenacious. I was the fucking Most Valuable Player at the Super Bowl three years ago, chump. Suck on that.

“Go home, Tripp, or I’m telling Mom.”

My face scrunched up, indignant. “You always tattle on me.”

“No, you always tattle on me.”

It’s true, I do. But it’s not like he doesn’t always deserve it…

My brother is getting married.

When I walk through the door to this house of prayer, my family will be gathered there, for him. And Hollis.

Her family too, a cause for celebration bigger than the World Series—which he’s never played in—or the Super Bowl. No one cares about those championships this weekend; they only care about Buzz and Hollis.

Trace and Hollis.

My fucking brother is getting married—I don’t know how many times I have to tell myself before I’ll begin believing it, before it’ll sink in.

The limit does not exist.

I stand stoically at the front of the church while they rehearse, Noah Harding, my brother’s best friend, serving as the officiant, going through his spiel while we look on, the entire process taking longer than it should because everyone and my goddamn brother keep cracking jokes.

Fine.

I will admit, it’s a pleasant evening.

And okay—I’ll admit, the room looks nice. Stunning, even, and I can say that even though I’m a guy, right?

Everyone is gathered around and on their best behavior, dressed up and decked out for the occasion—everyone, it seems, except me. In my after-workout gear, which normally I wouldn’t feel self-conscious about, but for some reason I do. Guilty even. The good news is my mom hasn’t found me and hasn’t chewed my ass out about my clothes yet, and no one has said a word.

But then—I was late, so not many people have noticed I’m even here.

It seems the ceremony is going to be casual, lots of personal touches, personal anecdotes about the loving couple from their family and friends, which I thought usually happened at the reception following the wedding, but what do I know about weddings? I’ve only been to a handful of them in my life. For some reason, I rarely get invited to them—and the ones I have been to are hella fancy and stuffy. Generally it’s been my teammates marrying high-maintenance women who spend hundreds of thousands of dollars showing off for their friends.

Who knows. Maybe everyone is already married, so there are no weddings.

Or, maybe I’m an asshole and no one wants to waste the space inviting me to their thing. Their event.

Whatever, like I have time for that crap.

The wedding planner is busy matching people together, her clipboard in hand, no doubt listing the pairings of the bridal party. We move through the motions of the processional or whatever it’s called—the grand march or some shit—where we walk down the aisle, two by two, like we’re marching onto Noah’s Ark. (Noah’s Ark from the Bible, not Noah Harding, the baseball player officiant standing on the pitcher’s mound. Er, I mean, podium.)

I pull at my crotch, adjusting my shorts, while the young woman beside me tries to push her hand through the crux of my bended elbow so we can start walking to the front.

“I’m Shoshanna Lohenstein,” she tells me, batting a pair of false eyelashes. They’re too black, too long, and flutter like engorged butterflies fucking her actual eyelids.

Shoshanna. Lohenstein.

If that doesn’t sound blue-blooded and snotty, I don’t know what does.

“You’re not the maid of honor,” I state matter-of-factly, hoping like hell they haven’t changed the plans and stuck me with this Barbie doll. “Where is Madison?”

“I’m the practice stand-in—Maddie is putting out fires with the mother of the bride. She’s like, losing her mind. Maddie, not Mrs. Westbrooke.” She pats my arm. “I hope you don’t mind.”

I snort.

From what I’ve seen of Madison Newtown, when it comes to parties and planning, she runs a tight ship and has everything under control. I wonder where she’s at, because I’d rather have her standing next to me than this socialite debutante—but I don’t care enough to find out.

“Whatever.”

I stare straight ahead to deter any conversation.

The last thing I need is to encourage the Shoshanna Lohensteins of the world.

Her nails—I look down at them digging into my bicep—are painted in bright colors, sunk into my skin as if she has no intention of letting go when we get to the end of the aisle.

I’m correct; I have to peel her off before fleeing to the groom’s