“Shouldn’t you get permission to leave with a stranger?”

“I texted them already. My parents both work late tonight.”

Of course they do. How convenient.

I look straight ahead until we’re on the main road then finally acknowledge that she had something she wanted to discuss.

“So? What’s the thing?”

The kid has her hands in her lap, fingers laced together, index fingers in a steeple. I’m surprised they’re not pressed to her chin, as deep in thought as she is.

“I think we should tell Tripp you’re pregnant.”

There’s that ‘we’ again. “And how do you think he’s going to react?”

Molly considers this. Opens her mouth, then shuts it. Opens it again. “It’s not about what he thinks—it’s about you. It’s not healthy for you to have this secret and no support.” She glances over at me. “I do not count—I’m only in tenth grade.”

That almost makes me laugh.

“Have you told any of your girlfriends?” the kid asks, prying deeper into my personal business.

No. “I will. Eventually.”

“Why not?”

Because, kid, once my friends know, they’re going to bombard me with questions, start planning baby showers and gender reveals, and want to shop and demand information on Mateo Espinoza and stalk him online and probably harass him.

They’re going to assume he’s a piece of shit when in reality, I’m the one who…

I’m the one…

“I’m taking it one day at a time.”

She’s quiet again, the only sound in my car from the radio. “Well. I think you should tell Mr. Wallace and Chandler. You’re going to get stressed out, and that’s not good for your body or the baby.”

Who is this kid?

What is this sorcery?

Is this why Tripp keeps her around?

I’m silent, assuming she isn’t finished having her say.

“What’s the harm in telling your brother? At least you won’t have to lie and sneak around his house anymore. Eventually he’s going to catch you when you’re sick, and you can’t keep losing contacts on the floor.”

True.

So very true.

“Mr. Wallace is way cooler than you give him credit for,” she tells me with authority.

“Oh? Is he now?”

Molly shrugs and admits, “No, not really.”

We both laugh at that.

“I didn’t think so.”

I remember this conversation so I can repeat it to him later, wondering if he’ll be as amused as I am right now.

“Chandler makes him cool.” The teenager is watching out the window as we pass the mall. “He’s lucky to have her. He almost blew it.”

I can’t imagine what it would be like to date one of my brothers—either of them. They’re such…assholes sometimes. Then again, maybe I just feel that way because I’m the baby sister who had to tolerate pranks and fighting and bickering and the competitiveness.

That’s one of the reasons I went into the sports industry, too. As much as I hate to admit it, I didn’t want to be left out of the excitement. I wanted to have something in common with them both. I wanted my parents to be as proud of me as they are of Trace and Tripp.

Of course, what could possibly compare to having two world-class athletes in the family?

Certainly not a daughter who “just” works for a sports agency and who hasn’t made it to the top of the corporate ladder. Plus, my brothers’ connections helped land me the job in the first place—I didn’t even secure the position on my own.

I know, I know, we’re all completely different people. But how could they not compare us? How can they not be more proud of one than the other? It’s not my fault I wasn’t born a man—not my fault I wasn’t blessed with much athletic talent.

I played soccer but was never good enough to play past high school, no matter how much heart I gave it.

So, I majored in sports management in college, following in my brothers’ footsteps by at least attending the same school. They’re older than me, but not by much; we were all there at the same time for at least one school year.

I was a freshman and Buzz was a sophomore while Tripp was a senior.

Both of them entered the draft as soon as they were eligible.

Neither of them would let me attend the same parties, though, and anyone who even thought about dating me was hunted down and scared off by the Wallace duo, because they always made everything about them.

I was just their little sister.

It sucked.

It was amazing.

It was both at the same time.

“Alright smarty-pants, how do you suppose I tell my brother I’m pregnant?”

Molly must have already given this some consideration, because it doesn’t take her long to respond. “I say you just tell him. Like, sit him down and just take a seat at the counter and say it. He’ll suspect something if you, like, wanna go for dinner or whatever.”

Yeah, he would suspect something if I tried to surprise him with the news.