Chapter 7
seven
. . .
Bridger
I was sitting on the new fancy shitter that my brother Rafe had highly recommended, taking my sweet-ass time.
Pun intended.
This thing had a heated seat, several washing systems, and a blow dryer to finish things off. Not to be mistaken for a blow job, as my brother had initially insinuated. It’s a fancy-ass toilet, but it’s not that fancy.
I’d just finished texting Brenner about some meetings I’d be attending in the city today, as we were presenting some new software we’d developed to a few partner companies.
The family group chat started blowing up as usual, and I made myself even more comfortable on the cushioned seat.
Easton
Dude.
Rafe
Yes.
Archer
Yes.
Axel
Yes.
Clark
Yes.
That was very effective. Next time be more specific.
Easton
Of course I’m talking to you, dickwad. The girls are banning pickleball on behalf of Emilia. They feel you owe her an apology, and until you do, they are refusing to play. Ball drops today at 3 pm, so Archie, you best find someone to babysit because Henley isn’t covering for you.
Archer
For fuck’s sake, Bridger. Just apologize. It’s not that difficult.
I sent a window cleaner to her place of business, and she sent him away. I can’t help it if she’s too stubborn to accept a gift of apology.
Axel
A window cleaner? What the fuck kind of apology is that supposed to be?
A good one. She had dried egg all over her window.
Rafe
Because YOU got her shop egged. So that’s just a gimme that you’d clean it up. Why not just drive down there and apologize.
Easton
Agreed. Window cleaning does not scream “I’m sorry.” You can do better. You’re a fucking billionaire.
Archer
You did cost her some business by making a scene at her place of work. Melody would be very disappointed if I told her what you did, Unc-ee.
Don’t you bring that angel into this conversation.
Archer
For real dude, you need to fix this. He’s not kidding. Henley already texted me that she won’t be covering me today.
Easton
Eloise just texted that she won’t be driving to the city to cover for Clark who will be at practice, because she STANDS WITH EMILIA.
Rafe
Those are the exact words Lulu said to me when she said she wouldn’t be playing with me today. I have to play the whole damn time now, because Bridger is a stubborn ass, and we’re all paying the price.
You have nothing better to do than play pickleball, so what’s the problem?
Rafe
Lulu and I did yoga this morning, and I’m all up in my feels, and not in the mood to dig deep and be shouted at for two hours by Easton.
Easton
You lame motherfucker. Pull your head out of your fancy toilet heated ass and get it together. The Chad-Six have some serious competition tonight. Lockwood Country Club is no joke, and they have been preparing for this. The girls are not budging on this stance, so we all need to show up.
Archer
I just texted Mrs. Dowden and she can stay late tonight. She’s charging me overtime, so thanks a lot Bridger.
Rafe
She’s charging overtime to sit on the lazy boy and nap? That woman never ceases to amaze me.
Archer
Don’t hate on Mrs. Dowden. She may be the worst nanny of all time, but she’s a damn good woman.
Axel
She’s part sweet old lady, and part gangster. She’s totally working you. She hit me up for twenty bucks when I stopped by to check on Melody yesterday.
Easton
Hey. She asked me for twenty bucks last week because she said she needs new pantyhose.
Rafe
Twenty bucks? Why is she hitting me up for hundys? She asked me for a hundred bucks so she could take Melody to the pumpkin patch before it officially closes at the end of the month.
The pumpkin patch is free, you dumbass.
Archer
Can we circle back to the actual conversation, and not the fact that you are all getting hustled by my nanny. Bridger, apologize before the game next week. I will not be doing this again to cover your ass.
How is this covering my ass? I don’t even want to play pickleball.
Easton
Lalalalalallalala (this is me tuning your ass out). I didn’t hear that. Be there today and bring a good attitude. And fucking apologize, you stubborn pricklicker.
The texts kept coming through, but I ignored them as I leaned back on my fancy toilet and thought about it.
They were right. I was a fucking billionaire.
I’d put her through hell, apparently, and the girls were involved now.
And that’s when it hit me.
It was time to take care of business.
I was ready to put this beef with Emilia Taylor behind me.
And I knew exactly how to do that.
“Game day, boys. We’re down a few players, so everyone needs to show up today.” Easton glanced over at my father, who was apparently subbing for Clark. “Dad, just—do what you can do.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, son. I have played pickleball, and I was considered an athletic god when I was in college,” he said, and everyone roared in laughter.
My father, Keaton Chadwick, was one of the best people I’d ever known. He had a heart of gold, and he loved his family fiercely.
But athletic?
No.
No, no, no.
I once got partnered with him in a family basketball playoff game, and he actually scored more baskets for the opposing team than our team.
“You’ve got this, Dad,” Rafe said, clapping him on the shoulder.
Just then, Henley, Lulu, Eloise, and my mother came walking toward us.
“Good luck today,” Mom said. “Keaton, don’t overdo it. You don’t need to get injured.”
“Don’t you worry, Ellie Belly. I’ll be fine for the concert next weekend.” He turned to look at me. “You best apologize soon, because next weekend we’re going to see Jelly Roll, and we won’t be here.”
My parents’ obsession with Jelly Roll was no joke. They took that shit seriously.
“How is this my fault?” I hissed. “The whole thing is ridiculous.”
“It’s your fault because all you had to do was apologize,” Lulu said, arms crossed over her chest. “I love you, B-man, but you accused her of something she didn’t do, and she went to great lengths to prove her innocence. All she wants is an apology.”
“Exactly,” Henley said, looking at me as if this was a simple fix.
“I know it’s hard to apologize sometimes, Bridger,” Eloise said, patting my shoulder, “but she needs to know that you feel bad about what happened.”
“Consider it done,” I said, not hiding my irritation. “Trust me. This will all be put to rest tomorrow.”
“Thank God,” Rafe said. “I’m not up for these long matches anymore.”
“Hey, hey, hey,” Easton said, snapping his fingers in front of Rafe’s face. “We’re the Chad-fucking-Six. We don’t talk like that. It’s time to get your head on straight and go kick some ass.”
“And it’s time to watch the way you speak.” Mom swatted his shoulder.
“Okay, we can’t be here to cheer you on because we’re taking a stance in support of our friend,” Henley said. “We’ll be having martinis inside with Emilia as soon as she finishes her free play time.”
I glanced across the court to see a very uncoordinated Emilia Taylor swinging at ball after ball—only making contact with one out of every four balls.
She bent over to grab the ball, and I couldn’t help but track her tan, lean legs, up to the apex of her thighs, where the hem of her pink tennis skirt stopped.
And then, as if she could feel my eyes on her, she turned, and her gaze locked with mine before she glared at me and turned away.
I watched her for a few more beats.
Maybe I found it entertaining that she absolutely sucked at pickleball.
Or maybe it was the pink tennis skirt.
Either way, I was irritated that she was making such a big fucking deal about this apology.
I’d upped my apology game, and hopefully tomorrow we could move on.
“Let’s do this!” Easton shouted as my mother and the girls disappeared into the clubhouse.
I got partnered up with my father, which was an absolute shitshow.
He didn’t have any problem making contact with the ball, but he just couldn’t get it to go in the direction it needed to.
I tried having him play in the back, and I moved up front, but he was determined to redeem himself and he kept coming back up to the net.
Needless to say, we got demolished.
In every single game.
I was desperate for this last round to be over, since we were getting smoked by a bunch of elderly women. I spiked the ball several times, as I was done holding back.
Out of my peripheral vision, I saw Emilia Taylor jog by, and my gaze turned the slightest bit to follow.
I was a curious guy. No shame in that.
She was causing a family rift, so it was only fair to keep my eye on her.
My father took that opportunity to charge the net, moving in front of me with no warning, and just as I realized what was happening—his racket clocked me in the face.
For fuck’s sake.
I heard the crack of my nose, and then the spray of blood that followed.
“Oh no!” my father yelled out. “Did I do that?”
Was he serious? Who else would have done it?
Like I said, the man didn’t have an athletic bone in his body.
I tore my shirt off and covered my nose to apply some pressure. “Fuck.”
Needless to say, the ref called the game.
The older women came over to check out my pickleball wound.
Easton stormed over, a weird mix of concern and irritation on his face.
My brother was ridiculously competitive, and pickleball was his passion.
But, the fact that blood was soaking through my shirt forced him to have a bit of compassion.
“What happened?” he asked. He pulled the shirt back to look at my nose and winced.
“Bridger must have run up behind me,” Dad said.
Uh… that was a hard no. I hadn’t moved from my fucking side of the court. But I wouldn’t devastate the guy. He clearly felt terrible, even if he wanted to blame me for the accident.
“Well, it’s a good thing you have a battle wound because you just got your asses kicked by a bunch of elderly women,” Easton said, a hint of humor in his voice.
“Oh boy. That’s a lot of blood,” Rafe said as he walked over, gawking at me, with Archer and Axel beside him.
“What’s your excuse for getting your ass kicked?” Easton hissed at Rafe.
“My excuse? Let’s see. I got hit in the dick with a ball by that asshole Barry Wilcox. I couldn’t shake it off after that.” Rafe shrugged, and everyone laughed.
“I think we need to get some ice on that,” Archer said as he lifted the shirt and looked at my nose. “The bleeding has stopped.”
“I don’t need ice. I need to be done with this fucking game and go home,” I growled.
My mom came running out of the clubhouse, as if there’d been a murder. I don’t know how she heard, but Ellie Chadwick was that mom. She always just showed up when any of us were hurt.
“What happened?” she shrieked.
“Dad was mad at Bridger for losing the match, and he whacked him in the face with his racket,” Rafe said over his laughter.
My father rolled his eyes and explained his own incorrect version of what had happened.
My mother examined my nose before FaceTiming my sister, Emerson, who was a doctor. She held the phone up to my face, and I was getting aggravated by all the attention. I’d split my nose; it wasn’t broken.
I’d broken it twice in my life, as I used to be a bit of a fighter in high school and college. I wasn’t proud of it, and I hadn’t been in a fight in a while. I had a lot more to lose now with the company that I’d built.
“It’s fine, Em. I’m going to head home.” I winked at her, because there were just a few people in the world I loved, and she was one of them.
“I’ll call you in an hour to see how the cut looks once you get it cleaned up. Get ice on it and keep your phone on,” she said. She could be a bossy little thing when she wanted to be.
I nodded and handed the phone back to my mom.
Henley, Lulu, and Eloise were walking our way, eyes wide and concerned. Obviously word traveled fast at the Rosewood River Country Club.
“Are you okay?” Lulu rushed over to me.
“I’m fine. Your future father-in-law has a big swing,” I said, keeping my voice light as my gaze moved to the woman standing a few feet behind them.
Emilia Taylor.
She was everywhere I fucking turned.