The four of us assume our positions while waiting for Brandon. A wisp of anticipation shoots through me. I live for football, but pranks are pretty fun too. Footsteps echo from down the hall.
In Rylen’s absence, Declan leans in, and as if starting a game with the classic expression,Hut, hut, hike, he says, “On the count of three...”
We adjust our stances, preparing, and then as the door opens, Declan says, “Now.”
...And at that moment, whoever stands in the doorway gets an eyeful of Boston Bruisers’ butt and I am not sorry.
“It’s a full moon in Boston,” Declan shouts.
I let loose my classic howl.
Then someone gasps.
A camera clicks and flashes.
A low voice groans.
If it weren’t already apparent, when I turn around, it isn’t only Brandon in the doorway. The pro league Commissioner Starkowsky and his daughter, Elyse, along with several other team officials, stand with their mouths hanging open.
This was more than the mission I expected, but I’d say it’s mission accomplished. I chuckle inwardly. Time to get folks around here to loosen up.
Then the commish, shielding his daughter’s eyes, blusters.
The guys make their apologies. I do not.
Elyse wiggles out of her father’s grasp. “Dad, I’ve been in and out of locker rooms for almost thirty years. I’ve seen?—”
She’s definitely eyed my rear end.
Starky’s face turns purple. “You are excused,” he chokes out.
It all happens in fast-forward as we rush from the lounge, dispersing like kids caught ringing the neighbor’s doorbell, leaving an unwelcome gift, and running while laughing our butts off. In this case, literally.
3
CATELINE
After showering, I dress in a fashionable work ensemble—typically consisting of trousers or skirts, a blouse, a blazer, and heels. Today, I wear a pencil skirt, a cream-colored blouse with tiny pink roses, and a strand of pearls. A dark blue blazer completes the look.
My bedroom may look like a raccoon broke in and played dress up, but everything about my appearance tells me I’m perfectly put together.
I grab my leatherbound folder with all of today’s important details when my phone rings. It’s Giselle, my cousin.
“I have great news,” she exclaims.
I wait a beat for her to tell me something sensational—like my mother, her parents had high aspirations for her life. She was thrust into the spotlight at a young age and became a European pop star. When the glamor faded, she left to live a quiet life in Florida, yet she always has exciting stories to share.
“I have good news and bad news,” she says inFranglais, a portmanteau ofFrançaisandAnglais—our combination of French and English that we’ve been using since we were kids.
“Let’s hear the bad news first.” My tone drops because I know what she’s going to say and I’m genuinely disappointed. “Wait, let me guess. You’re not coming.”
She’s quiet a beat before rushing into a flurried explanation. “I’m not coming to work for you, but that doesn’t mean I won’t visit.”
“You met someone?” I guess.
Giselle is always meeting someone. While her love life could be a romance novel, mine is more like a notebook. An empty one. But that’s fine because I don’t have time for relationships.
“I did, and he’s—” She squeals, which is so not the French way. “His name is Garrison and he’s a football player.” She goes on to tell me about his yacht and how sweet he is.
