Hard Love (Trophy Boyfriends #3) - Sara Ney Page 0,40

door and into the hall.

Chewy leaps once more, this time off the edge, into the dark. I can’t see him, but I hear his nails scratching at the hardwood floor, his jowls gobbling up his toy.

He hops back on the bed, walking in circles at the foot of it, exhausted and done with the game of fetch.

“What kind of dog is it?”

“Bulldog.”

Chandler chuckles low and scoffs. “Figures you would have a bulldog.”

“What does that mean?”

“They’re so grumpy.”

“Are you implying that I have a grumpy dog because I’m grumpy?”

“Well.” She hesitates. “Aren’t you?”

“No.” Just most of the time.

Chandler doesn’t respond. She laughs, which I guess is a response—but it’s a sweet sound, and happy, so I find I don’t actually mind.

“You’re starting to look alike, aren’t you?”

“Who, me and the dog?”

She hums. “I think people start looking like their pets and taking on their characteristics—that’s all I’m saying.”

“I’ll have you know,” I inform her, “Chewy is a prankster who is never in a bad mood.” Despite his mashed-in face and underbite, he’s massively entertaining and jovial.

“Chewy?” She pauses again. “You have a dog named Chewy? Did you adopt him?”

“Uh, no. Why would you ask that?”

“Is the name Chewy short for Chewbacca? You know, from Star Wars?”

“I know what Star Wars is, thanks. And no, it’s just straight-up Chewy.”

Chandler laughs. “Never in a million years would I guess Tripp Wallace would name a dog Chewy. Maybe something like Killer. Or Spike. Or Rambo. Or…Dog.”

Killer? Spike? Rambo? Wow, she really has a low opinion of me. “Chewy is a doggy dog name that’s just sophisticated enough to be human-like.” My tone is indignant and I pat the comforter so my canine companion crawls up the mattress, nudging my hand with his furry little face for pets.

I pat him lovingly.

“That made no sense whatsoever. Like, none.” Another loud laugh. “Doggy dog name that’s human-like…you’re so weird.”

I don’t take offense to her teasing because Chewy is man’s best friend. “He’s my best bud,” I say out loud, more to the dog than to her. “Aren’t you? Aren’t you, boy?”

Before I start with the baby puppy talk, I clamp my lips shut to prevent more verbal diarrhea from spilling out of my mouth.

Chandler’s silent for a few seconds. “I suppose we should both get some rest—I have unpacking to do tomorrow, plus I have to run to the stadium to get my ID picture taken and fill out some paperwork.”

“And I have to be up at the ass crack of dawn to take Chewy to daycare and hit the gym early,” I add.

“God, you take your dog to daycare. That’s kind of adorable.”

Adorable.

I capitalize on this moment of weakening on her part to say, “So you’re cool if I grab you at six tomorrow?”

Chandler yawns. “Mmkay.”

Too tired to disagree.

She’s tired and fading by the—

“See you tomorrow, grumpy.”

Okay. Maybe not that tired.

My lips part to argue. “I am not grum—”

But the argument is futile because there is no one on the other end. Chandler has already hung up the phone, cutting me off, getting in the last word, leaving me hanging high and dry.

Again.

Twelve

Chandler

What does a girl wear on a date that’s not a date, but more like an attempt at bribery?

What does he want from me?

A man doesn’t just call out of the blue to ask a person for drinks after ignoring you every time he’s in the same room with you—unless he wants something.

But what?

Revenge?

Is he going to attempt to publicly embarrass me?

I will admit, I hadn’t considered the onslaught of publicity it was going to garner when I tossed him on his backside. We were at a private event, in a secure hotel, surrounded by family and friends and…

Reporters.

Duh, Chandler. You should have thought it all the way through.

But I didn’t.

Too late now—every sports media outlet has shown the clip, live with the audio of people gasping, guests of the bride and groom pointing and laughing and clearing the dance floor.

No one knew what happened; some speculated that he had assaulted me. Some guests initially thought he slipped and fell, thought he’d been hurt and perhaps needed an ambulance.

“Don’t move him!” his mother shouted, worried his spine had been fractured, having seen her son in that same position on the football field.

I felt horrible at that moment—until the moment Buzz called him a pussy, loud enough for everyone to hear, setting off a riptide of laughter.

Non-disclosure agreements mean nothing to wedding guests when there are priceless videos and photographs of an athlete’s humiliation to