Holy cow.
This was one conversation I did not want to have with Trey’s mom.
I nodded, though, and said, “We were going to get a divorce. Trey said he’d talk to his lawyer and figure it all out.”
She gave me another quick hug. “Okay, I’ve been on this Earth a lot longer than you, kid—and I’ve learned a thing or two about men—good and bad. And sex always complicates things. So, whether you decide to go along with their hairbrained scheme—or not—I wanted to say my piece. Taking some aspects of a relationship more slowly can be a really great thing.”
Everything she said made sense. Not that it would have two days ago.
Now, it did.
“We weren’t going to continue—anything after we got back,” I said semi-awkwardly to her. “I really am sorry for—everything.”
She looked at me with a sad expression. “We all do stupid shit sometimes.”
Then she hugged me again.
And—it felt nice.
My dad hugged me.
My teammates hugged me.
But I couldn’t remember the last time someone’s mom hugged me.
Mom hugs were different.
They had a way of holding you tightly—but still being soft, warm, and safe.
After we finally quit our hugging session, Marianne walked me back into the living room.
There was a man there who had everyone’s rapt attention.
“We’re back,” Marianne announced, and the older, salt and pepper haired man immediately stood. “Marianne, fantastic to see you again,” he said with an over the top grin on his face.
Holy cow.
Marianne had barely stepped one foot inside the room and he was already flirting with her.
“Quentin, nice to see you again,” she said, stepping away from me to give him a brief hug.
Although, I’d bet he wanted more than just that.
“Meet my new friend, Lexi Hunter,” she said, moving back around to me.
Quentin held his hand out to me. “Lexi Hunter, talk about a prodigy. I’ve been following your career for a while now. That wrist shot of yours is—legendary. Which isn’t surprising seeing as who your dad is,” he said in one long-winded breath as he shook the heck out of my hand.
Prodigy was pushing it a little.
And not to brag, but my wrist shot was the freaking best in the women’s league.
No one came close to it.
And yes, it was the same wrist shot that made my dad a famous pro all those years ago.
Call it genetics.
Call it hours and hours of coaching.