I rented it a few months back from Hollis when I knew I’d be back in Chicago though I couldn’t move anything in yet. It had to be cleaned, guest bedroom carpet replaced, a few odds and ends fixed.

The usual.

The unit is three streets over, with an alley for convenience (a rarity in the city), so the guys won’t be standing in the street with cars zooming by, honking, people shouting while they try to load boxes into the truck.

Thank god—I can’t imagine what an ass Buzz’s brother would be if people were yelling at him to move his freaking truck so they could pass. I can hear it now: “You’re blocking the street!”

I grimace at the thought.

“Of course we want to help!” Hollis is cheery, sipping on her coffee and nibbling on a donut. Her fiancé looks cheerful, too, so the little bit of guilt I was feeling fades.

“She promised she’d blow me later if I didn’t complain,” Buzz announces nonchalantly, opening each cabinet and looking for a—“Where are your cups?”

I gawk at him, at the way he so casually mentions my cousin giving him a blow job later in exchange for his help at my new townhouse.

Is this what athletes are like?

“I haven’t unpacked them yet. They’re probably still in the storage unit.”

Buzz walks back to the counter, swipes two donuts from the box, and stuffs one in his mouth. Slaps his brother on the back. “Let’s get cracking so we can finish up early and watch the game.”

“I’m playing in the game, idiot.”

Buzz rolls his eyes. “It’s not even a division game, it’s preseason,” he informs me. “Let’s get cracking so you can get to the stadium on time to play in the game.” He kisses my cousin on the lips. “You stay here—we’ll go empty the unit and be back in half an hour.”

He snatches the key from the counter while his brother grumbles under his breath.

“It’s still a game and it’s still televised, dick.”

Alrighty then…

I watch as the brothers continue to volley insults back and forth, my cousin ignoring them both, as if this happens all the time.

They insult each other all the way out my front door and down the steps, can be heard bitching and moaning and lobbing slurs until the sound of two slamming truck doors and dual truck engines roar to life.

“Are they always like that?” I ask my cousin, moving to close the door behind them.

“They’re being polite in front of mixed company.” She laughs, taking a dainty bite of her pink glazed donut. “Sometimes I don’t know what to do with myself when they start in on each other.”

“Their poor mother.”

“That’s what I always say! They also have a sister—you’ll meet her at the rehearsal dinner—who’s just as bad.”

“And you love it,” I say, sidling up to the small counter in my kitchen.

“And I love it,” she agrees, blushing. “I love everything about how they’re a family of lunatics. I love how they act like they can’t stand each other, but they spend all their free time together. Tripp is Trace’s best friend. He says it’s Noah Harding, his teammate, but the truth is, it’s his brother.” She licks her frosting. “I cannot wait to hear his speech at the wedding—it’s going to be terrible.”

Terrible? Why would she say that? “How do you know?”

One of her perfectly manicured brows goes up. “This is Tripp Wallace we’re talking about. He probably doesn’t realize he has to do a best man speech at dinner—he’s going to be caught off guard, say something stupid, then their mom is going to be furious and it’s going to be amazing.” She gives me a once-over. “Come to think of it—Tripp is single.”

“No.” I laugh.

“Why? He’s adorable!”

Yeah—adorable in a grizzly, I-hate-everyone sort of way. If you’re into that sort of thing, he would be the guy.

“He’s not my type,” I lie. Physically, from what I’ve gleaned of him, Tripp Wallace is most definitely my type. Tall. Gorgeous and in great shape. Dark hair, dark eyes. Giant biceps for carrying my boxes. Huge hands he used to push his brother out the door with…

“Don’t lie to me. I’ve seen the guys you’ve gone out with.”

She’s not wrong—I love athletes. Maybe not professional ones, though. College boys are less intimidating and it’s not as if none of my father’s players have hit on me in the past. They definitely have, but I never felt like it was sincere; it was a way into the family.

I haven’t made the same mistakes Hollis has—I have never dated any players.

I like to window-shop but have never bought the goods.

“You should show him your moves later,” my cousin is saying, still picking at the donut I wish she’d just shove in her mouth and eat already. Jesus, who nurses a donut this long? Bite into it!