Hard Luck

by Sara Ney

  “Yeah, I wouldn’t leave it alone. It’s like kid crack, and I was wild for it. She thought it was rude of me to down an entire bowl by myself when there were other people in the house.”

  True laughs. “I mean, she’s not wrong. But neither are you—chips and dip are life.”

  “Ugh, we have so much in common,” I tease flirtatiously. She’s so damn cute—I want to make out with her.

  I bet she’s hella snuggly.

  Of course, I don’t say this to her; she’d probably be insulted and want to kick my ass. But True Wallace wrapped in a blanket and cuddling? Yes please. How warm would that be?!

  “When’s the last time you dated?” I ask, getting a bit more personal.

  She tips her head in thought. “Mmm, I don’t know. A few months ago I went on a date with the coach for one of the college teams I recruit for.”

  “How did that go?” My posture is casual but my breath stalls, waiting for her reply.

  “It was fine.”

  Fine?

  Yikes.

  “Does he know it was just fine?”

  “Yes.” Another laugh. “I told him I wasn’t feeling it.”

  “You said that?!”

  “I did. He texted me from his car on the way home and asked, ‘Well what did you think?’ and I said, ‘I wasn’t feeling a romantic connection, but it was great catching up with you.’ He said ‘K’ and that was the end of it.”

  “K?”

  “Yes.” She laughs again. “Which we all know is a big old fuck you.”

  Hearing those dirty words coming out of her mouth…

  Muy caliente. So hot.

  “I seriously don’t know what I’d do if a woman told me she wasn’t feeling it. My dick would probably shrink three sizes and disappear inside itself.”

  True sputters on the drink she has raised to her mouth. “Your dick disappears inside itself? How?”

  “It’s called shrinkage.” I can’t believe I’m telling her this, but I’ve had a few drinks and I’m kind of a lightweight for a dude so big.

  She makes me nervous, and it’s starting to show.

  “Shrinkage?”

  “Yeah—never mind, forget I mentioned it.” The last thing I want is True Wallace visualizing my dick as a shriveled-up piece of prune cock; I need to shut my damn mouth.

  I’m an idiot.

  “Too late.” She giggles, sticking a slice of pineapple onto the tines of her fork and chewing the end of it. Juice escapes her mouth and slides down the side of her chin.

  Mmm, drool.

  Don’t care, still sexy.

  Methinks True Wallace could have a runny nose right now and I’d still think she was the sexiest thing in the room.

  It’s certainly not because I’m supposed to stay away from her, although it’s been ages since her brother warned me off.

  What he doesn’t know won’t hurt us.

  Harmless flirting, harmless fun.

  That’s what weddings are all about for us single folk, yeah?

  I swipe at the dribble with my forefinger, and she giggles again nervously. Licks her lips.

  Smiles.

  “Are you excited about going back to work?” she asks, chewing.

  “I wouldn’t use the word excited.”

  “What word would you use?”

  “I don’t know—resigned?” Work is work, and what’s the point when you have no one to come home to? When all your weekends are filled with idly lying on the couch, staring up at the television, texting your freaking SISTERS because you have no social life.

  I’m ready for a relationship.

  I’d venture to say I’m ready for a family of my own.

  It’s not strange that I’m thinking about kids; I have all those nieces and nephews already—I come from a big family. It’s preprogramed into my body to want children.

  I’ve sown my wild oats.

  I’ve made many mistakes, both on and off the field, in bed and out.

  “What do you mean by resigned? Like, you’re blah about it?”

  Exactly.

  “Pretty much. So I fly to Arizona, rent a place for the preseason, eat out because it’s just me. My family isn’t there, I don’t have a wife, I’m not dating, I hate meaningless sex.” I take a swig of my drink. “I learned the term demisexual a few months back, and I’ve realized that’s what I am.”

  The admission spills out of me.

  Her nose twitches. “What the heck is a demisexual?”

  I clear my throat for the definition. “It’s…when you’re more sexually attracted to someone after you’ve formed an emotional bond.”

  “Uh…you’re telling me you only like having sex with a woman after you’ve gotten to know her?” She’s snickering. “Yeah right.”

  “Why don’t you believe me?”

  True sizes me up, gaze lingering on my broad shoulders and the loosened tie around my neck. “Well for starters, you have women throwing themselves at you.”

  “So? That doesn’t mean my dick is available for free rides.”

  Shit.

  That sounded terrible.

  Stop saying dick, you idiot.

  “Men who are as good-looking as you are always sleep around.”

  “First of all, no we don’t.” Okay fine, I used to. “Second of all, you think I’m good-looking?”

  True’s snort is very unladylike. “Please, you know you are.”

  “Necesito más información.” Tell me more.

  “Huh?”

  “I said, tell me more.”

  Pfft. “I’m not going to pump your ego, thank you very much. You’re surrounded by plenty of people who will.”

  Not everyone is you. “I don’t give a shit about them.”

  “Every guy says that.”

  “No they don’t. Is your father a man-whore? No, he’s not. Is Tripp a man-whore? No, he’s not. My mother would kill me if I slept my way around Chicago. Kill. Me.”

  “Only if she found out.”

  “Trust me, mi madre has a way of finding out everything, probably because she has six spies working for her.” My sisters are snitches, each one worse than the next, tattling to gain our mother’s favor because in Hispanic culture, the approval of the matriarch is what we aspire to.

  Mom is the queen.

  The boss.

  Letting her down would be humiliating, and I’d do that by sticking my dick into every random woman who came on to me. Which I’ve done in the past—ugh. But those days are over. I’m a different person than I was last month.

  “Can we get back to the part where you think I’m good-looking?”

  True lowers her head, hiding a smile.

  “I saw that,” I tease.

  “Saw what?”

  “You smiled.”

  “Ha, no I didn’t.” She’s not smiling now, but she was, pearly white teeth and glossy lips. “You’re so full of yourself.”

  Far be it from me to point out the obvious, but, “You don’t even know me, so you can’t say I’m full of myself. You’ve spent half an hour in my company—have I been an asshole?”

  “No.”

  “Have I been rude or arrogant?”

  “No,” she admits reluctantly.

  “See? I’m not a bad guy, and also I’m a pretty decent dancer.”

  Her head tilts. “Hmm, that’s certainly true. What other moves do you have?”

  Our eyes meet, and my brows rise. Was that a challenge? It sounded like one, though I highly doubt she meant it to be. True doesn’t strike me as the type of girl who plays it coy; if she wants something, she’s going to come out and say it.

  No beating around the bush.

  If she wants a kiss, she’ll lean in.

  If she wants to be swept off her feet, she’ll tell me.

  What other moves do you have…what other moves…

  We’re buzzed.

  We’re at a wedding.

  She’s gorgeous, I’m fascinated, the atmosphere is ripe for me to swoop
in and plant one on her.

  What’s the harm in one little kiss?

  When my lips briefly touch hers and then I pull away, True’s fingers touch her mouth, fingers pressed to the spot where my lips were.

  I don’t apologize; I’m not sorry.

  Still, we both glance around guiltily as if we’ve done something wrong, searching for any displeased gazes, contemptuous stares from her family members.

  On the dance floor, there is a ruckus: Tripp Wallace is spread eagle on the hardwood with a crowd gathering around him, his mother hovering frantically.

  “What on earth…” True wonders out loud. “Now what’s he up to?”

  “Judging by the look on Chandler Westbrooke’s face, he pissed her off.”

  “Are you serious? Chandler is tiny—are you implying she had something to do with him ending up on the ground?”

  We find out later she did indeed flip True’s brother on his ass, the air in the room buzzing with new energy. A new romance brewing, perhaps, and not just the one between Chandler and Tripp?

  The strumming for another slow song begins, the first chords low and rich, and I hold my hand out in an invitation.

  She takes it.

  I spin her into my arms like Fred Astaire (probably not, but I feel so light on my feet it’s like I’m flying), and she settles in, one hand on my shoulder, another on my waist.

  “I feel like I’m at a high school dance,” she says at last.

  “Oh? Did you go to lots of those?”

  “Um, no—not really.” True lets out a laugh. “Having Tripp and Buzz as brothers was a freaking nightmare. Talk about cock-blockers. They ruined every chance I had when it came to my social life, terrified anyone who even thought about asking me out.”

  “I cannot see those two at a high school dance.”

  True’s head gives a diminutive shake. “They didn’t go—maybe once or twice, but barely. They were more into sports than girls, not that it mattered if they went to the dances or not. Once word got out that boys were supposed to leave me alone, I spent lots of time standing against the wall of the gym with my girlfriends.”

  “Aww, you poor thing.”

  Her mouth pouts. “I know, right? I used to think something was wrong with me. Turns out, those teenage boys were too chickenshit to ask me to dance because of my lame brothers.”

  Ha. Sounds like something I did to Glory, the only one of my sisters younger than me, and thus the only one I was able to lord anything over.

  “Are they always that overprotective?”

  “Yes. Always.”

  Shit.

  That’s not good.

  “If either of them had seen you kiss me, they would have torn your lips off.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “I wish.”

  “Then it’s a good thing they can’t read my mind…”

  I have to stop daydreaming long enough to pull up to the gates of my condominium complex and buzz myself through the gate, careful to pay attention to avoid running over any pedestrians with my car.

  I check my phone again, just in case.

  Nothing.

  True: Sure, I think getting together is a good idea.

  My heart races at the sight of her name, at the fact that she’s messaging me back—finally!

  Me: I’m sorry—who is this?

  True: This is True. True Wallace?

  Thump-thump goes the heart in my chest.

  Me: I know, I’m totally joking—I know exactly who this is. I’ve been waiting four days for you to message me back.

  True: Sorry, I was just…

  Me: Busy?

  True: No. Nervous.

  Me: At least you’re being honest.

  The text bubbles appear, then disappear from the chat, and I stare at my glowing screen. Why isn’t she saying anything back? It’s been forty-five seconds!

  I close the chat and busy myself by opening the email app. Silence my phone so I don’t rush to reply like a loser when it dings, checking and checking to see if she’s responded.

  I fight the urge to message her again, a million things I want to say to her racing through my mind. God forbid I look needy.

  True: How does next week work for you?

  My heart races.

  Me: Sí. Yeah, that totally works. I’m free all week, super flexible. Just let me know when you want to get together.

  That.

  Did.

  Not.

  Sound.

  Chill.

  At.

  All.

  Jesus, Mateo, simmer down—she hasn’t said she’s going to marry you. She said she had time to get together.

  It’s not a date.

  Wait…why isn’t this a date?

  You idiot, you didn’t ask her on a date—you said you wanted to talk.

  Didn’t you?

  I scroll back up to read the first messages I sent and comb through the words, looking for the key word—date—and coming up blank.

  I would like to see you.

  Ugh.

  I would like to take her out! Goddamn, I’m an idiot—I’m going to blow my chance with her. It sounds like I’m sticking her in the friend zone.

  Actually, no. Correction: she’s putting ME in the friend zone.

  There’s got to be a way to get out.

  Nine

  True

  Why does Buzz suddenly keep stopping by Tripp’s house?

  It’s as if he knows.

  Just like Chewy, he’s been sniffing around me all week, dropping by without warning, interrupting my work, pretending to do things around the house.

  “I do not need curtains put on these windows!” I’m shouting at him as he uses a level to screw in an anchor so he can hang a pole. “Did Tripp tell you to come over?”

  “Tripp doesn’t have time to wipe his own ass, let alone put curtains on these windows. How are you supposed to get any rest with the sun beating down on you first thing in the morning?” He has a screw in his mouth, ready to put it into the anchor. “See, this is the kind of service I provide. You really should consider moving out and into my place.”

  I set my laptop aside and gawk. “Is it seriously bothering you that I’m living here? You’re busy getting ready for spring training and the upcoming season, and I feel bad you’re fussing so much…”

  He ignores my comment, glancing down at me from the ladder he’s balancing on. “Living here? I thought this was temporary.”

  “Ugh! You know what I mean! The point is, you’re always freaking competing with Tripp—when are you going to grow up?”

  Moron.

  “Competing with Tripp? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Of course he says this as he’s drilling holes into a wall that does not belong to him, in a house that does not belong to him, completely uninvited.

  The drill bleats out shrilly, drywall dust falling to the ground.

  “Where did these curtains even come from?” They’re navy blue blackout shades that do not match the bedding in this guest room.

  “I took them off the window in one of my guest rooms.”

  My mouth falls open. “Hollis is going to kill you.”

  “No she won’t—she won’t even notice. Besides, she’s been wanting to redecorate the upstairs since she moved in, and this will give her an excuse.” He pauses, twisting his body around to look down at me. “Can you make me a sandwich?”

  Is he freaking serious?

  “No! Make your own damn sandwich.”

  “I was just asking! There was a fifty-fifty chance you’d say yes, jeez.” My brother pauses. “Want to go grab lunch?”

  I cock my head, considering his question. “Wait—did you come over here to talk me into having lunch?”

  He doesn’t reply, just keeps measuring and screwing.

  “Trace Wallace, you are not putting holes in our brother’s wall as some pretense to lure me out of the house!”

  He turns again, hands and drill in the air. “Wha
t! If I had just asked you to lunch, you would have said you were working. I had to have an alibi.”

  Oh my god. “You’re putting holes in Tripp’s wall! You are horrible!”

  “The holes are gone, see.” Buzz moves out of the way so I can get a load of his handiwork, the holes he drilled now filled with metal brackets, suspended above the window facing the street.

  “You are unbelievable.”

  He starts his descent from the ladder. “So does that mean you’re going to come grab lunch with me?”

  “Only if you don’t ask a ton of questions. I’m not in the mood.”

  But I could go for some soup. And salad. And maybe some breadsticks brushed with butter and dipped into alfredo sauce?

  Yeah. Lunch definitely sounds good, but we’re not going somewhere he can get a damn sandwich.

  Fool.

  My brother drives me to an Italian place, and I order enough food to sustain us for a year, doubtful I’ll eat half of it but sure am gonna try.

  He watches me while I fork lettuce onto my plate, my mouth watering. Nom.

  “I’m not going to ask why you’re staying with Tripp and not me.”

  I sigh loud enough to wake the dead and sit back in my chair. “Oh, here we go again. Do you ever let up? You’re like an old woman, nag nag nag.”

  “I’m just wondering why you’re staying with Tripp, that’s all. I’m curious, sue me.”

  “You’re not curious, you’re jealous—and I already told you, he’s never around and I like peace and quiet. I don’t need you breathing down my neck. Chandler is hardly around either, so it’s just me and the dog.”

  And sometimes Molly.

  “What about your girlfriends? Where are they? Why aren’t you staying with them?”

  I stare at my brother. “Would you prefer I stay with one of them instead of Tripp so you don’t feel so butthurt about it?”

  He scoffs, and I have my answer.

  “For your information, my old roommates aren’t an option. Winnie moved in with her boyfriend after we were evicted, and Monica moved in with her parents.” Happy now?

  Buzz shakes his head, disbelieving. “I still can’t believe you got fucking evicted. That is some bullshit right there.”

  Not really. Not since we weren’t paying the rent on time.

  “I could have fixed up a place for you. I wouldn’t have anything furnished, but at least you’d have a place all to yourself if what you want is privacy.”