Page 88 of Player Problems

Jackson rolls his eyes, shoving Beckett. “Doubtful. Or did you not see the photo she has her background set to?”

Oh fuck. I give him a panicked look, making him cackle. Please for the love of god, tell me my mother didn’t see that photo.

“Mom didn’t see it,” Mason assures me. And I heave a sigh of relief. Shit stirrers all of them. “She’s cool though,” he says, patting me on the shoulder. “We had a good time getting to know your girl.”

I rub the back of my neck. “She’s not really my girl.” It feels weirder to have this conversation with my older brother. Dylan is a fuckhead even if he is older than me. It’s not the same with Mason or Liam. I’ve always looked up to them even if I give them a hard time.

My whole family trades looks, and it’s a feeling I’m starting to get used to.

“That must be why she was wearing Moore’s jersey,” Jackson taunts.

“Who was wearing my jersey?” Tate asks, as he joins us. What a slow ass.

“Torryn was,” Dylan helpfully supplies.

Emery steps up as Tate gives me a panicked look, his cheeks turning a vibrant red. “She was? I haven’t— umm. B, I swear—” he trips over his words, not really ever getting a coherent thought out.

Emery bursts out laughing. “Xander is going to be so mad he missed that.”

Tate glares at her, but I nudge him with my shoulder. “Tor was just fucking with me.”

My mom tilts her head with a familiar gleam in her eye. “But why would you care if she’s not yours?”

I clear my throat, trying to figure out a way to explain this to my mom without offending her. Everyone is now looking at me, including my dumbass teammates and even Isla. She should really have Torryn’s back better than this. “Well, Mom,” I start, scratching my chin to buy time. “Romantic relationships are not the only type of—um—arrangements?”

My mom cuts me off with a scowl. “I know you’ve hadrelationswith that girl.” I start to choke on the emphasis she puts on relations and we all know damn well what she means. “I’d have to be blind not to see the marks you left on that poor girl’s neck.”

Kill me now.

I may not survive this conversation.

“You should see the ones he left on her—” Dylan is cut off when Liam wraps his hand over his mouth, nodding my direction. Thank fuck someone is on my side here. The last thing I need my mom picturing is me between Torryn’s legs.

“Okay, well just because we do that?—”

“Baylor Levine,” my mom scolds, and I don’t know how much more embarrassment I can handle. “If you are not mature enough to say the word sex, you are not mature enough to be having it.”

Even my dad is laughing now. Traitor. My only saving grace is that Torryn isn’t also here to witness this horror show. “Fine,” I mutter. “Just because Torryn and I have sex,” I emphasize the word, “doesn’t mean we are a couple. We’re just friends.”

My mom doesn’t look at all satisfied even as she says, “Yes, of course, honey.” She pats my shoulder and here it comes. “I’m just saying, if it looks like a duck. And it quacks like a duck. One should consider that it’s probably a duck, even if the duck keeps saying it’s a chicken.”

Silence follows her statement, though Beau is practically hanging on James’ arm with his fist in his mouth to keep quiet. I scratch my head, brushing my hair out of my face, waiting for understanding to dawn on me. Finally I heave a sigh. “Mom, I genuinely have no idea what ducks or chickens have to do with Torryn.”

My mom stares at me stupefied, but for once I think she’s actually speechless. Don’t know that I’ve ever seen that happen before. She turns to Isla. “Is she as bad as him?”

Isla tilts her head to the side, giving the answer some thought before responding. “She might be worse, actually.”

“Impossible,” Wells scoffs.

“Well,” James draws out the word skeptically.

Beau squints his eyes, looking off in the distance. “Baylor is more vocal in his denial but Torryn is actually more clueless.”

Everyone seems to agree to that collectively. Even my dad and oldest brothers throw in their two cents about how they could see that.

“We have a support chat,” Isla says.

“You have a what?” I ask, dumbfounded. I’m not a particularly dense person. I usually have no trouble following conversations and while I can’t say school has come easily to me, I get good grades. Not just average or okay, but good. I’m not atotal idiot as seems to be thrown in my direction often enough these days.

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