Page 138 of Drop Three

Bodhi turns to face him, and I question if they know each other based on the firm embrace the man pulls him into. My hand detaches from Bodhi’s as I stay behind him while they chat.

But Bodhi refuses to let me go, reaching for my hand and holding it tight.

“Hello, sir,” Bodhi tells the man formally.

“It’s good to meet you, son. My name is Frank Vega. I’ve heard much about the infamous catcher Atlanta managed to keep since the beginning.”

So they don’t know each other. Weird greeting.

“Hopefully all good things, sir,” Bodhi responds.

Frank nods. “Listen, Bodhi, I am the vice president of Adidas Sports, and we would love the chance to talk with you a little more about?—”

A beautiful brunette woman approaches us. “And who do we have here?”

She might be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. I don’t have a clue who she is, but she wraps her arms around Frank and looks at us.

Her smile is wide, her hair is silky, and I want to ask her where she got her stunning dress.

I hang back slightly and wait for one of the men to do the introductions before I chat her up.

Frank greets her, “Hi, honey bear. This is Bodhi St. James, catcher for the Atlanta Strikers.”

Honey bear?I snort to myself.

“No, I meanher,” The woman points to me with venom in her tone.

That felt cruel.

I point at myself, trying to seem innocent when I legitimately don’t know why she would say that. Bodhi pulls me closer to him and settles his arm around my waist.

“This is my girlfriend, Navy,” Bodhi tells them.

That’s news to me.

I bring my heel to the top of his foot and step down, subtly enough not to draw attention but forceful enough to make Bodhi cough out in pain.

“Oh, sweetheart, do you need some water? Is your throat a little dry?” I ask Bodhi, teasing him.

Bodhi coughs again before sending me a side smirk.

“What about her, angel pie?” Frank asks the woman as she stares me down. I feel uncomfortable and very confused.

Why is she targeting me like I’m doing something wrong?

“Who let her in the doors looking like that?” Then she turns her attention toward me, continuing her beratement. “Do you have any idea how much money goes into planning an event of this caliber?”

Looks like I got my answer. She hates my outfit.

I shake my head. “I don’t, but I bet you’re about to tell me.”

So much for asking her where she got her dress. I’m always down to make new friends, but I can see that’s not happening.

She readjusts her Prada purse. “It’s out of your budget, love. Even the dinner napkins cost more than that atrocious thing you call a dress hanging from your body.”

I’m someone who can only tolerate so much.

No matter how much her opinion shouldn’t matter to me, it still hurts. Why can’t we support each other as women and cheer each other on for our choices? I made the choice to wear this on my own, and how dare she make me feel like I’m less than because the price tag is smaller than hers.

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