I thought he respected me.
I was obviously wrong. Not just about Troy, but about so much. A buzzing descends over me, cloaking me in a bubble of protective numbness.
“Worry about your own love life—or lack thereof, Walsh. Let me worry about Maya,” Bryce barks, but it comes out with no bite.
“What are you going to do when she finds out?” Troy challenges him.
“What makes you think she will?” Then, as if this revelation could get any worse, Bryce boasts, “Besides, Maya hasn’t found out once over the years since we’ve been together.”
Bile surges up my throat, making me wish desperately I hadn’t given in to my girls and had the passion fruit martinis earlier. Desperately, I reach for the closest vessel. It is ironic that I vomit into the crystal bowl that our town gave Bryce to honor him after he was named All-American quarterback.
I swipe my lips across the back of my hand and think hysterically,Too late. I now know everything. Shoving the bowl back into place, I hope he takes weeks to find it. Sliding down the wall, curling up in a ball, I clutch my arms around myself, doing everything possible to hold what’s left of my pride together.
Dropping my head against my knees becomes a defense mechanism as some of Bryce’s teammates detail to the men crowded around the fire some of his more recent exploits. These supposed upstanding men fling around terms like “Box Seat Barbie” and “Cleat Chaser”, including the one I’d given my heart to. Bryce brags about one woman in particular—a woman I’ve met frequently.
My stomach churns again, but before I can reach for what may be the classiest emesis bag I’ve heard of in my travels, the rookie of the team, a kid they picked up for this season fromUSC, barks out a laugh. “Yo, look who just slid into my DMs. That same chick.”
Bryce lets out a derisive laugh. “Man. Captain of the Cleat Chaser squad. She doesn’t care about you or even your dick. She just cares that you have a jersey number on your back.”
A different teammate pipes in. “Fact. She was in the stands every game last year.”
“You’d be too busy playing to notice; her tits were practically hanging out to get you guys to score.” One of the second-string linemen remarks.
“She was trying to get one of us to score, all right,” Bryce jokes.
“She’s practically the welcoming committee at this point.”
“More like our warm-up squad.” Bryce is now cackling.
There’s wide laughter before the team’s wide receiver shouts, “Warm-up squad? Bro, I just use her for practice before I go home to my wife. Got to get my moves straight.”
More laughter before the tight end snorts, “Practice? She’s trying out for any position we’ll offer her. Starter, back up, water games—it doesn’t matter.”
The rookie’s voice holds a note of misplaced awe. “Y’all are wild.”
Troy’s voice is cool. “Wild isn’t necessarily good. In fact?—”
But I never get to hear the end of what Troy was going to say because that’s when Bryce scoffs, “Dude, you’re bringing my party down.”
The rookie agrees with Bryce. “If she ain’t protesting and she ain’t looking for love, I might just give her a call.”
That’s when Bryce gives him sage advice that has me gagging. “Double wrap it. You don’t need her flashing a baby on Instagram with your jersey number as the hashtag.”
“Good advice. Thanks.”
As Bryce launches into an account of his latest exploit with his newest “Barbie,” Troy saves the lining of my stomach by snarling, “I really don’t want any more details.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Cause I have to look your fiancée in the eye. Fuck you very much.”
“Come on, Walsh. It’s not like you didn’t have your fair share of available ‘cleat chasers’ when you were playing—even if you were ‘only the kicker,’” Bryce taunts.
“There’s a major difference between us, asshole.”
“And that is?”
Curious, I lean a little closer until the noxious smell of my own puke almost causes me to pass out. I swallow my bile as Troy bellows, “I wasn’t—nor have I ever been—in a committed relationship when I was fuckin’ around with them!”
