Now I had to figure out how to juggle my parents, the game, and keeping them from meeting Oakley. And to top it all off, a freaking kegger to consume my every waking thought instead of the way those girls were hanging all over Oakley. And how much Oakley was loving the attention. And how much I hated how much Oakley was loving it.

18

“This is so exciting!” Mom yelled. Their flight landed at seven this morning, and ever since they got off the plane and smothered me with hugs, she’d been saying that.

“You’re not really wearing that to the game, are you, Tilly?” my dad asked, scrunching his brow. Mom looked like an older version of me, with faker boobs and bigger hair. Her tan looked flawless under the Texas sun, and the crop top she wore showed off her incredible physique. She wasn’t necessarily dressing her age, but she was enjoying herself. That was all that mattered.

“It’s hotter than a meth pipe on payday, Crosby. I worked hard for these abs, and I want to take enough photos for the Facebook. Lacey McGuire can eat my farts. This will get her to stop trying to sell me diet pills. Don’t you ruin this for me.”

Dad chuckled. Unlike Mom, he wore a Proud University of Texas Dad shirt tucked into dark jeans with a brown belt and black tennis shoes. I was so happy to see them, and other than a few comments about my weight loss and the large brunch I had to endure, I was surprisingly happy having them here.

“I got us really good seats, but I’m going to have to disappear after the game to make sure Oakley doesn’t go rogue during his interviews,” I said. The three of us were walking to the stadium. College students passed us by with beer cans in their fists and sloppy sways to their walks.

I had a very vague plan for keeping my parents busy tonight so I could keep an eye on Oakley. I had to find my old bangle flask in my closet and fill it with vodka—mom’s favorite. She wanted to relive the glory days, so I was going to get her very, very, very drunk.

“Are we going to get to meet the Oakley Davis? I sure do like his Instagram posts,” my mom said playfully as she gave me an overexaggerated wink. My dad chuckled and let out a dramatic sigh.

“I’ll see what I can do,” I straight up lied. “But Oakley is the star player, so after the game, he’s going to be very busy giving interviews,” I explained. It was better to let my mom think I was going to try than to tell her no. If I just told her no, she would never let it go. She’d already proven she couldn’t be trusted.