Page 107 of Goal Line
“I think we’re all just a bit shocked that Baby Hartmann is the first of us to get married or have a kid,” Tristan says.
“Why would that surprise you? You three have avoided settling down like it’s a death sentence.”
As if on cue, my brothers all raise their glasses, clinking them together and looking at me expectantly.
“What are we toasting?” I ask. “If it’s avoiding marriage, I’m not sure why you’re looking at me.”
“We’re toastingyou,” Tristan says, his voice tinged with amusement, “for taking one for the team.”
I lift my soda to meet their raised glasses, knowing exactly where they’re coming from. Mom and Dad have been vocal about wanting grandkids for a while, and now that they’ll be able to focus all their grandparent energy on Eva’sand my baby, the pressure is off my brothers. For a while, at least.
“I couldn’t get a ring on her finger fast enough,” I tell them. “Just wait, you’ll see.”
Their bellows of laughter ring out, as if I just said the most absurd thing in the world. Some heads turn toward the bar to see what’s so funny, but “the Hartmann boys” causing a ruckus at a society event is hardly news, and everyone quickly turns away.
“Not a chance,” Preston says confidently.
“Probably true. Who’d want to marry your surly ass?” Tucker says and we all laugh because, as much as women seem to love trying to get Preston’s attention, it’s impossible to picture him in a relationship. He doesn’t have a tender bone in his body. I think some combination of rugby and business—the two loves of his life—hardened him a long time ago.
“Hey, at least I didn’t propose to someone who was cheating on me,” Preston says, and I watch Tucker’s jaw clench.
“Don’t make me fucking punch you on the sidelines of a polo match,” he grumbles.
Preston just smirks back at him.
“Why aren’t you riding today?” I ask Tristan, drawing the conversation away from Tucker’s failed engagement. It’s still a sore subject for him, even though he didn’t want to marry her in the first place.
Tristan glances at the field and says, “My wrist has been bothering me.”
“Too much jerking off,” Tucker says matter-of-factly. “Tris needs a woman in his life so he can stop tweaking his hand like this.”
“Pfft.” The puff of air escapes Tristan’s lips as he rolls his eyes and glances at Tucker like he’s a bug not worth responding to. That’s pretty much Tristan’smodus operandiwhen anyone says something he doesn’t like. If looks could kill, Tristan would be an assassin. Unfortunately for him, my brothers and I are all immune.
“All right, I’m going to get this drink to my wife before she passes out from heat exhaustion,” I say, glancing over at her again. It’s hot as hell today, even under the shade of all the tents. There’s an oppressive mugginess hanging around after last night’s rain showers, and despite the clear blue sky and bright sunshine that dried the field up for the match, the humidity hasn’t broken.
Eva’s running hot already because of the pregnancy, and as I turn to walk back to her, I see that she’s taken her wide-brimmed hat off and is fanning her face with it.
The stretchy navy and white striped dress she’s wearing clings to her body, and I’m genuinely worried that she might get overheated.
“Here,” I say, handing her the Shirley Temple as I approach. “A cold drink will help you cool down. Or we can go sit in the car with the air conditioning blasting for a bit if you want.”
“I’m fine,” she says with a sigh, but I worry that she’s minimizing her discomfort. She takes a sip of her drink before sliding her hat back on her head. Her hair’s in a sleek, low bun, so at least she doesn’t have all that heavy, dark hair hanging down her back, but her bright pink cheeks make itlook like she just ran a 5K, not like she’s been standing in the shade.
Zach nods his chin toward the horses and players returning to the field for the start of the second half of the game. I’d shown him and Ashleigh how to stomp divots during halftime, but Eva had stayed under the shade of the tent. Now, with the start of the fourth chukker, or period, I’m wondering if she’s going to make it for the whole match.
“Rich-people sports are funny,” he says with a slight shake of his head. “Where I grew up, getting a new pair of hockey skates was a luxury. Meanwhile, these players are switching out theirponies”—he says the word almost distastefully, like it’s ridiculous that we call these majestic horses “ponies” when they’re playing polo—“at the end of every chukker.”
“It took me a while to come around to it,” Eva tells him. “But normally, when it’s not a bazillion degrees, matches are really fun. And Luke’s brother, Tristan, is really entertaining to watch—he plays polo like it’s hockey, but on a horse. Lots of hooking and bumping. The last match I came to, he actually got ejected.”
“That happens in polo?” Ashleigh asks curiously.
“Rarely,” I say, thinking about how he got ejected from about half of his soccer games when he was in high school. In games, like in life, Tristan thinks he’s above the rules. “But leave it to Tristan to make it happen.”
“Your brothers seem...” Zach says, furrowing his brow as he glances over to the three of them at the bar, their boisterous conversation still turning heads.
“Impervious to people’s opinions of them?” I ask when he doesn’t finish his sentence.
He chuckles. “Yeah. Not so different from you, I guess.”
