“Your mother insisted.”
I tell myself, as I’ve done many times, that the rejection doesn’t sting. I don’t allow my voice to falter. I’ll never show him how much it hurts. But that was all he needed to say to get me on board. I love my mom and will do anything for her. If she wants me dressed up in a suit to attend a fancy dinner or whatever the Smythes are hosting, I’m there. I have no idea how she tolerates Rhett Collins, but it makes me wonder if she’s destined for sainthood.
After leaving Bruiser headquarters,I avoid public places for the rest of the day as I pack and prepare for a month away. No sense in getting mobbed by fans asking for selfies with my backside. I don’t know what to expect overseas, but the timeaway will allow #BruiserButt to blow over. Plus, I’ll do whatever is necessary for my mom and the team. My sisters, too, except that silly show Rhiannon wants me to sign up for.
Then I drop onto the bed in my brownstone with a plop as the conversation aboutCrush or Cupidwith my sister catches up with me.
Just before we got off the phone, the last notable thing she said was, “What if I told you, I, um?—”
She couldn’t have meant she signed a contract? Of course, that’s what she meant. I scrub my hands over my eyes. I glance up. “Did I do anything to make you mad at me?”
Then I snort a laugh as my phone beeps with more messages, likely about moon-gate.
“Yeah. Sorry about that. Error in judgment for sure.” I mean it too. Yes, the guys and I were having fun, but no way did we mean it for anyone other than Brandon—and even then, the poor guy doesn’t need to see our backsides.
My cheeks puff with a sigh as I hinge back, lying on the bed.
I should be at the brownstone next door, which I also own, where workers are fixing the plumbing. I should paint or make myself useful, taking care of these investment properties.
My goal was to own all the brownstones on this street, of which there are a dozen—then petition the city to change the name to Collins Circle because it ends in a cul-de-sac, rare here. Anyone who’s been to Boston knows the roads here don’t make any sense.
But lately, my future takes on a different shape. I don’t think I’d like to remain in an urban environment. My thoughts carry me north to the piney woods or south along the coast to find some land where I could build a home and a chicken coop.
Family life calls to me. Perhaps I should go on Rhiannon’s show and find someone special who’ll satisfy my unwavering craving for pizza. But I don’t think I’ll find Miss Right there.Just more drama and fan craziness. Being sent to a time-out at Blancbourg Academy d’Etiquette in Concordia will be a good excuse not to be involved in whatever Rhiannon has in mind.
Pizzalingers in my mind. Yes, I’m hungry, but I’ll have to order delivery. Rather, I mean the girl with big brown eyes and the smile that belongs to my first official crush. Then Freddie punches the thought out of my head with an invisible, yet heavy, fist.
“Dude, never mind that you haven’t seen her in years, she’s your best friend’s sister. That means she’s off-limits. She’s the original entry in the playbook Grey was talking about earlier,” I remind myself out loud.
I sink deeper into the bed as I realize that it’s very likely she’s seen #BruiserButt. I’ve never been brave enough to ask Freddie how his twin sister is doing these days, but I doubt a woman like her lives under a rock. It’s unlikely she follows American football, specifically the Boston Bruisers, but there’s no escaping notice when the blurred photo of my rear end, along with the three other guys’, and our names, are plastered all over the internet.
Earlier, I made the mistake of scrolling to see what people are saying, and supposedly, a billboard is going up somewhere here in the city with the phraseWe’re nuts about Bruiser Butts. That’s our fans for you.
But the last thing I wantherto see, or think about, is my, ahem,seat. Not after everything that happened in high school.
After finishing packing, I order pizza and bring it next door to the plumbers who’re bound to be hungry for lunch. I help myself to a big slice. Thankfully, they don’t ask me about football or moon-gate. Don’t get me wrong, I love the game and will talk shop for hours, but for now, I need a break and would much rather hear about the brass end stop fittings they’re installing under the sink.
Even though theteam secretary lined up travel for Declan, Wolf, Grey, and me to get to Blancbourg Academy d’Etiquette in Concordia—likely so we don’t try to weasel out by claiming delayed flights or missed connections—I have to go to London first for the party tonight. My assistant gets me on a flight out of Boston with barely enough time to change and make it through city traffic.
During what was undoubtedly a show-stopping junior year season on the varsity team in high school, in a highly suspicious turn of events, my father sent me to a London boarding school, so I’m fairly familiar with the city.
Moving yours truly, the star football player, off his home turf, away from his girlfriend and the dudes he’d hung with his entire life, during arguably the most important year of my high school career, made me ripe for rebellion.
I spent eight months at Hinnifin Hall, a private boarding school, playing rugby and doing my level best to forget about my best friend’s sister. Turned out, I met my lifelong best friend, had some great times, and still carry memories of my crush with me wherever I go, so all wasn’t lost.
I doubt the Smythes will have pizza on the menu and I could go for a slice when I land. When I can get away with it, I sometimes eat pizza for more than one meal a day.
Think about it, the dough is the perfect vehicle for whatever nutritional needs or cravings you may have. Top it with sauce and cheese, you've got the basics covered. Add some protein, even better. Want to get wild? Add some mushrooms and veggies. Feeling spicy? Peppers and sausage will do the trick. Looking for exotic flavors? By all means...
Fashionably late, I sigh as the slick black car drops me off in front of a lavish brick estate with white trim, likely built in the seventeenth century—the columns around the entrance are a giveaway. I’m a fan of architecture, from classics to chicken coops.
It’s lined with neatly trimmed hedges and ornamental trees, along with landscape lighting on the exterior, making the damp pavement sparkle. A warm glow comes from within, inviting me to join the festivities, even though the last thing I want to do is face my father’s seething wrath.
Then again, my mother will likely have him under wraps and he’ll be as silent as ever.
I glance over my shoulder, but there’s no going back. Preparing myself for a barrage of greetings and small talk, I make my entrance and the first people I see aren’t my mother and father.
No, it’s Freddie’s mom and dad who, as always, greet me like another member of the family. I can’t help but wonder if a specific Thompson—the female with brown eyes and brown hair—happens to be at this fancy shindig as well.
