Besides, it’s only been like, four couples total. I’m no expert; ain’t got no time for that.

“Mom, I don’t.” But I do.

“Then what do you call Noah Harding and Miranda?”

I don’t know her last name, but I know they’re a great match, one I helped facilitate because Noah—bless his soul—fucking sucks when it comes to putting the moves on a woman and following through.

“Okay, first of all—he needed my help, okay? He probably wouldn’t be with his girlfriend right now if it weren’t for me.” Duh. “Secondly, he knew I was trying to help him out.” Maybe. “Thirdly, I am not a matchmaker. I’m a guy—guys don’t do that.”

“Right. Keep telling yourself that.”

“Who are Noah and Miranda?” Mom wants to know. Dad grunts in his chair, reaching for a plate, helping himself to casserole. It’s cheesy, with pasta and red sauce, and baked to a crisp. As an avid sports fan, Dad would know who Noah Harding is. Mom? Not so much.

There are only two athletes in the majors she cares about and that is me and Tripp.

“Noah is a guy on my team and Miranda is his girlfriend. They’ve been together a few months, I think.”

“No thanks to Trace running nonstop interference,” my brother grumbles, always pissing on my bonfire.

Mom sighs, ever a romantic. “Aww, I think it’s nice that you’re trying to help your friends, sweetheart.” She ruffles my hair and I shoot Tripp a look of victory.

Suck it, asshole. “See?” I gloat. “Mom thinks it’s nice that I help my friends.”

“Alright,” our dad interrupts, irritated. “Enough talk about other people—we want to hear about you.”

Tripp flashes me his wide eyes—the ones that aren’t nearly as stunning as mine. They’re a little jaded, too. I don’t know what bug crawled up his ass and died, but he’s Captain Bitter-man today and it’s killing my buzz.

Buzz. Get it?

Ha!

“No girlfriends?” Mom always has to ask, always hoping one day our relationship status will change from bachelor to engaged to married. Our mother wants grandkids like a nun loves to pray.

I hate when she starts up about our lack of relationships because I hate letting her down. The truth is the kind of girl she wants me to bring home? They want nothing to do with me.

Like the girl today—the GM’s daughter, whatever her name is.

“I met someone today, as a matter of fact,” I boldly lie. No harm in bending the truth when she can’t verify it. Give the old girl something to get excited about.

Mom perks up like I knew she would—but instead of feeling gratified, I immediately regret lying. “Oh?”

“Yeah, I bumped into her at work. She seems like a really nice girl.”

“What’s her name?” Tripp wants to know.

“Um.”

“Her name is Um?” My brother stabs potato salad onto his fork and shoots me a smirk.

I kick him again. Dickhead.

“Her name is…it’s…” I look at my mom, drawing a blank. “Genevieve.”

“Genevieve!” If it was possible for my mother, Genevieve, to perk up more, she does it. “Imagine if we had two named Genevieve in the family!” She gets up and flutters to the counter, opening the cabinet and grabbing a tea bag. Sets about brewing herself a cup, though it’s gorgeous outside and not even a bit chilly. “Genevieve and Genevieve Wallace!” she croons, smiling to herself with delight.

Genevieve? Tripp mouths. You’re an idiot.

Shut the fuck up, I mouth back.

“What are the odds?” Mom asks.

“Yeah, dipshit, what are the odds,” comes from my brother. “And don’t fucking kick me under the goddamn table.”

My mother gasps. “Boys! Watch your mouths!”

“He started it,” Tripp pouts, lips curled into a sardonic smile. “And his girlfriends name isn’t Genevieve. He made that up.”

Mom looks toward me, bewildered. “Why would you make that up?”

“He’s a dope, that’s why.”

I earn another concerned look from my mother while she prepares her tea at the counter. “Is there actually a girl, dear?”

My nod is slow. “Yes.”

“Well. Are you going to tell us her name—her actual one?”

“Her name is Hollis,” I finally supply, glaring at my brother.

Tripp sucks and he’s dumb.

“Hollis. That’s a beautiful name, tell us more about her.” Mom sits back down with her mug of tea, steam rising as she blows on the surface.

“Yeah, tell us more.” This from the jackass to my right.

“She’s younger than I am, but not by much…” I think. At least, she looked younger, but with women it’s hard to tell. “Feminine. Um…to be honest, I don’t know a ton about her.”

“Where did you meet her?”

“Uh…work.” At least that part is true.

Dad’s brows go up and he lowers his paper to stare at me. “Work?”

“I mean, she obviously doesn’t work there—she’s not like a ballplayer or anything. She was there doing something.”

My brother laughs, cocking his head to the side. “Really, Trace? She’s not a baseball player?”

Shut your face, my glare tells him.