Page 26 of The Stud

My parents cover our Black and Mexican ones pretty well, but our German ancestry lessons are much rarer.

They primarily linger in the beverages department since those are the roots that led to our billion-dollar company.

Gotta admit.

Wouldn’t mind backpacking around the region and drinking my weight in brewskies.

“Remember,” Audrey loudly interjects, pulling my thoughts back toThe Last Duelstyle conversation I’m being forced to engage in, “we’re both here for the same reason,Dumbo.” A mousy nibble of the appetizer is taken. “Seriously. Did you have to wear that thing here? You look like you could fly away with it.”

The cruel reference to my hearing aid has me shyly adjusting it in unspoken shame.

It’s not as if the thing is a fucking choice.

Unlike her designer perfume that is choking the air out of the room.

Arrogance over what she’s deemed a verbal victory is clearly heard in her tone, “This is aworkevent.”

“No,Last of the Hohicans,” effortlessly slips past my glossed lips. “I’mhere for work.You’rehere to find a husband, so that you neverhave to work.” I let my gaze glide to the left to steal a glimpse of the crowd at the poolside bar, anxious to find Snowman, grab a bit of footage, and get home to watch Denzel being Macbeth per my mom’s request. “Big difference.”

“Except,” she carelessly disregards the mostly untouched snack on a server’s unsuspecting champagne tray during his pass by, “flirting and dating and fucking are all work, which is something you’d know if you ever did them.”

The harsh – and unfortunately truthful – line is also her exit one.

Sneering at her champagne colored, sequins splattered, sleeveless mini dress covered back should make me feel better, but it doesn’t.

Being able to tell her to her face thatnot flirtingis achoice, that not havingtime to dateisdifferentthan not being abletodate, and that not spreading my legs for every man that makes at least a quarter of a million is what wouldactuallymake me happy.

Or…at least less irked.

I swallow my irritated grumbles, tighten my tiny clutch, and begin the hunt for the man I’m here to see.

The annual charity P.A.L. event – Players Across Leagues – is not so secretly my favorite to witness every year. There’s just something so awe-inspiring about seeing athletes from different sports from all around the world get together, drink, play, and help raise money for children who dream of doing what they do,but live in areas where it’s difficult to afford basic equipment and camps.

Typically, I just enjoy the shit from a distance.

A veryfardistance.

I scroll the paparazzi photos.

Check the soc’ tags.

See a photo from one of the Slayer’s – hockey wives or long-term girlfriends – when they’re waiting for their player to wrap up pracky.

I’ve never actuallybeen.

And I never actually wantedtogo.

I hate dressing up.

Fuck, I hate dresses.

In fact, my whole plan was to wear this bellbottom pants suit thing with a fancy sports bra, when the twin walked in and conned our mother into taking us shopping for this shit.

I swear, I’m only wearing this wannabe lingerie shit so that I don’t “embarrass” the family brand.

I may loathe my sibling – and all the silicone she is made of – but I love my parents and everything they’ve worked for as well as continue to work for.

Ugh.

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