Page 12 of Framing the Pitch (Red Dirt Romance #1)
Awesome? Awesome? That sounds like the lamest acknowledgement to the fact that Trace is taking a week of his time to come watch me play. And to post about our fake relationship, but obviously that is the source of my mental shutdown, so into the box it goes.
“I mean, that’s great.” Not much better, Naomi .
“I’m excited,” he says, oblivious to my inner turmoil. “It’s been so long, but I always like watching you play,” Trace says, and the little glance I catch out of the corner of my eye sends the warmth inside my chest into a bonfire.
My watch buzzes with a notification, and I groan when I see it’s a call. Knowing that if I ignore it, she’ll just keep calling, I set my food aside and retrieve my phone from where I left it charging on the kitchen counter.
I take a deep breath before I unplug my phone and answer the call from my younger sister, Jenna.
“Hello?” I make my way back to the couch and plop down to a quizzical look from Trace.
“Naomi. Hi.” The tension in her voice is sharper than her normal variety, and I don’t blame her.
We don’t have the closest relationship—we can thank our mom for that—and it’s rare I’ll get a call from her that isn’t on my birthday or Christmas.
Since we grew up with an overbearing mom constantly comparing us to each other, it’s pretty clear why we’re not exactly calling each other out of the blue to chat.
“Hi, Jenna. What do you need?” If Jenna’s calling, then she has a reason for it, and I’d make an Erica bet that I know what it’s about.
I hear a deep breath, and then the words rush out of her. “There was a problem with the bridesmaids’ dresses. I had Mom put in the order because I was still busy with my season, but when I went to pick them up, your dress was missing. The boutique said they never received your measurements.”
And Bingo was his name-o . Every phone call I’ve received from any member of my family over the last six months has been about Jenna and her wedding to fellow pro snowboarder Ryker Ames, which is coming up in a handful of weeks.
I’m going because Jenna asked me to be a bridesmaid, but if I had any real choice in the matter, I’d send a card and cash and call it good.
“Okay?” I wait for Jenna to enlighten me. If I knew getting involved with her wedding was going to involve so many phone calls to complain or inform me of things I have no power to influence, I might have said no to Jenna’s request to be in her wedding party.
“I don’t know how Mom forgot to put your measurements on the order, but the boutique said they could rush a dress for you if I can get your measurements to them in the next half hour.”
I snort and then clear my throat, hoping that Jenna didn’t hear my derision. It wouldn’t surprise me if Mom intentionally forgot to include my dress on the order. Why would she add it, when I’m sure she thinks I’ll ruin the aesthetics of her perfect daughter’s wedding?
While Jenna and I aren’t the closest, I don’t really have anything against her .
After all, it’s not her fault Mom and Dad pick favorites.
And I have a feeling that has a lot more to do with my lack of talent in winter sports than it does with any other difference between me and Jenna.
While I was always too tall for my age, thanks to some dormant genes on my dad’s side, and had a complexion that could pass for natural camouflage on the slopes, Jenna took after my mom in height and looks.
Plus, with my dad’s incredible knack for flips and spins, she was basically the poster child for slopestyle snowboarding by the time she was ten .
With two gold-medal-winning parents who were hell-bent on having champion athlete children, it was easy to see why I came in second place.
No matter that I worked my butt off to be a starter on the elite travel teams my parents signed me up for, or that I earned a scholarship with one of the top softball programs in the nation, or that I eventually played for the women’s national team.
It was all eclipsed by Jenna and her Olympic gold medal when she was eighteen.
“Well,” I say, coming back to the task at hand, “I’m not really in a place where I can measure myself right now.” And after several months of pre-season training, there’s no guaranteeing I’m the same size as before.
“Can you just do it as soon as you can?” Her desperation slips into agitation. “The boutique needs them today. This is an emergency.”
With how many times I’ve been called over the last year for “wedding emergencies,” I’m pretty sure my family doesn’t know the real meaning of the word.
I release a pent-up breath through my nose.
“Give me a minute; I’ll go find a tape measure.
” I pull my phone away from my ear before tapping the mute button and placing the phone face down on the couch between me and Trace.
He tilts his head with a question on his face as I get up and head toward my bedroom.
I shake my head and mumble a quick, “Jenna,” as my only explanation as I walk away.
He nods in understanding, going back to his dinner while I walk down the hallway.
Even though I could explain things with my phone muted, I have a feeling that conversation is going to be a long one.
I dig the tape measure I keep around solely to measure my bra size out of a dresser drawer and quickly measure around my chest, waist, and hips. Tucking it back where it goes, I step quickly back to my phone. Trace sets his styrofoam box aside and focuses on me when I get back to the couch.
I hit unmute and rattle off the three numbers to my younger sister. “Thanks, Naomi. You’re a lifesaver.” The relief in Jenna’s voice is palpable.
“Don’t mention it.”
I’m expecting Jenna to say goodbye and hang up, but she’s quiet for a minute. The silence stretches well into uncomfortable territory, and I’m about to press the “end call” button when I hear her inhale sharply.
“Is it true?” she asks, her voice breathy and quiet. “You’re dating Trace?”
Her questions catch me off guard. “Um, yeah?”
I hear a few more heavy breaths before she asks, “And you’re bringing him to the wedding?”
My heart falls into my stomach, and I glance over at Trace to find him watching me closely.
I’ve spent so much time over the last year actively trying to forget about Jenna’s wedding that when coming up with this plan with Trace, I didn’t think about the fact that her wedding is smack dab in the middle of my season.
“Yes?” Everything coming out of my mouth sounds like a question, and I hate it. Just yesterday, I was so sure about this whole thing, but now the idea of taking Trace back home to meet my parents, who never bothered to come to a single game in my collegiate career, is making me a little sick.
Jenna breathes a sigh. “Good. I’ll make sure everything is arranged correctly for the two of you.”
The way she emphasizes correctly makes me think that she also thinks Mom messed up the bridesmaid dresses on purpose. But the moment of camaraderie between my younger sister and me is fleeting, and she barrels on. “Thanks for getting these for me. I’ll talk to you later.”
We both rush to say goodbye, and after I hang up, I’m left staring at my phone.
“Jenna?” Trace asks, his deep voice jarring me out of the weird stare down I’m having with a digital device.
“Yeah.” I sigh and lean back, sinking into my couch. “Apparently my mom ‘forgot’”—I hold up my fingers in a pair of air quotes—”to give the dressmaker my measurements for a bridesmaid dress, and now Jenna’s panicking. She says they’ll have it done before the wedding, but…” I trail off.
“But?” Trace prompts, and I finally look over at him.
“But I forgot Jenna is getting married during my season.” I raise my eyebrows and bounce my head, hoping he can find the brainwave I’m projecting toward him.
“How does that change anything?”
“Jenna asked if you were coming with me.” I look down, suddenly finding my fingernails very interesting.
“Of course, I’m going.” He says it like it’s a fact carved in stone and not the two of us trying to synchronize our calendars for our shotgun relationship.
“Um, sure, but you really don’t have to. It’s not a big deal. You know how my family is, so I’m not going to ask you to come with me and subject yourself to that.”
“Naomi, I know how your mom operates. And that’s exactly why I’m going.
I know you don’t need me to protect you, but I’m always willing to stand by you.
Especially where your mother is concerned.
Besides, what better person to have your back than your fake boyfriend?
” The humor in Trace’s voice makes me think he’s coming around to the whole fake dating idea .
And, if I’m being completely honest with myself, there’s no one else I’d want with me to lend me strength against my mom.
When we finish our meals, Trace stands and takes our garbage to the kitchen. I kick back on the couch and turn the TV on, idling flipping through the streaming apps without picking anything.
When Trace comes back to the couch, I sidle up next to him and hand him the TV remote. “Don’t pick anything too long,” I warn him. “I have a game tomorrow.”
Trace chuckles, looking over at me. “You’re going to fall asleep in the first fifteen minutes, aren’t you?”
I slouch down a little, giving myself space to lean against Trace’s shoulder and close my eyes. “No. What would give you that impression?” I crack an eye open and smirk up at him.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he teases, shifting his shoulder, making my head bob up and down.
“Just pick a movie,” I say, smacking his chest playfully. Trace chuckles, finally stopping his fidgeting, and picks a movie.