“To who?”

He gives me an Are you serious? look. “Your dad.”

“Oh.” Him. “I thought for a second you meant Trace.”

“I’ll probably tell him myself, if you don’t mind.”

I nod—of course he’d want to be the one to tell him and I have no intention of snitching. But the information is going to weigh on my mind, despite the fact that it’s merely speculation. Noah would know, wouldn’t he? He’s been around it and seen it—he would know what someone who’s injected themselves with steroids looks like, right?

“The trainers are going to notice eventually, so I don’t think…” He clamps his mouth shut. “Eventually they’re going to notice.”

I nod slowly. God, this sucks.

This whole day has sucked, and I just want it to end.

Unknown Number: Hey sweetie, this is Gen! I wanted to tell you how lovely it was meeting you!

Mrs. Wallace’s text comes through a little after five o’clock; it’s dinnertime and I imagine her toiling away in her kitchen, getting ready to prepare Roger’s supper with freshly chopped vegetables and meat, regular Suzy Homemaker that she is.

A knot of longing forms in my stomach at the quaint family life I have never known, caring parents and a mother who makes dinner every night, who drives her kids from one sport to the next in a minivan.

Me: I had such a good time. Thank you for your hospitality—I even had fun at our little impromptu slumber party. I’m sorry we didn’t stay for breakfast.

Genevieve: Oh, I know you kids are busy, no worries!

I stare at the message, unsure about what to say.

Genevieve: So I was wondering if you want to sit with Trace’s dad and me at the next home game this Thursday!

She uses lots of exclamation points and I find it adorable—she sounds so incredibly enthusiastic. I’m here for it.

Also.

His parents want me to sit with them during Buzz’s next home game? Um…I wonder if he knows she’s texting me, then suspect it’s not something he would mind, since it does seem like he’s actively trying to date me.

Still. Sitting with his parents?

Bold move.

Not one I’m too keen on, considering we’re not in an actual relationship. I cannot in good conscience perpetuate more lies to this poor woman.

Me: I’ll have to check my work schedule, and offhand, I feel like I won’t be able to. I’m editing a book that has to be sent back to the author before another editor—you know what, I’ll just have to get back to you on this, if you don’t mind?

I am babbling in a text.

Genevieve: Oh, no worries dear. Let me know when you can. We’re driving up and staying at a hotel **wink wink** We could do dinner after the game if that would be convenient.

This woman is determined to see me on Thursday.

Me: Gosh Mrs. Wallace, I really don’t know…

Genevieve: Call me Genevieve. Perhaps breakfast Friday would be better for you?

She wants to be my friend because she’s harboring illusions that I’m going to be her daughter-in-law one day.

Perhaps you should check with your son, I want to tell her, because I have a feeling he has no idea you’re messaging me! How do I know this? He would never turn down food; the man loves eating too much!

Great, now I’m overusing exclamation points too.

First my dad. Then Marlon. Then Noah. Now Mrs. Wallace.

When will this day end?

Madison: I’m coming over. You need me.

Add my best friend to the clusterfuck and it’s a well-rounded day of nonstop chaos.

Perfect.

I flop down on my pillow and stare at Mrs. Wallace’s messages. She’s such a lovely woman, so much warmth. The kind of mother I wish I’d had growing up—not that my mom wasn’t loving. She was just…caught up in a world where children did not come first. Socializing and popularity were the orders of the day, always.

That’s just how it was.

Nope. Can’t do this to Buzz’s mom.

I cannot have dinner, brunch, or breakfast with Buzz Wallace’s parents. Not Thursday, not next week, not ever.

I roll to my back, waiting for Madison.

She might not have answers, but she almost always brings ice cream.

16

Trace

“He what?”

I need more clarification from Noah—the story he just told me about Marlon and Hollis isn’t surprising, but it is infuriating.

“I walked up as he was getting nasty, calling her a snob and shit. She looked like she was going to cry and he looked crazy. I think he’s juicing—something isn’t right with him. He went from zero to eighty in three seconds.”

“No bullshit?”

“No bullshit.”

Damn. Marlon Daymon is using? What the hell for? The dude is at the top of his game. One drug test by the establishment and he’d be done. Well—okay fine, maybe not fired done, but it would leak to the press, and he’d probably face a suspension then get fined up the ass. Thousands and thousands of dollars in penalties. For what?