Page 1 of Thirst Trap
1
Whitley
“Wooo!”
I lift my glass as my legs continue to pedal as we take yet another shot in honor of Ella Mae, the bride-to-be and my former sorority sister at Alabama.
“I’m getting married!” she yells, nearly falling off her seat. Somehow, despite the fact that I’m just as drunk as she is, I reach out an arm to make sure she doesn’t fall off the pedal tavern.
Pretty good for a former beauty queen from Birmingham. Whoever thought it was a good idea to let a group of drunk bachelorettes ride around on a bar on wheels needs their head examined.
“Thanks, Whitley,” Ella Mae says, putting her head on my shoulder. Somehow her feet are still on the pedals, which is actually pretty impressive.
“Anytime,” I say, trying to help her sit up. “You better drink some water, we have a long night still to go.”
“That’s right we do!” Betsy, my best friend and fellow other bridesmaid, shouts from the other side of the pedal tavern. “I still have to find me a cowboy!”
I don’t bother telling her that the only cowboys in Nashville are wanna-be country singers and guys who bought boots for the weekend from Wal-Mart.
“Screw the cowboys. I want to find me one of those football players Whitley knows.”
The slurred comment comes from Emmilene, Ella Mae’s sister, and, much to all of our dismay, maid of honor. The bridal party consists of me, Betsy, and two of our other sorority sisters from Alabama; her high school best friend; and, of course, Emmilene.
Ella Mae let her pick out the color of the dresses. It is horrible.
She let her decide on the theme for the bridal shower. She went with an Old Southern Tea Party. Ella Mae hated it, but didn’t say a word. She’s too nice and too meek to speak up.
The only thing she has gotten right so far is the bachelorette party in Nashville. And let’s be real, the only reason this isn’t a disaster is because it’s pretty hard to screw this up.
Though if anyone could, it would be Emmilene.
“Like I told you earlier, I don’t know them,” I say. I wasn’t going to answer her, but she’s staring at me like I’m supposed to make a Nashville Fury player pop up out of nowhere. “My brother is the coach. I don’t know any of the players.”
“Yeah right,” she says, tossing back a piece of her red hair that is blowing in the wind. “You just want them all for yourself.”
Now I ignore her because I don’t want to start anything with a drunk Emmilene. She’s nasty enough when she’s sober, and we have a long night ahead of us.
I wasn’t lying when I said I don’t know any of the Nashville Fury players, despite my brother being the head coach. Yes, I come to his home games. Yes, I have met a few players in passing.
The truth is, they don’t do it for me. And not just them—football players in general. Or football fans. Alabama fans, to be specific. When you are from Birmingham, you can’t go ten feet without someone yelling “Roll Tide!”
I don’t have anything against the sport. I love football. You can’t grow up in the McAvoy house and not live for Saturdays and Sundays in the fall. I can probably out talk most men when it comes to football, though they doubt that a former beauty queen knows the difference between a touchdown and an illegal block in the back.
The problem is that once football players, or fans, realize who I am—the daughter and sister of Crimson Tide football royalty—they stop seeing me as a woman and start seeing me as a ticket.
My dad was the best quarterback to ever play at Alabama and is a hall of fame player as a professional. My brother, also an Alabama great, is the hottest coach in professional football and happens to be the head football coach in the town I’m currently visiting.
Then there is me. Only in my family does being named Miss Teen Alabama and running my own company at age twenty-six come in a distant third on the list of family accomplishments.
That’s why I’ll pass on football players. And Crimson Tide fans.
So, basically, every straight man in the state of Alabama.
“Oh, come on, Whit,” Betsy says, swaying a bit as I’m guessing she’s starting to feel the copious amount of shots we have taken today. “You can’t call up a few players? Or maybe your brother. He’s hot as fuck.”
I cringe at her words. “Don’t ever say that again.”
“I mean, look at him!” she says, pointing to a billboard with Hunter’s face plastered on it. “No one should be that good-looking.”
