Chapter 9
CHASE
I’d recognize the back—and front—of Pippa Thompson anywhere, and it isn’t because she once sat in a plate of spaghetti with tomato sauce or had melted chocolate in her back pocket during a trip to the botanical gardens back in high school.
I’m stunned stupid all over again because of the way her brown hair swishes and occasionally teases the perfect curve of her neck, the way her shoulders press back with confidence, and how the slight tilt of her head suggests perpetual curiosity about the world around her.
Okay, I’ll stop now because if the guys were here and had mind-reading powers, they’d question whether I’m fit to lead the team to another Super Bowl win.
However, I can’t deny that those are but some of the many things I’ve always liked about Pippa.
She was always different from other girls—especially Marlow.
Looking back, how do I put this mildly, Marlow had an obsession and the object of it was me.
I always thought of her as Mean Marlow. I was a fan of pranks, but not when they were mean-spirited.
Marlow wasn’t above giving teachers rotten apples so they’d get sick and have to cancel class or humiliate a peer with unwrapped chocolate in their back pocket.
I’ve always been certain it was her who did it, but Freddie thought it was funny. Regrettably, I went along with it.
“Pizza,” I murmur before I can stop myself.
Pippa’s face ripples with confusion before crumbling. She rushes away from the circle of women before I can correct myself.
“Don’t you mean Pippa?” Marlow says with distaste and confirming Pizza’s identity even though she’s now lost in the crowd. “Figures you wouldn’t remember a nobody like her.”
“Haven’t seen her in—” I’m short on words and dismiss Marlow’s ugly ones.
“Chase, darling, it truly has been so long,” she says, with arms outstretched for a hug.
Caught between not wanting to embrace Marlow but knowing better than to be rude, the hug I offer is stiff as I scan the crowd for Pippa.
“We were just talking about you.” Marlow’s lips pooch suggestively.
“I heard,” I murmur.
The other women giggle in a flirtatious way.
I’m aware that I should be flattered, but I’m not interested in anything other than knowing why Pippa reacted like that and then ran away.
Although it probably has something to do with her confession about having a crush on me in high school and then realizing I stood right behind her.
This makes for an interesting twist to the evening. One, I should not be entertaining, all things considered—all things being Pippa is my best friend Freddie’s sister, making her forbidden.
I struggle between excusing myself to find Pippa and following the bro code. Marlow decides for me. Like a boa constrictor, she grips my forearm. The more I resist, the tighter she clutches me with pointy artificial witch nails.
If I were Declan or Wolf, I wouldn’t think twice about going my own way, even if it caused a scene or made the ladies chatter with disapproval.
But my parents are in attendance, my mother wanted me here, and I’m already in hot water.
And yes, a grown man—at least this grown man—still honors his parents.
“What are the odds of seeing you here?” Marlow asks with a breathy giggle.
Considering Marlow seems to turn up at any event my parents invite me to, the odds are high. All the same, I’m distracted and the answer she gets is a shrug as I continue to peer around the room for Pippa. But the woman in the yellow gown with big brown eyes is nowhere to be seen.
After meeting Abigail and her friends, I endure polite chatter before breaking away when a server offers refreshments.
Several guests greet me, interrupting my progress until, like I’m making a run with the ball, I stride through with purpose so I don’t get sidelined again.
I check the foyer, the bathroom, and several other spaces with open doors before we’re called to the dining room.
Over the years, I’ve wanted to apologize to Pippa, but she must’ve changed her email—especially after the one she accidentally sent that prompted the sponge cake thing that had unintentionally turned into a fiasco.
It’s not like I could’ve asked Freddie for her updated info. As far as he was concerned, it was okay for me to prank her, but definitely not okay for me to show any interest—romantic or otherwise. That would’ve been grounds for dismissal and I didn’t want to lose a friend.
Nor did I mean to hurt Pippa’s feelings.
Looking back, if Pippa were my twin and Freddie was me, I’d have shoved his face in an actual sponge cake, made him eat it off the floor, and then forced him to beg and plead for her forgiveness.
I’m better off compartmentalizing dreams and reality. So, setting the past aside, I scrub my hand down my face and then adjust my tie as I prepare for dinner with my mom and dad.
My parents, Ruth and Rhett Collins, sit with another couple—Pippa and Freddie’s parents.
My shoe catches on the carpet and I nearly stumble, but my reflexes are quick and I catch myself as Mr. Smythe passes on his way to the head table. “Ah, Chase, my boy. Nice to see you here and dressed.” His gaze drifts to my trousers with recognition of moon-gate and slight admonishment.
It’s juvenile, but I’d like to reply, Save your judgment, mister. My father will handle the reprimands...and they’ll never stop, so you can be sure I’ve learned my lesson.
Instead, I say, “Nice to see you, sir. Thank you for welcoming me to your home.” I lean in. “If given the choice, I prefer pants, cleats, pads, a jersey, and a helmet because it means one thing: getting gritty, sweaty...but my football uniform isn’t proper dining attire.” I end with a genial wink.
He replies with a guffaw and a clap on the shoulder. Having charmed the old chap, I approach the table.
The part I didn’t mention to Lord Smythe is the intense comfort I get from digging into the field as I eat up yards of turf with the ball.
I enjoy working hard because the payoff means more to me than the approval of the Smythes and my parents’ elite friends, who take more stock in wealth than achievement.
“Chase, dear. Please come join us.” My mother makes a fuss as I sit down, cooing over how nice I look in the navy blue suit—she’s a sweetheart and means it genuinely. No backhanded rebuke about my pantsless #BruiserButt in her tone.
As usual, Rhett remains locked in his judgmental silence.
Mom makes pleasant conversation, somehow ignoring the tension rolling off my father like heat across a desert road and directed at me.
The Thompsons ask about the off-season and if I’ve heard from Freddie. My answers are genuine because I’ve always liked them, but I can’t help my keen awareness that the seat between them remains empty. My guess is it belongs to Pizza.
Mom chats about the lovely party and raves about how the last time she ate with the Smythes, the goose confit was the tenderest she’d ever eaten. I’m hardly listening until she says, “Oh, and here’s the gal I’ve been waiting to finally meet.”
I’d been taking a sip of water and almost sputter as the woman in the yellow gown lowers hesitantly into the chair beside me. Her expression is plastic and rigid.
“Chase, you remember Pippa from Hinnifin, right?” Mom asks. “She’s Freddie’s twin sister.”
As if I didn’t know.
But that’s all the reminder I need to remember my place. Pippa is out of bounds and thinking about her like anyone other than my best friend’s sister would warrant a penalty, so I do what I’ve always done.
I reach over and ruffle her hair. “Hey, Pippag Thomzeg. How’s it going? Haven’t seen you in a while, kiddo. I hear you’re crushing it these days.”
She blanches before her cheeks turn crimson in a case of cold to hot.
Okay, I realize the ogre reference was a step too far, and calling her kiddo is pretty cringy, but I automatically switched to Jerk Mode as a matter of self-preservation. One that I instantly regret.
She leans ever so slightly away from me like I have cooties. I want to get away from myself right now, too. That was uncalled for.
I catch the edge of my mother’s confused frown at the greeting.
Turning back, I consider apologizing, but how would I explain myself?
My apologies, I spent a good portion of my senior year with a crush on Pippa, only to find out she’s my best friend’s sister, so I have to do everything in my power to snuff out any notion of attraction under the pain of death.
Pippa edges her cutlery closer to her plate and stares straight ahead.
The moms and dads chat like we’re not here and the way I feel makes me wish I were invisible.
But I didn’t realize my parents had never met Freddie’s twin.
Surely, they would’ve crossed paths at Hinnifin Hall events.
Then again, I was understandably upset by the decision they made for me senior year and hardly spoke to them until I abruptly returned to the States after getting recruited to the Bruisers.
Pippa keeps her eyes fixed on her mother as if attempting to communicate telepathically. I recall once asking Freddie if twin-tuition was real—if they could tap into each other’s thoughts or sense when the other needed help.
He’d laughed like reading Pippa’s mind would’ve been about as pleasant as the pork chop slop in the dining hall on Wednesdays. We were convinced it was a science experiment gone wrong and in need of disposal.
“Freddie and I were in the same class, so of course, I remember Pippa too.” I flash her a friendly, if not apologetic, smile.
I don’t get one in return. Instead, she hisses through gritted teeth so only I can hear, “Do you mean pizza? Because if memory serves, and it does, the offending foods were spaghetti...and sponge cake.”
“I can explain,” I whisper back so the parents don’t overhear. No need to cause a scene.
“That you made it your job to ruin my senior year?” she says with a smile and laugh, masking the ire in her voice, pretending to be part of the discussion at the table.
“I had nothing to do with the saucident.”
She makes a little chupse of surprise through her clenched teeth. “It has an official name?”
“That’s what Freddie called it.” As ever, I followed his lead.
“Then you claim the sponge cake prank?” she asks, picking up on my guilt by omission.
My mother taps my hand and laughs. “Isn’t that so, dear?” She must’ve made a joke, so I nod, going along with it.
When I’m in the clear, to Pippa, I hiss, “The sponge cake wasn’t meant to ruin your senior year. Quite the—”
But I don’t get to finish because Mr. Thompson asks me about the upcoming season, which skirts dangerously close to the subject I’d like to avoid—the possibility I might not be playing.
Because the scowly side eye Pippa gives after our hushed conversation kicks this Bruiser’s butt.