You shut your face, his says back.

I hate you, mine says.

But I don’t. I just hate being put on the spot and don’t want to disappoint our mother, which seems to be a common theme with me. Well, Tripp too—between the pair of us, the chances of my parents having grandbabies is looking slimmer and slimmer by the day.

Tripp is a moody asshole who scares women off with his bad attitude and me? Well. Smart women don’t take me seriously, because I’m not serious enough.

So, I get stuck “dating” women I would never bring home to Mom, and Tripp doesn’t date at all. I wonder when was the last time the fucker got laid. Maybe that’s his problem—sperm retention.

The truth is, I’m trying.

I’m just not sure how to change—I’ve been at this single game so long. Never had a long-term girlfriend; never had time. I busted my ass to get myself into the major leagues. I may have gotten a scholarship to play baseball in college, but I never got any offers during the MLB draft. Instead, I got an offer afterward, as a free agent, and spent a few years in the farm leagues, busting my ass in the heat some more to prove myself.

Then, I was called up, by the grace of God, and I haven’t looked back—nor have I invested a single minute into my personal life. My team keeps me plenty occupied; my friends keep me sane. If I want sex, that’s easy enough—all I have to do is chat someone up at a bar or on an app.

Lately though, no strings attached is beginning to feel hella lonely.

And there’s that part about disappointing my parents. Sure, I may be an ass kisser and I may try to show my brother up every damn day of my life, but part of me wants a family of my own too, despite myself and my lifestyle. Sooner than later.

Before my balls shrivel up.

“Trace, sweetie?”

“Huh?” I realize I was zoning out based on the curious stares around the table. “Sorry.”

Mom gives me an affectionate smile—which is more than I can say for Dad and the dickhead—letting the topic of girls go so we can move on with our lunch without the endless arguing.

I sigh, not looking forward to the ride home.

4

Hollis

“How do you talk me into these things?” I snatch sushi off a passing tray from a wandering server and stuff it in my mouth whole. Scan the area for the server with the alcohol, knowing I’ll probably need to be buzzed to get through the next hour or two.

That’s the max amount of time I told Madison I’d be willing to spend in this godforsaken room, with these stuffy people, for yet another hoity-toity fundraiser.

“It’s for a great cause. Stop whining or you’ll sound ungrateful.”

“Ungrate—” I stop. Am I? God I hate when she’s right. I do sound ungrateful, but she has no idea what it’s like having to go to so many fundraisers your whole life.

Shit. That sounded ungrateful, too.

“Can you try smiling?” My best friend pokes me in the rib cage with her bony elbow. “You look terrifying.”

I smile, gritting my teeth. “Better?”

“Now you look like you’re trying not to shit your pants.”

Jeez. She is the worst. “Remind me again why I brought you tonight?”

“Correction.” She lifts a finger in the air then snatches a glass of champagne off another wandering tray. “I brought you—you did not want to come.”

“I don’t know why my presence here was required. You seem to be doing just fine on your own.”

And she is; she hardly needs me to stand here bringing down her mood. Madison has spoken to more men in the short time we’ve been here than I have in an entire week! She’s not messing around; she wants to date an athlete and she’s probably going to leave here with her talons sunk into one.

“They’re all married,” she pouts. “And the few who aren’t won’t break away from the herd. What is it with men and huddles?”

“How do you know they’re all married? Half of them aren’t.” I know this for a fact; the organization keeps statistics on its players, and I’ve seen the data.

“Because I keep getting rejected. Duh.”

While it’s true that my best friend is stunning, her overt confidence occasionally does keep men from biting. An alpha with sharp wit and no filter, it takes a special person to “handle” Madison’s special brand of outgoing.

I tiptoe around her daily, and we’ve been friends for years.

“Maybe…lay off the charm, okay? Try to enjoy yourself.” She’s the one who wanted to come, so I don’t understand why she’s so irritated. “Which reminds me, how long are you going to force me to stand here?”

“No one is forcing you to stand there. You’re free to move about the space.” She nibbles on a small shortbread cookie she got off the dessert table. “Give me a few more minutes to eat lunch then we can go. I don’t want to have to go grocery shopping later.” Her eyes roam the crowd lazily, interested. Taking in this man and that. His WAG. The spouses of executives and community members. A few players from other teams, not just the Steam. Pretty sure some members of the football team are here, too, and I think Dad will regret missing out on this crowd.