It was intense and real and everything I’ve ever wanted.
I saw it all as plain as day, more vividly than a movie. But it was a flash. A hint at what could be.
However, it’s an impossibility and I need to tell someone, or at least rant about how I’m caught between a rock and a hard place. Two rocks. Two hard places.
Don’t want to ruin my friendship with Freddie. I’m his best man. I scrub my hand down my face. That means he’s going to see his sister and me together next fall, which will result in him knowing something is going on between Pippa and me...or worse, our parents doing something crazy like announcing ours is the next wedding. Then, his would be ruined, he’d be carted off to jail for first-degree murder, and Aimme would already be a widow on her wedding day.
Not that he’d be dead—no, that would be me—but he’d be put away for life, so that would squelch all their future life plans, essentially rendering her husband-less.
Because there was something there between Pippa and me, right?
Just like in Mr. Halverson’s class, I can’t deny the underlying chemistry between us—I detected it then and I sensed it tonight. The way we moved so smoothly together, like we were meantto dance and laugh and live life together, couldn’t have been a figment of my imagination, a silly hope, or something I could ignore. Could it?
I know, I know, I sound like a dough ball, slathered with olive oil and covered in melty cheese.
But there is no denying that our mothers are certainly aware ofsomething.
Or they’re just wishing for grandbabies and I’m a romantic moron who is trying to see something that isn’t there because I’m too afraid to take a chance on love with another woman.
But that brings me to the question of the decade. Why am I clinging to my secret high school crush whom I couldn’t date because she’s my best friend’s twin?
Let’s analyze, because that’s what I’m good at. Sure, I can throw a ball like a ballistic missile. I’m exceptionally fast and have a great eye for aerial geometry and velocity—in other words, where I need to be to catch a ball despite two hundred-plus pounds of solid muscle coming my way.
I’m really good at analysis. That was Cap’s ace card that he passed on to me. We’d spend hours studying old tapes of the best and worst football games. I understand the fine points, every nuance, and how fractions of space can make or break a game.
I could go for ten minutes with him right now. What would my grandfather say?
My finger hovers over Rhiannon’s contact in my phone. Everyone agreed she was exactly like our grandfather, if the old man were obsessed with the art of romance rather than football.
I scratch the scruff on my chin when my phone chimes with a call. It’s Freddie. As if he’d knocked on the hotel room door, I jump onto the bed, throw the phone into the pillows, spin in a circle, and then bound toward the door and lock it.
Somewhat muted, the phone continues to alert me to the call. I tell myself to stop acting like a weirdo and be a man. If hisparents told him about me dancing with Pippa, I’ll have to face the music. Tell him they made us do it. Practically at gunpoint. Okay, I won’t go that far, but my survival instincts kick in.
I answer and my voice is an octave higher than normal. “Hey, Phizzle, Philzee, Philzo.”
“Chase?” he hollers into the phone. The deep bass of live music comes from the background.
“Yeah, it’s me. Sorry, not sure why I, uh?—”
“You’ve called me Phillip once and that was when I told you I was getting hitched. You okay, mate?”
“I am great. Never been better. Good. Goodzee. Goodzo.” I press my hand to my forehead.
“You sure about that? Anyway, I heard about the #BruiserButt thing all the way out here in Fiji. That was brilliant, mate. Way to wow the world with that backside of yours.” The music is loud in the background and I only make out what he said using context clues.
“Yeah, well, it landed me in hot water.”
“The water here is warm. You’re off season. Why don’t you come out? Say hi.”
“Wouldn’t want to crash your pre-honeymoon.” The comment reminds me of what Pippa said about crashing a wedding.
“Speaking of marriage...”
Never mind the pleasant bath water off Fiji. My stomach floods with what feels like hot swamp sludge. I swallow thickly. “The what?”
“The wedding. Listen, I had an idea—” He goes on to tell me about a bachelor party prank he wants me to help him pull off.
I drop onto the bed. That I can handle. Any mention of his sister would’ve sent me into the deep end.
