Hard Love (Trophy Boyfriends #3) - Sara Ney Page 0,4

ass cheeks pucker, I swear they do. “Fine.”

I stomp to the high-top table the rest of the bachelor party is gathered around, most of them drinking beer and laughing, the giants among men filling the whole room because there are twenty or so of us, many of us professional athletes of some kind.

It feels like I’m at a fraternity party, not a celebration for grown men, and why I can’t enjoy myself is beyond me. Oh. Wait—that’s right, I’m dressed like a goddamn fictional lumberjack and there’s a stuffed animal hanging from my fucking pocket!

Don’t know if it’s my glower from my sour mood, but no one really talks to me. Then again, these dudes are mostly baseball players. There’s one guy I recognize from college, a few from high school, plus one or two coaches, a few cousins, an uncle or three, and my brother’s agent.

There’s a tap on my shoulder; it feels like the tip of a fake nail, and when I glance over, I discover that it is. Bright, neon yellow, and attached to a tan blonde.

“You’re the other Wallace brother, aren’t you?” Well. There’s no mincing words with this broad; she gets straight to the point.

“Yes.”

“Are there any more or just the two of you?”

“Just the two of us.”

She smiles.

Then the woman gasps, noticing my lumber-outfit. “Oh my god, were you just axe throwing? This outfit is to die for! So cute. I love that you went with the theme.” She coos again, practically oozing desperation.

Ugh, I can’t stand cleat chasers.

At another table, one of Buzz’s groomsmen shouts over the music as a pair of highlighter yellow nails graze my exposed forearm. I shiver, and not from delight.

“I wasn’t dressing as part of the theme,” I counter, annoyed.

“Then why are you dressed like a mountain man?”

Dammit! “I’m not dressed like a—”

I clamp my mouth shut. It’s pointless to argue with someone who’s half baked, skin literally baked, and hell-bent on flirting. I could be wearing a garbage bag and this chick would be hitting on me. She knows I’m Tripp Wallace, knows I’m a football player, knows I’m loaded.

“You’re not very talkative.” The girl tries again when I don’t bite on her earlier nonsense about mountain men. “Are you the strong silent type?”

I grunt, hoping she takes the hint and walks away to join her friends. They’re standing in a cluster watching us, heads bent like players in the pre-game huddle, about to take the field.

I don’t want to know what anyone is saying—whatever it is, it’s about me and this chick, and it can’t be good.

After several moments of awkward silence—and me ignoring her—she finally gives up and leaves me alone, going back to her group of friends.

Thank god.

“Dude, come join us again for one last game—we’re bouncing afterwards,” Noah Harding shouts to me over the loud music and the sounds of axes hitting boards and falling to the ground. People laughing. Talking. Shouting. Singing. So much merriment my goddamn head is about to explode.

The last thing I want to do is join my brother and his friends for another humiliating round of axe throwing, but if it means I can hopefully ditch this place quicker, then Noah doesn’t have to tell me twice.

I chug the last of my beer and begrudgingly head over to the cages—Babe the Blue Ox still hanging at my side.

Two

Chandler

My cousin is getting married.

Not just my cousin—my favorite cousin, and I’m so happy for her.

It’s not easy being a part of the illustrious Westbrooke family; always in the spotlight, always putting on a show, always on your best behavior. Which is the reason I learned to smile. To say all the right things, do all the things I’ve been brought up to do.

Obedient. Graceful. Classy.

Serene. Shy.

Those are only a few of the words that have been used to describe me in the past. Words I’ve come to hate, though none of them are bad.

Witty, clever, independent, funny—those are the words I’d rather be called.

Smart. Resourceful. Creative. Capable.

But Hollis handles being a Westbrooke beautifully. A few years older than me, I’ve always admired her independence. Her drive. Her carefree, self-starting attitude and willingness to do things her way.

Therefore, I too plotted my own course.

My stint in Europe following my master’s program wasn’t to shirk any duty or a lack of work ethic; it was to escape the suffocating influence of my family, escape the pressure and expectation of the job I’ve been raised to step into now that I have two