My (Mostly) Fake Wedding - Penelope Bloom Page 0,51

Definitely or.”

32

Chris

I knocked on Coach Mackie’s office door, letting myself in. The old grouch was hunched over his desk with a loaded hotdog in his meaty little fist. He even had a dab of neon yellow mustard at the corner of his mouth.

I did my best charming smile, then tapped the corner of my mouth with my index finger, trying to show him where he was wearing his meal.

He wiped his face with the back of his hand, smearing it across his cheek.

I blew out a long breath, then sank into the chair across from him. “You wanted to see me?”

“That’s not how I would phrase it, Rose. I asked you to come in here so I could say this to your face. You think you’re going to ditch practice this week so you can go nancy around with flowers in England and play Mr. Bride. Well, let me tell you this clear enough that it’ll get through your thick skull. You miss one practice, and you’re done. Off the team. No contract. Understood?”

I raised my eyebrows. “I thought I was going to do those things because my agent arranged it all with the front office in advance.”

“Things change.”

“I’m not even able to throw for another two weeks. You want me to stand on the sidelines at practice that badly?”

“Nod your goddamn head, son. That’s all you need to do, then get your ass out of my office.”

I got up from my chair, tossing my access card to the facility on his desk. “I’m going to England to be with my wife. And fuck you.”

“Spare me the crock of shit, Rose. Wife? You’re not even married yet, and anybody with half a brain knows how this is going to turn out. Just like all your other little girlfriends. Like a flaming sack of shit left on the side of the road.”

“Not this one. She’s different.”

Coach Mackie rocked back in his chair, sniffing dismissively. “You may think so. But you’re not. You’re still a dumbass who can’t do anything right but throw a football. You stick to what you’re good at, and you’ll make a lot of money. Start playing at being a functioning adult? You’ll fail.”

I leaned in close, then snatched the hotdog from his hands. “Let me put this in a way you’ll understand. This is your football team. This is how much I care about it.” I slam dunked the hotdog in the trash can. “And there’s mustard. All over your face.” I gestured vaguely, then gave a sarcastic salute before leaving his office.

33

Belle

Blackshire House was a massive, manicured slice of the English countryside. A huge Victorian style manor towered in the center of the property while countless smaller buildings dotted the rolling green hills around it. In all, twelve-hundred guests would be attending the ceremony. Just over one hundred of the close friends, family, and more important business associates of Chris and his family had been invited to stay on the grounds for the four days leading up to the wedding.

It was Sunday, and we still had a rehearsal dinner along with about a thousand last-minute preparations to get through before the ceremony.

It still hadn’t settled in that technically; I was scrambling to make sure my own wedding was a success.

My own wedding.

I was sitting beneath a lone tree that gently shed some of its leaves with each chilly breeze. I had an earbud in one ear while I listened to classical music—not because I was sophisticated or cultured, but because I was doing anything I could to calm myself down.

As if the universe sensed that I was getting too relaxed, Chris came happily jogging toward me. He was wearing a sleeveless t-shirt, sweatpants, and sandals. He looked hilariously out of place in the context of all the uppity scenery, but as always, I found it charming rather than irritating.

He plopped himself down right next to me, then winced, gripping his shoulder, which was in a black half-fabric, half-metal brace that went down to his elbow.

“Is someone being moody out here? What are you listening to, death metal? Sad country songs? Punk rock from the 90s?” He picked up an earbud and stuffed it into his ear before I could pause my music.

“Ohhh,” Chris burst out laughing. “We’re being sophisticated. What’s the occasion?”

I tugged the earbuds from him by the cord and stuffed my phone in my bag. “I was just trying to relax a little. I’ve got a lot of stressful things in my near future,