by Sara Ney
True reaches over and swipes it away with a napkin, her finger skimming my freshly shaved skin.
Okay, okay, amigo, she’s just being polite. No need to get excited.
I raise my eyes to scan the room, determining her brothers—both of them—are occupied and at a safe distance, ergo I can continue flirting without dying at the hands of a Wallace boy.
“You’re very brave,” True continues. “You’re the only man in here tonight who’s come over to buy me a drink.”
“Well in my defense, it is an open bar.” The drinks are free and flowing, and on the house.
“Touché.” The sparkling cut glass is at her lips, but her eyes are staring directly at me, dark and smiling, filled with humor. “What position do you play?”
“Second base.”
One of her brows rises, and I wonder if there’s a sexual innuendo floating around in her head, or if her look is a figment of my imagination.
“Second base. I haven’t been there in years.”
Now I’m the one raising my brows, shocked, although why should I be surprised? Her brothers are both witty, wry assholes with on-the-spot comebacks that leave me speechless half the time.
“Are we still talking about baseball?” I venture slowly, not wanting to be a pervert.
Instead of answering, True gazes toward the dance floor, lips upturned, scanning and stopping, fixated on a woman in the corner.
“Have the journalists gotten to you yet?”
“Yeah—Summer Bellefonte already got my sound bite for the networks.”
There are sports affiliates at the wedding reception, magazines, newspapers, and sports channels who bid for the rights to Buzz and Hollis Wallace’s wedding photos.
“Maybe we shouldn’t be seen together—that will just fuel gossip, and that’s the last thing you need.”
Me? “What about you?”
“What about me?”
The way she says it—like she’s a nobody—has me speculating if she feels lost in her brothers’ shadow. It wouldn’t have occurred to me that a young woman would feel that way about her two famous brothers, but now I’m not so sure.
There’s no doubt that Buzz and Tripp Wallace are gods among the living. Even grown men feel paltry in comparison—I would know, because I see it on a regular basis. Rookies trying to impress Buzz. News reporters posturing while doing interviews, trying to make him look stupid. Unintelligent.
Good-looking. Rich. College educated.
It’s a recipe that reads like an aphrodisiac to some, and I imagine being their sister might make a young woman feel…
Lacking.
But staring down at True—she’s shorter by at least nine inches—I see nothing but a gorgeous woman with as much to offer as anyone else in her family.
I change the subject so it doesn’t get uncomfortable. “So those buffoons play sports,” I say, referencing her brothers. “What about you? What is it you do?”
“I work for a recruiting agency. College.” She doesn’t go into further detail, so I don’t pry.
“Really? That’s cool.”
“If you weren’t playing baseball, what would you be doing?”
That’s actually a question I get asked a lot, so I have an answer ready to go, grateful for the chance to show a more intellectual side of myself.
“If I wasn’t playing baseball, I’d be an architect.”
“Really?” Her response is common and expected—I think most people are expecting me to say something like “I’d be a detective.” or “I’d own a small business.”
“I do a lot of CAD drawings in my free time. I’m designing my own house.”
Her eyes get wide at that. “For real?”
I nod. “Si. De verdad.” For real.
“Did you know Buzz is into real estate? Not design, but remodeling and flipping? He loves it—does it all in the off-season.”
I did know that. “Maybe he and I should do a project together.”
One of her brows goes up again. “Maybe you should.”
“Do you like real estate, too, or is that just your brother?”
“I mean—I like having a place to live.” She laughs, not committing to the question or the conversation. “But no, houses aren’t really my thing. I like…” True pauses, gathering her thoughts, taking a sip of her drink to buy herself time. “I like antiques.” Pause. “And hiking.”
Hiking.
That I can do.
Not that she’s inviting me to go.
“What else do you like?”
True doesn’t hesitate to say, “The holidays.”
“Which one?”
“All of them!” She laughs. “Especially Galentine’s Day.”
Galentine’s Day? “What the fuck is that?”
“It’s Valentine’s Day but when you’re single and not dating anyone so you go out with your girlfriends.”
That makes sense. “You’d really get along great with my sisters.” I laugh.
“How many sisters?”
I take a chug of my Buzz. “Six.”
Her eyes get wide again. “Six!” Common response. “Where do you factor into that equation?”
“Second youngest. It’s been rough since the day I was born.” I search my brain for an embarrassing fact to share. “Mi madre was in a lot of weddings and she kept most of the bridesmaid dresses, so my sisters would put them on and put me in one. I didn’t realize I was a boy until I was like five.” Tonka truck? What’s a Tonka truck? “I have one sister who’s younger—Glory—and it sucks to be her because I’m the one who got all the attention as the only boy.” I puff out my chest. “Favorite child and all that.”
“Blah blah blah, says you,” True says with a sniff. She takes the pineapple slice from her cocktail and pops it into her mouth, chewing.
I watch her pouty, glossy lips.
“You don’t have to stand here and pretend to be interested,” she says at last, shocking me again with her candor.
“Pretend to be interested?” Is she insane? Delusional? So low on self-esteem she thinks I’m standing here out of some sense of obligation to her brother?
Luckily, I was raised with moody females and refuse to take this bait. I’ve seen it before, and it never ends well, so I ignore her pouting and power through.
“I was going to ask you the same thing. Weird, right?”
“Why would I have to pretend to be interested in you?” she counters.
“Well, let me see.” I hold out one finger, counting. “Everyone stereotypes me, assuming I am a confirmed bachelor who sleeps around. Which is false, but one of the downsides of my job. Women either love it or run the other way, fast.” Tick—another finger goes up. “Your brother and I are friends. Therefore, you’ve probably been warned to stay away from me.” Tick. “I’ve never had a long-term relationship, which some women think is weird.” Tick. “I don’t own my condo.” Tick. “I lease my cars.” Tick.
“Okay, okay, okay.” True implores me to stop. “Jeez, I didn’t need you to tell me all that. Besides…” She tosses her done-up, sleek, wavy hair. “None of those things make you a bad catch. Literally none of them.”
“They’re not exactly ringing endorsements, either.”
“So what? You don’t own your car—big deal.”
“Some people would argue that’s bad money management. Only the dealership makes money off of that deal.”
“Some people would argue that shelling out eighty thousand dollars for a sports car is stupidity, because now you have no liquid cash in the bank,” she reasons.
“Facts. Which is why I lease my cars, but try telling my father that.” He’d rather I drove a beat-up pickup truck like the one he used to drive when he was in construction and hauled concrete and masonry around, along with wheelbarrows and other tools.
Still drives it today, and no, I haven’t bought him a new one.
He’d be too proud to accept it if I did.
I did, however, pay off the mortga
ge on their house, which hardly makes me unique among professional athletes.
“Are there any actual things wrong with you? Committed any crimes? Been arrested? Broken too many hearts?”
“Zero arrests, zero crimes. Boring, I know. Not even a public indecency. Never hit a photographer, never jumped a paparazzi—although I’ve been tempted when their cameras get in my face.” I have to think a little more. “I shower my nieces and nephews with gifts, obey mi madre and padre, show up for dinner on Sundays when I can.”
“Wow. You’re a real loser,” she teases. “Why am I standing here talking to you?”
“For shame,” I flirt back. “But you’re the one who brought it up. Why shouldn’t I be standing here with you, other than the fact that your brothers are assholes? What’s wrong with you? Eleven toes? Low credit score? Get fired from all your jobs?”
“I’m the worst,” True says, flipping her hair again. “The absolute worst—a real-life monster.”
“Okay, you’re being sarcastic. But why say I don’t have to pretend to be interested?”
Yup, we’re doing this. Suddenly I want to know what her problem is, and why she’s warning me away.
“Is your family in the mob? Are they going to have me whacked for talking to you?”
That gets a laugh from her, and I notice she’s finished with her drink. “No. I think I was just feeling…”
A little bummed that your brother is getting married before you, and you’re happy for him but kind of sad, too?
I get it, True Wallace. I get it.
“What?” She’s staring at me with an odd expression, and I wonder…
“Shit. Did I say that out loud?”
Her nod is slow. “Uh, yeah—you did.”
Fuck.
“Christ, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
Another slow nod. “No, I mean—ouch. But also: yes? Yeah, I’m bummed, but happy, but sad? It’s weird, and I feel guilty for feeling this way.” She tilts her head to the side, hair falling over one shoulder, studying me anew. “How did you know?”
I shrug casually. “Six sisters.”
“Huh.” Still studying me. “Well. I see now that there’s been a benefit to that. I don’t ever…I haven’t…”
“Met any dudes this sensitive or in tune?” I’m peacocking and I know it’s kind of cocky, but I prop a foot up on the footrest attached to the bar, posing.
“Would you stop?”
Crap, I interrupted her stream of thought, and now I’m not going to hear her praises for my awesomeness.
“Sorry, you were saying?”
I know I hear from people all the time about how wonderful I am; yes, it’s people who stroke my ego, but for some reason this is different, because True is basically a stranger and has no reason to blow smoke up my ass. She wants nothing from me. She was born into this life; her brothers are famous. She is not a gold digger.
So whatever she was about to say is going to be sincere, and I need to hear what those words are.
I crave it.
“I was going to say I didn’t realize I’d be so emotional today. I love my brother—I look up to him. What is it about weddings that make people…”
“Want what they don’t have yet?”
“Yes.”
“Is this what you want?”
True’s dark eyes—I can’t tell if they’re brown or just a deep shade of something else—bore into me. She’s blinking those long, sooty lashes I’m convinced are the real thing.
“Some days I do, some days I don’t.”
“My sister Sophia was like that when she first started her career—she’s an attorney. When she passed the bar and got her first offer, she convinced herself she didn’t want a husband or a family because she wanted a career.”
True hangs on my every word.
“So when she met Mark, her now husband, she didn’t make it easy on him.”
“What do you mean?”
“She pushed him away. Made sure he knew her first priority was her job, that she wasn’t sure she wanted kids.”
“And?”
“And…” I hold my breath for theatrical effect. “Now they have four.”
“Four! Does she still work?”
“She made partner while she was pregnant with Daniel, her second.” I gesture for the bartender to bring us both another round. “One nanny, one cleaning lady, one husband who stays home. Regina is in high school, so someone has to make sure she’s staying out of trouble.”
True processes this. “Honestly, this isn’t exactly the lecture I was expecting when I said I was a little sad my brother is getting married, but thanks for those words of wisdom just the same.” She giggles.
“Oh.”
“Espinoza, man, you coming, or do you want us to let you sit here all day?”
“Huh?”
A voice jars me from my daydream, and I glance around at an empty room, our third base coach, Rick, standing next to the door with his finger on the light switch.
“Dude. We’re trying to shut ’er down. Let’s go.” He motions for me to get my ass up out of the desk chair.
I missed the entire lecture, but more importantly?
I missed the opportunity to convince Buzz to give me his sister’s number.
Not that he would have.
Still, it’s always worth a try, and I’m an athlete, not a quitter.
Five
True
“Okay. When Tripp walks in the door, he’s going to have dinner, and I’ll help him set it out while you change into like, sweatpants or something and take a shower or whatever, and I’ll see what kind of mood he’s in.”
I nod as Molly instructs me, my brother due to arrive home in less than an hour.
Our visit to the doctor lasted an hour, which turned into grabbing an afternoon snack at a bakery, which turned into popping into the mall to look at maternity clothes…
Can’t lie, Molly is a blast.
It’s easy to forget she’s a teenager, not even old enough to drive a car.
Speaking of which. “I know this is random, but when do you get your license?”
“Mmm, I have my temp, but behind-the-wheel hours are taking forever to accumulate because my parents are so busy and don’t trust me to drive with anyone but them. I mean, maybe your brother, but…”
“Have you asked Tripp to take you?” I can imagine how that would go, my brother white-knuckling the oh-shit bar on the passenger side of his truck, holding on for dear life.
Although, I have a strange feeling Molly will be a natural behind the wheel, and she’ll take it seriously, and be great at it.
I would take her to practice, but I’m pregnant—and, well, precious cargo and all that.
I think back to the stunned sensation of that positive pregnancy test, how horrified I was. The contrast to how I feel about it now is night and day.
And now my new best friend is a teenager with nothing but a temporary license to drive.
“What if he’s in a bad mood?” I ask, worrying my bottom lip.
“Oh, he will be.” Molly laughs, unclipping Chewy’s leash and hanging it on the hook behind the laundry room door. “The trick is not to really talk to him for a bit. Let him get settled.”
“Why are you both staring at me?” Tripp has sushi sticking out of his mouth, green wasabi stuck to the chopsticks he’s expertly clutching between two fingers.
“Are we?” I cannot believe he noticed.
“Yes, both of you.” He pokes at another piece of sushi, dipping it into soy sauce, then inhales it in one bite.
I love sushi—or used to, and had him grab cooked tempura, willing to try to eat it without puking. Or gagging.
Molly is busy slurping egg drop soup through her pursed lips, nudging me under the counter. Do it now. This is your perfect opening.
And go.
“Um.”
She sighs loudly, exasperated by my ineptness at spilling the beans, nudging me again.
I cl
ear my throat. “So. I can’t eat raw sushi.”
There’s a pause before Molly groans. “Oh jeez.”
What! I’m sorry I suck at telling my older brother I AM PREGNANT!
He is going to SHIT HIMSELF.
Yes, I’m shouting—at least in my head I am.
Freaking.
Out.
This is it. He knows something’s up, and now I have to spill my guts out. Thank God Molly is here because no way would I have the courage otherwise.
Not that I have any to begin with, but her presence helps.
“Why can’t you eat raw sushi?” Tripp hasn’t looked up at me yet, can’t see that I’ve picked apart my dinner, setting aside all the things I can’t stomach. “Eat something else then.”
“Yeah, True, why can’t you eat raw sushi?”
Shit, this is not going the way I planned.
What I should have done is gotten some pickles and ice cream or something and let him guess.
He never would have guessed. It would have gone straight over his head…
Balloons with babies on them? A banner announcing ‘Congrats, you’re going to be an uncle!?!’
Cake.
A cake would have been good.
Tripp likes cake.
“You’re staring again.” He holds out his plate, offering me a bite. “I hogged all the eel—did you want?”
No I don’t want eel!
I’m having a baby!
“Why do you look like you’re going to puke? Are you sick? You look sick.”
“I…”
Molly heaves another sigh. “I think your sister has something she wants to tell you.”
My brother sets down his chopsticks as if sensing the tone in the room has gotten serious, hands now folded in his lap, all attention on me.
Wow. He’s intense.
Patient.
Doesn’t say anything or ask me any questions. Just waits.
It’s jarring and disarming and has me squirming in the spot where I’ve been sitting. Except I can’t sit anymore. Nervous energy has me rising and walking to the fridge, cracking it open to reach in for a bottle of water.
I twist the top off and chug.
“You already have a water.” Tripp’s voice is quiet and not at all accusing.