Hard love, p.23
Hard Love, page 23
Both of us?!
I shield my face with a hand as I die inside, Tripp beginning a long string of curses I don’t dare repeat, clearing his throat and reaching for his ball cap. He lowers the brim to cover his forehead. Unfortunately, there is no disguising this man—plus, there’s no doubt the cop has run the plates and already knew exactly who he was before approaching the vehicle.
Shit, shit, shit.
Tripp cracks the back door open. “Is that really necessary?”
“Sir.” The cop shifts on his heels. “It’s the middle of the day and you’re engaging in a sexual act in a residential area. I’m going to need you both to step outside.” He continues to be matter-of-fact and blunt, straight-faced and serious, hat shielding his eyes and his agitated expression.
He’s just doing his job, and here Tripp is, arguing with him.
“You don’t recognize me?” Tripp has the balls to ask the cop through the gap in the door, the cop who’s watching every move we’re making so we don’t do something shady. “I play for the Blues.”
Oh my god!
“Good for you.” The cop’s expression is blank. “I ran your plates and they’re clean, but I’m going to need some form of identification from yourself and your companion.”
Your companion.
As if I’m a…a…
Paid escort.
“If you ran my plates and know who I am, why do you need to see my identification?”
This police officer isn’t playing around, leveling Tripp with a blank stare, raising his brows and clenching his jaw.
“I need to see valid identification with your face on it, sir.”
I smack my date on the arm, muttering, “Stop arguing, jeez.”
“Okay, but why does he need us outside? We were just fucking, Jesus.”
Fumbling with my top, I glance at the back window then out the front, scanning the street for photographers, dreading the moment I have to step outside onto the sidewalk.
“Um, officer?” I spy my purse in the front seat, the one with my wallet and ID in it. “My bag is on the floor—can I grab it?”
Yes.
When we’re both curbside, we’re separated, Tripp in front of the vehicle, me in the back, the officer making his way over to speak to me.
“Ms. Westbrooke, how do you know this person?”
“Um…we’re dating.” I think? I mean, are we actually dating dating, or do I tell the cop we’ve only been on a few dates and so far it’s nothing serious? Shoot.
“How long have you known Mr. Wallace?”
“A few weeks? Since my cousin’s wedding—she married his brother, Buzz Wallace. Um, Trace is his actual name, Buzz is his nickname,” I babble nervously, stopping before I blurt out that I currently have a sports sock stuffed between my legs to prevent cum from dripping down the inside of my thighs.
“And where were you prior to arriving at this location?”
“We were having lunch at Café Louis near Washington Park.”
A nod. “Just so we’re very clear—this was consensual?”
Ah, now I get it. He’s asking to make sure I wasn’t banged against my will.
“Yes.”
“Ma’am, I’m going to need you to say it in your own words.”
Lord, if my cheeks were any hotter I would swear it was the middle of a summer heatwave.
“Yes sir, it was consensual.” How on earth I manage that sentence with a straight face is entirely beyond me, my gaze still scanning the perimeter. “Sorry if I seem distracted—he plays football and if a paparazzi gets our picture and splashes it across the internet, I will literally die a thousand deaths.”
“That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?” the cop asks, hands on his hips, countenance remaining stalwart. “This is considered a misdemeanor and I could issue a ticket to both of you. However, considering you seem like a nice couple, I’m going to let you off with a warning.”
My body sags with relief; pretty sure tickets are considered public records, making it damn easy for any meddling media to dig and make that information public. A public relations and personal nightmare for both of us.
“You cannot be engaging in this behavior in a residential area,” the officer continues, pointing down the block. “There’s a school a few blocks away—if your boyfriend is famous, he should know better than this.”
I nod, embarrassed, wondering if this is the exact spiel he’s about to give Tripp, down to the guilt trip about the school on the next block. How the heck were we supposed to know?!
“Yes sir.” I pause. “Um, can I get back in the truck now?”
“Once I speak to Mr. Wallace, you’ll both be free to go, but I’ll have to ask you to wait right here, please.”
He bows his head and saunters at a leisurely pace to the front of the truck, to the spot where Tripp leans casually against the hood, arm resting, watchful eyes boring into me.
They exchange words, a few of Tripp’s a bit too loud.
“Yes we’re actually dating.”
“She is not a hooker if that’s what you’re implying.”
Then, “Listen, officer, we had lunch and thought it would be fun to bang one out before she has to return to work. That is all, end of story.”
“Yes, I realize this is a terrible spot to have parked.”
I lean into their conversation and catch the cop say, “When I walk away, I’m going to need you to get back in your truck and leave, and then I’ll pull out.”
Tripp nods.
“You know,” the officer goes on, “I always thought when I met a famous ballplayer, it would be under different circumstances.” He’s shaking his head. “Guess I’ve seen it all.”
Tripp: I can’t stop thinking about that sock between your legs.
Me: That’s all you have to say? I’m still traumatized from this afternoon. Trauma-TIZED.
Tripp: You didn’t find any of that exciting?
Me: Um NO. Not even a little bit. Did YOU?
Tripp: Yes. My life has been pretty goddamn boring up until the last few weeks.
Me: The only thing that could have made today any worse would be finding out that cop sold his vest-cam footage to the tabloids. Can you imagine how much that would go for?
Tripp: Lol. Plenty I imagine.
Tripp: Hey, how’s that gym sock?
Me: **gags** The sock was sweaty and gross!!!
Tripp: I’m never washing it.
Me: Are you saying…you want THE SOCK BACK???
Tripp: Yes.
Me: That is SO. GROSS. Why did you have to tell me that? **gags again but this time into a brown paper bag**
Me: Too late, I threw it in the trash.
Tripp: You threw my sock away!??? Why the hell would you do that—it was a perfectly good sock!
Me: It was covered in come!
Tripp: **cum
Me: Oh my god, stop it right now.
Tripp: I was going to wear those to my next game! They’re my good luck socks now. Are you still at work? I’m coming over to dig through your trash.
Me: Don’t you dare!
Tripp: Too late, I’m already in my car on my way over.
Me: You are not…
Tripp: Prove I’m not.
Me: Wait. It’s the middle of the afternoon—shouldn’t you be at practice?
Tripp: Yes, but I stuffed my phone down the front of my pants so I could flirt with you. Don’t tell anyone.
Tripp: In fact, I should have you sign an NDA so you don’t sell my flirting to the tabloids.
Me: You mean if the police officer hasn’t done it first.
Tripp: Please, do you think we’re the first people he’s busted fucking on the side of the road? Betcha it happens a few times a week, but like, usually with prostitutes.
Me: Yes, I felt SO embarrassed.
Tripp: You don’t actually think he thought you were a hooker, do you?
Me: Maybe just a little…
Tripp: Chandler. Babe. He had your driver’s license and everyone in the city of Chicago knows who the Westbrooke family is.
Me: Somehow that doesn’t make me feel better! **cries**
Tripp: You’re cute when you think you’re getting arrested. You should have seen your face when he asked if the sex was consensual.
Me: We can’t all just casually lean against the vehicle like we’re waiting for a tow truck, TRIPP.
Tripp: LOL that is not how I looked.
Me: Yeah—ya did. Just chilling, no big deal. Don’t think I didn’t catch you nodding at the man jogging with his dog.
Tripp: I’M FRIENDLY—what did you expect me to do?
Me: NO, YOU ARE NOT. You are actually not at all friendly.
Tripp: LOL
Me: Circling back around to the non-disclosure—honestly, I would sign one if you wanted me to.
Tripp: I don’t want you to, I was only kidding.
Me: But real quick, say something juicy just so I can take a screenshot and use it as blackmail material.
Tripp: Something juicy.
Me: Wow. You’re a comedian now, too!
Tripp: I can be funny when I want to be. My brother usually always has to hog the attention.
Me: Aww, you poor, poor baby.
Tripp: It’s about time someone felt sorry for me.
Me: I DO NOT FEEL SORRY FOR YOU.
Tripp: Um, why are you yelling?
Tripp: Hey, I ended up grabbing you and my family a box for Saturday—you’re still coming right?
Me: Yup. I’m ironing my Blues jersey as we speak.
Tripp: Oh yeah? Whose number is on the back?
Me: I don’t know, I think number 12? It says Butler.
Tripp: You’re dead to me, goodbye.
Me: Not even a kiss on the cheek before you go?
Tripp: I said good day, sir!
Twenty-One
Chandler
I wasn’t lying when I told Tripp my Blues jersey has the name Butler on the back—but that’s only because I had to borrow it from my friend Jennifer, who I went to college with and who lives in the city, too.
They’re expensive!
I wasn’t raised to be a football fan growing up. I was raised to be loyal to the Chicago Steam, the family dynasty and all that bull crap.
The jersey is for a woman (not a man), fitted and cute with the jeans I threw on and tucked into boots. I’m not sure how much makeup to put on, or how to style my hair, considering I’m watching the game with Mr. and Mrs. Wallace.
I’m so nervous I can barely eat, waiting curbside for the cab to pick me up and take me to the stadium so I can meet them there.
Ticket in purse.
Warm winter coat.
Stadium-approved purse.
Check, check, check.
I hit the lights of the townhouse before heading out and locking up, taking the steps jauntily with more enthusiasm than I feel.
Having plans with Tripp is one thing; having them with his parents is another entirely.
Mrs. Wallace is always full of questions; what if she asks me something I don’t know how to answer? Or what if I say something stupid and she repeats it to her son? What if she reads more into things than what they actually are and gets her hopes up?
I am not daughter-in-law number two!
I am also not on time.
The crowd roars from inside the stadium, echoing in the night, filling me with that familiar adrenaline rush I used to feel when I was younger and felt less pressure to fit in with my parents, cousins, aunts, and uncles. When games were just games to me and not a money-making machine.
Games were about hot dogs and popcorn and the occasional soda I was only allowed to have when we sat in the stands—usually with my nanny.
I stand in line at security while they riffle through my tiny purse then hop into a different line to gain entry. Weave my way to the suite level, quelling my nerves by placing a hand on my stomach.
When I reach the room we’re watching the game in, Genevieve Wallace greets me with a welcome so enthusiastic it startles me, her cheerful and loud “There she is!” causing heads to turn from the crowded hallway.
“Hi! Sorry I’m late—the traffic was terrible.” I hang my jacket in the small coat closet, remove my scarf and mittens. “I’m so sorry,” I apologize again.
“We’re so glad you came!” She ignores my apologies and rushes over to hug me. “Aren’t we so glad she’s here, Roger?” Tripp’s mom smacks her husband on the arm until he shifts his gaze from the playing field below to me.
“Uh, sure.” It takes him a few seconds to register that it’s me, lost in his game day daze. “Oh, hey Chandler.” Mr. Wallace blinks. “For a second there I thought you were Hollis.”
“We just love her so much.” Mrs. Wallace has her arm around me, gushing about my cousin. “I love having another girl in the family—not that we don’t adore our True, but it’s so fun having an even number. Imagine if we outnumbered the boys and had control over the TV on Sundays.” She cackles out a laugh, as if that’s the sneakiest thing she could think of inflicting on the men in her life.
“Are you hungry?”
I am. “Starving!”
“Let’s get you some food,” she enthuses, eager to please, ushering me to the kitchenette that comes with each suite. The spread is mouthwatering: platters of carved meat, cheeses, fruit, dips and chips, hot dogs and buns, salads, and desserts.
I’m blissfully loading chips onto a plate and salsa into a small bowl, adding guac, pretzels, and queso while Genevieve fills two plastic cups with wine from a nearby bottle.
I add pasta salad and two cookies, eyes bigger than my stomach. But a girl’s got to eat and this one hasn’t had a meal all day.
Once I’m done, instead of sitting at one of the little tables set up in the room, we make our way to the three rows of stadium seats.
Giant, panoramic glass separates us from the harsh, cold fall weather, but the view is incredible.
Gorgeous.
The Chicago Blues football field stretches out below us, surrounded by row upon row of seating, lights, and people. Screaming fans, dressed for winter.
Lord I’m glad I’m not sitting in the stands; I’d be freezing my ass off.
When Mrs. Wallace and I plunk down in our seats, she hands me a plastic cup of wine.
“Here honey, you might need this for your nerves. You’re going to want alcohol in your system for the first hit he takes.” She tips her cup forward and drinks. “This is my second, though I’m still anxious as all get-out.”
My eyes go down to the field; it’s a fantastic view, but we’re so far up the men look like ants, impossible to distinguish from this vantage point.
Luckily, there’s a flat-screen television monitor in each corner of the room broadcasting the game, and within seconds, I spot Tripp Wallace on the sidelines, hands stuck inside a hand warmer.
Tight blue pants. Wide, padded shoulders. Helmet tipped back so an assistant can squirt water into his mouth from a bottle.
Holy hell he looks good.
Like a man’s man, only…mine? Maybe?
As I continue eating, Mrs. Wallace chats away beside me, and I keep one eye on her, one on the game below. She’s telling me more about Buzz and Hollis’s honeymoon, the new grill she and her husband bought for BBQing on game days that are out of town, and the dog they’re thinking of getting.
She tells me about what Tripp was like as a teenager.
“Oh that boy has always taken everything so seriously. I don’t know where that comes from—Roger and I can certainly take a joke. Trace and his sister can too, so I don’t know why our oldest is so serious.” She sips her wine, and I take a dainty sip of mine. “And of course the girl thing…I think he was sixteen by the time he discovered what those were.”
“Did he date?”
“No—those poor high school girls couldn’t even get him to take them to the dance, not for lack of calling. Oy if our phone wasn’t ringing off the hook.”
Roger Wallace sits in the row ahead of us, glued to the game, but glances back every so often.
“There was one time a young woman named Cara stopped by the house—we lived in town near enough to the school so kids would pop in from time to time, mostly boys.” Sip, sip of wine. “Well Cara comes to the door, and Tripp happens to be home, and she has made him a lovely cake in the school’s colors—red and black—and hands it to him when he comes to the door.”
“What did he say?”
“He said, ‘What’s this for?’ And Cara replied, ‘I wanted to wish you luck in your game this weekend.’ Then he handed it back to her and said, ‘I don’t need luck.’ And came back inside the house.”
“He just left her standing outside?”
Sip sip. “Yes, on the porch in the cold. Shut the door on her. As a mother, I didn’t know what on earth to do—go back out and apologize for my rude son? Take the cake? Lecture him about being kind? It was all very horrifying.”
That sounds exactly like the Tripp I know and the number one reason I laid him out on the ground at the wedding.
For him, talking to a woman like a normal human being is foreign, but he has to learn he can’t just blurt out whatever comes to mind. I can’t imagine how shitty poor Cara must have felt getting rejected by a teenage Tripp Wallace.
What a little asshole he must have been. Cocky, arrogant, and full of himself.
Gee, not much has changed.
I chuckle to myself—I’d never say that out loud to his mother!
“I bet he was cute, huh?”
“So handsome. I’ll have to show you some pictures next time you’re at the house.” Mrs. Wallace slyly glances over. “Not to make any assumptions, of course, but Roger and I can’t believe our babies are finally settling down.”
“Tripp hasn’t brought any women around?”
“No—lord heavens no! I think he’s dated one or two. Or his publicist set the dates up. We’re not really sure because his personal life is not something he talks about. But we’ve been able to pry a thing or two out of him about you.” She nudges me with the point of her elbow. Wink-wink, sip.
Genevieve lets out a loud, contented sigh, smiling down at the illuminated stadium filled with thousands of fans.
I shield my face with a hand as I die inside, Tripp beginning a long string of curses I don’t dare repeat, clearing his throat and reaching for his ball cap. He lowers the brim to cover his forehead. Unfortunately, there is no disguising this man—plus, there’s no doubt the cop has run the plates and already knew exactly who he was before approaching the vehicle.
Shit, shit, shit.
Tripp cracks the back door open. “Is that really necessary?”
“Sir.” The cop shifts on his heels. “It’s the middle of the day and you’re engaging in a sexual act in a residential area. I’m going to need you both to step outside.” He continues to be matter-of-fact and blunt, straight-faced and serious, hat shielding his eyes and his agitated expression.
He’s just doing his job, and here Tripp is, arguing with him.
“You don’t recognize me?” Tripp has the balls to ask the cop through the gap in the door, the cop who’s watching every move we’re making so we don’t do something shady. “I play for the Blues.”
Oh my god!
“Good for you.” The cop’s expression is blank. “I ran your plates and they’re clean, but I’m going to need some form of identification from yourself and your companion.”
Your companion.
As if I’m a…a…
Paid escort.
“If you ran my plates and know who I am, why do you need to see my identification?”
This police officer isn’t playing around, leveling Tripp with a blank stare, raising his brows and clenching his jaw.
“I need to see valid identification with your face on it, sir.”
I smack my date on the arm, muttering, “Stop arguing, jeez.”
“Okay, but why does he need us outside? We were just fucking, Jesus.”
Fumbling with my top, I glance at the back window then out the front, scanning the street for photographers, dreading the moment I have to step outside onto the sidewalk.
“Um, officer?” I spy my purse in the front seat, the one with my wallet and ID in it. “My bag is on the floor—can I grab it?”
Yes.
When we’re both curbside, we’re separated, Tripp in front of the vehicle, me in the back, the officer making his way over to speak to me.
“Ms. Westbrooke, how do you know this person?”
“Um…we’re dating.” I think? I mean, are we actually dating dating, or do I tell the cop we’ve only been on a few dates and so far it’s nothing serious? Shoot.
“How long have you known Mr. Wallace?”
“A few weeks? Since my cousin’s wedding—she married his brother, Buzz Wallace. Um, Trace is his actual name, Buzz is his nickname,” I babble nervously, stopping before I blurt out that I currently have a sports sock stuffed between my legs to prevent cum from dripping down the inside of my thighs.
“And where were you prior to arriving at this location?”
“We were having lunch at Café Louis near Washington Park.”
A nod. “Just so we’re very clear—this was consensual?”
Ah, now I get it. He’s asking to make sure I wasn’t banged against my will.
“Yes.”
“Ma’am, I’m going to need you to say it in your own words.”
Lord, if my cheeks were any hotter I would swear it was the middle of a summer heatwave.
“Yes sir, it was consensual.” How on earth I manage that sentence with a straight face is entirely beyond me, my gaze still scanning the perimeter. “Sorry if I seem distracted—he plays football and if a paparazzi gets our picture and splashes it across the internet, I will literally die a thousand deaths.”
“That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?” the cop asks, hands on his hips, countenance remaining stalwart. “This is considered a misdemeanor and I could issue a ticket to both of you. However, considering you seem like a nice couple, I’m going to let you off with a warning.”
My body sags with relief; pretty sure tickets are considered public records, making it damn easy for any meddling media to dig and make that information public. A public relations and personal nightmare for both of us.
“You cannot be engaging in this behavior in a residential area,” the officer continues, pointing down the block. “There’s a school a few blocks away—if your boyfriend is famous, he should know better than this.”
I nod, embarrassed, wondering if this is the exact spiel he’s about to give Tripp, down to the guilt trip about the school on the next block. How the heck were we supposed to know?!
“Yes sir.” I pause. “Um, can I get back in the truck now?”
“Once I speak to Mr. Wallace, you’ll both be free to go, but I’ll have to ask you to wait right here, please.”
He bows his head and saunters at a leisurely pace to the front of the truck, to the spot where Tripp leans casually against the hood, arm resting, watchful eyes boring into me.
They exchange words, a few of Tripp’s a bit too loud.
“Yes we’re actually dating.”
“She is not a hooker if that’s what you’re implying.”
Then, “Listen, officer, we had lunch and thought it would be fun to bang one out before she has to return to work. That is all, end of story.”
“Yes, I realize this is a terrible spot to have parked.”
I lean into their conversation and catch the cop say, “When I walk away, I’m going to need you to get back in your truck and leave, and then I’ll pull out.”
Tripp nods.
“You know,” the officer goes on, “I always thought when I met a famous ballplayer, it would be under different circumstances.” He’s shaking his head. “Guess I’ve seen it all.”
Tripp: I can’t stop thinking about that sock between your legs.
Me: That’s all you have to say? I’m still traumatized from this afternoon. Trauma-TIZED.
Tripp: You didn’t find any of that exciting?
Me: Um NO. Not even a little bit. Did YOU?
Tripp: Yes. My life has been pretty goddamn boring up until the last few weeks.
Me: The only thing that could have made today any worse would be finding out that cop sold his vest-cam footage to the tabloids. Can you imagine how much that would go for?
Tripp: Lol. Plenty I imagine.
Tripp: Hey, how’s that gym sock?
Me: **gags** The sock was sweaty and gross!!!
Tripp: I’m never washing it.
Me: Are you saying…you want THE SOCK BACK???
Tripp: Yes.
Me: That is SO. GROSS. Why did you have to tell me that? **gags again but this time into a brown paper bag**
Me: Too late, I threw it in the trash.
Tripp: You threw my sock away!??? Why the hell would you do that—it was a perfectly good sock!
Me: It was covered in come!
Tripp: **cum
Me: Oh my god, stop it right now.
Tripp: I was going to wear those to my next game! They’re my good luck socks now. Are you still at work? I’m coming over to dig through your trash.
Me: Don’t you dare!
Tripp: Too late, I’m already in my car on my way over.
Me: You are not…
Tripp: Prove I’m not.
Me: Wait. It’s the middle of the afternoon—shouldn’t you be at practice?
Tripp: Yes, but I stuffed my phone down the front of my pants so I could flirt with you. Don’t tell anyone.
Tripp: In fact, I should have you sign an NDA so you don’t sell my flirting to the tabloids.
Me: You mean if the police officer hasn’t done it first.
Tripp: Please, do you think we’re the first people he’s busted fucking on the side of the road? Betcha it happens a few times a week, but like, usually with prostitutes.
Me: Yes, I felt SO embarrassed.
Tripp: You don’t actually think he thought you were a hooker, do you?
Me: Maybe just a little…
Tripp: Chandler. Babe. He had your driver’s license and everyone in the city of Chicago knows who the Westbrooke family is.
Me: Somehow that doesn’t make me feel better! **cries**
Tripp: You’re cute when you think you’re getting arrested. You should have seen your face when he asked if the sex was consensual.
Me: We can’t all just casually lean against the vehicle like we’re waiting for a tow truck, TRIPP.
Tripp: LOL that is not how I looked.
Me: Yeah—ya did. Just chilling, no big deal. Don’t think I didn’t catch you nodding at the man jogging with his dog.
Tripp: I’M FRIENDLY—what did you expect me to do?
Me: NO, YOU ARE NOT. You are actually not at all friendly.
Tripp: LOL
Me: Circling back around to the non-disclosure—honestly, I would sign one if you wanted me to.
Tripp: I don’t want you to, I was only kidding.
Me: But real quick, say something juicy just so I can take a screenshot and use it as blackmail material.
Tripp: Something juicy.
Me: Wow. You’re a comedian now, too!
Tripp: I can be funny when I want to be. My brother usually always has to hog the attention.
Me: Aww, you poor, poor baby.
Tripp: It’s about time someone felt sorry for me.
Me: I DO NOT FEEL SORRY FOR YOU.
Tripp: Um, why are you yelling?
Tripp: Hey, I ended up grabbing you and my family a box for Saturday—you’re still coming right?
Me: Yup. I’m ironing my Blues jersey as we speak.
Tripp: Oh yeah? Whose number is on the back?
Me: I don’t know, I think number 12? It says Butler.
Tripp: You’re dead to me, goodbye.
Me: Not even a kiss on the cheek before you go?
Tripp: I said good day, sir!
Twenty-One
Chandler
I wasn’t lying when I told Tripp my Blues jersey has the name Butler on the back—but that’s only because I had to borrow it from my friend Jennifer, who I went to college with and who lives in the city, too.
They’re expensive!
I wasn’t raised to be a football fan growing up. I was raised to be loyal to the Chicago Steam, the family dynasty and all that bull crap.
The jersey is for a woman (not a man), fitted and cute with the jeans I threw on and tucked into boots. I’m not sure how much makeup to put on, or how to style my hair, considering I’m watching the game with Mr. and Mrs. Wallace.
I’m so nervous I can barely eat, waiting curbside for the cab to pick me up and take me to the stadium so I can meet them there.
Ticket in purse.
Warm winter coat.
Stadium-approved purse.
Check, check, check.
I hit the lights of the townhouse before heading out and locking up, taking the steps jauntily with more enthusiasm than I feel.
Having plans with Tripp is one thing; having them with his parents is another entirely.
Mrs. Wallace is always full of questions; what if she asks me something I don’t know how to answer? Or what if I say something stupid and she repeats it to her son? What if she reads more into things than what they actually are and gets her hopes up?
I am not daughter-in-law number two!
I am also not on time.
The crowd roars from inside the stadium, echoing in the night, filling me with that familiar adrenaline rush I used to feel when I was younger and felt less pressure to fit in with my parents, cousins, aunts, and uncles. When games were just games to me and not a money-making machine.
Games were about hot dogs and popcorn and the occasional soda I was only allowed to have when we sat in the stands—usually with my nanny.
I stand in line at security while they riffle through my tiny purse then hop into a different line to gain entry. Weave my way to the suite level, quelling my nerves by placing a hand on my stomach.
When I reach the room we’re watching the game in, Genevieve Wallace greets me with a welcome so enthusiastic it startles me, her cheerful and loud “There she is!” causing heads to turn from the crowded hallway.
“Hi! Sorry I’m late—the traffic was terrible.” I hang my jacket in the small coat closet, remove my scarf and mittens. “I’m so sorry,” I apologize again.
“We’re so glad you came!” She ignores my apologies and rushes over to hug me. “Aren’t we so glad she’s here, Roger?” Tripp’s mom smacks her husband on the arm until he shifts his gaze from the playing field below to me.
“Uh, sure.” It takes him a few seconds to register that it’s me, lost in his game day daze. “Oh, hey Chandler.” Mr. Wallace blinks. “For a second there I thought you were Hollis.”
“We just love her so much.” Mrs. Wallace has her arm around me, gushing about my cousin. “I love having another girl in the family—not that we don’t adore our True, but it’s so fun having an even number. Imagine if we outnumbered the boys and had control over the TV on Sundays.” She cackles out a laugh, as if that’s the sneakiest thing she could think of inflicting on the men in her life.
“Are you hungry?”
I am. “Starving!”
“Let’s get you some food,” she enthuses, eager to please, ushering me to the kitchenette that comes with each suite. The spread is mouthwatering: platters of carved meat, cheeses, fruit, dips and chips, hot dogs and buns, salads, and desserts.
I’m blissfully loading chips onto a plate and salsa into a small bowl, adding guac, pretzels, and queso while Genevieve fills two plastic cups with wine from a nearby bottle.
I add pasta salad and two cookies, eyes bigger than my stomach. But a girl’s got to eat and this one hasn’t had a meal all day.
Once I’m done, instead of sitting at one of the little tables set up in the room, we make our way to the three rows of stadium seats.
Giant, panoramic glass separates us from the harsh, cold fall weather, but the view is incredible.
Gorgeous.
The Chicago Blues football field stretches out below us, surrounded by row upon row of seating, lights, and people. Screaming fans, dressed for winter.
Lord I’m glad I’m not sitting in the stands; I’d be freezing my ass off.
When Mrs. Wallace and I plunk down in our seats, she hands me a plastic cup of wine.
“Here honey, you might need this for your nerves. You’re going to want alcohol in your system for the first hit he takes.” She tips her cup forward and drinks. “This is my second, though I’m still anxious as all get-out.”
My eyes go down to the field; it’s a fantastic view, but we’re so far up the men look like ants, impossible to distinguish from this vantage point.
Luckily, there’s a flat-screen television monitor in each corner of the room broadcasting the game, and within seconds, I spot Tripp Wallace on the sidelines, hands stuck inside a hand warmer.
Tight blue pants. Wide, padded shoulders. Helmet tipped back so an assistant can squirt water into his mouth from a bottle.
Holy hell he looks good.
Like a man’s man, only…mine? Maybe?
As I continue eating, Mrs. Wallace chats away beside me, and I keep one eye on her, one on the game below. She’s telling me more about Buzz and Hollis’s honeymoon, the new grill she and her husband bought for BBQing on game days that are out of town, and the dog they’re thinking of getting.
She tells me about what Tripp was like as a teenager.
“Oh that boy has always taken everything so seriously. I don’t know where that comes from—Roger and I can certainly take a joke. Trace and his sister can too, so I don’t know why our oldest is so serious.” She sips her wine, and I take a dainty sip of mine. “And of course the girl thing…I think he was sixteen by the time he discovered what those were.”
“Did he date?”
“No—those poor high school girls couldn’t even get him to take them to the dance, not for lack of calling. Oy if our phone wasn’t ringing off the hook.”
Roger Wallace sits in the row ahead of us, glued to the game, but glances back every so often.
“There was one time a young woman named Cara stopped by the house—we lived in town near enough to the school so kids would pop in from time to time, mostly boys.” Sip, sip of wine. “Well Cara comes to the door, and Tripp happens to be home, and she has made him a lovely cake in the school’s colors—red and black—and hands it to him when he comes to the door.”
“What did he say?”
“He said, ‘What’s this for?’ And Cara replied, ‘I wanted to wish you luck in your game this weekend.’ Then he handed it back to her and said, ‘I don’t need luck.’ And came back inside the house.”
“He just left her standing outside?”
Sip sip. “Yes, on the porch in the cold. Shut the door on her. As a mother, I didn’t know what on earth to do—go back out and apologize for my rude son? Take the cake? Lecture him about being kind? It was all very horrifying.”
That sounds exactly like the Tripp I know and the number one reason I laid him out on the ground at the wedding.
For him, talking to a woman like a normal human being is foreign, but he has to learn he can’t just blurt out whatever comes to mind. I can’t imagine how shitty poor Cara must have felt getting rejected by a teenage Tripp Wallace.
What a little asshole he must have been. Cocky, arrogant, and full of himself.
Gee, not much has changed.
I chuckle to myself—I’d never say that out loud to his mother!
“I bet he was cute, huh?”
“So handsome. I’ll have to show you some pictures next time you’re at the house.” Mrs. Wallace slyly glances over. “Not to make any assumptions, of course, but Roger and I can’t believe our babies are finally settling down.”
“Tripp hasn’t brought any women around?”
“No—lord heavens no! I think he’s dated one or two. Or his publicist set the dates up. We’re not really sure because his personal life is not something he talks about. But we’ve been able to pry a thing or two out of him about you.” She nudges me with the point of her elbow. Wink-wink, sip.
Genevieve lets out a loud, contented sigh, smiling down at the illuminated stadium filled with thousands of fans.
