Chapter 31 – Prey Out of Stock: Only Alan Still Available!
The short-haired woman beside him gave Sean a curious once-over, then struck up a conversation: "Hi, I'm Brooke. Which one is your kid down there?" She swept her gaze across the swarm of running children, clearly assuming he was someone's father.
Sean, unlike a hungover Charlie in a daze, answered politely. Pointing to Jake in the No. 9 blue-and-yellow Lakers jersey, he said:
"I'm his guardian for today, but not his father."
Brooke's smile froze for a second, then flipped to open surprise and a flash of dawning comprehension.
She blinked, eyes ping-ponging between Sean and the blond boy on the field, finally settling on Sean's face with unabashed admiration—almost theatrically so:
"Wow…"
She stretched the syllable, sincerely praising his character: "You're really… incredibly generous!"
She nodded emphatically, as though he'd made some jaw-dropping sacrifice.
Clearly she'd jumped to the heartwarming scenario of "current boyfriend selflessly raising girlfriend's child from previous relationship."
Well—she'd taken a hard left turn into the wrong conclusion.
Before he could untangle the beautiful misunderstanding, Gloria, seated behind Brooke, gave Sean a knowing smile and stepped in as impromptu narrator. Patting Brooke's shoulder, she chirped with conspiratorial familiarity:
"Brooke, this is Sean Horace."
She stressed his full name:
"He's Alan Harper's cousin—Jake's uncle." Her glance at Sean carried a teasing glint.
"Alan Harper?"
Brooke blinked, then the light bulb went on; surprise morphed into an "aha" expression.
Of course she knew Alan—Judith's ex-husband.
As a fellow Sherman Oaks mom, Brooke had heard all the gossip.
"Oh! Sean Horace!"
She reappraised him; admiration vanished, replaced by "I've-heard-so-much-about-you" curiosity, her smile turning meaningful:
"Judith's mentioned you!"
She emphasized "mentioned," hinting at shared intel within their circle:
"She said… you're a police officer?"
She sized him up, cross-checking Judith's description against the leather-jacketed, rugged man before her, eyes sparkling with interest.
Sean caught the familiar gleam—he'd seen it in Rose, in Gloria.
Great. Among the soccer-mom set he'd become "desirable prey." He sighed inwardly, outwardly calm.
Being too attractive is a curse.
"Yes, I'm on administrative leave, so I came to watch Jake's game."
He glanced at the field. The non-competitive youth game looked pointless. The blue-and-yellows—Jake's team—had just conceded goal number five. Pathetic.
Brooke ignored the score, attention fixed on Sean, bestowing a flattering smile:
"You're clearly someone who cares about children's development!" Her tone oozed compliment.
"Thank you," Sean replied politely, eyes still on the field. "Kids are the future, after all." Safe, standard line.
Brooke pivoted, voice tinged with rehearsed sympathy: "We heard about Judith and Alan… we're so sorry about the divorce."
The scent of gossip wafted in, strong as cheap perfume.
Gloria chimed in from behind, leaning forward, voice hushed but thrilled: "Tell us—was it true?" Her eyes glittered like she'd struck gold.
"Did Judith really leave Alan for another woman?" Blunt to the point of rudeness.
Sean's brows twitched. His cousin's messy personal life? Total minefield.
Family business stays private—especially Alan's tangled, embarrassing saga.
Truth be told, Judith and Alan were near mirror-images—both stubborn, both chronic complainers; Alan just whined more pathetically.
But he wouldn't voice that to strangers.
"Sorry," Sean said evenly, cool distance creeping in. "I know no more than anyone else. If you want details—" his gaze flicked between their eager faces, "ask Judith next time you see her?" Clean deflection.
Was Judith gay? Definitely not.
One: he knew the truth from the show. Two: her confusion likely sprang from marital crisis, not actual orientation change.
Brooke's sympathetic mask cracked; she gave a sheepish laugh and waved it off: "Oh, forget it—we don't want to be nosy."
She knew further prying would hit a wall.
To reset, she switched topics, curiosity back on Sean: "So… police work must be dangerous?"
Eyes gleamed—people always romanticize "exciting" jobs; nobody asks janitors or baristas for war stories.
Sean's gaze drifted, then returned, tone flat as recalling breakfast: "Yesterday I shot and killed a suspect resisting arrest. Found two loaded illegal firearms in his vehicle."
Brooke's eyes widened; Gloria held her breath.
Sean went on, voice steady:
"More importantly, we successfully rescued a teenage girl who'd been kidnapped by the suspect and was about to be trafficked, and we reunited her with her family."
He left out the bloody details and stated only the outcome, yet beneath that calm narration lay enough drama for Gloria and Brooke to mentally storyboard a Netflix series.
Brooke gasped, curiosity instantly replaced by fierce admiration; she stared at Sean as though he were the real-life hero of a cop show, her face screaming "So cool!"
Just then, Sean's gaze drifted past the two women and landed on the entrance to the field.
There was Alan, looking like a fish out of water, awkwardly lugging his haul:
In his left hand he balanced two huge iced drinks with straws, under his arm he clamped a bulging grocery bag—clearly stuffed with snacks—while his right hand clutched a folding table leg; the table wobbled behind him, ready to collapse at any second.
Sweat plastered his hair under the baseball cap, and his khakis rode so low from all the weight they were practically falling off.
"Excuse me, ladies."
Feeling reprieved, Sean rose at once, politely but quickly ending the predatory conversation and strode toward Alan.
Alan spotted him like a drowning man seeing a life preserver, dropped the table onto the ground with a clatter and exhaled in relief:
"Hey! Sean! Thank God! What's the score? I was so busy shopping I missed everything!"
He wiped his brow, asking eagerly, his face glowing with the expectation that "my boy must be doing great."
Sean took one of the iced drinks; the cold instantly chased away the sun's heat. He pointed at Jake, still jogging slowly on the field, and calmly dropped the bomb:
"Oh, the soccer moms say that, for the kids' enjoyment and development, this game is 'non-competitive'—no official score."
Alan had just set the shopping bag down; the words froze him mid-motion, his face a giant question mark, hand pressed to his forehead in despair.
"No score? What kind of game—" Alan looked as if he'd heard the world's worst joke,
but before he could finish, his eyes were caught by something on the field!
There was chubby Jake, seizing a moment when the opposing defender relaxed, managing to intercept the ball—then, incredibly, lifting his stubby leg and kicking it toward the goal!
The ball… actually… wobbled into the net!
"YEAH—!!!"
All frustration vanished; Alan leapt like a kid, arms high, shouting at the field:
"Jake! Awesome! That's my boy! Keep it up!!"
Though Jake's goal had zero technical merit, it worked, and at least it found the back of the net.
You couldn't expect a pudgy kid to score a hat-trick—the odds were lower than Charlie staying faithful.
Alan spun to Sean, beaming as if Jake had won the World Cup:
"Even without official scoring, we're dominating, right? We're crushing them!"
Sean watched Alan's adrenaline rush, took a slow sip of his drink, felt much better, then coolly delivered the reality check:
"Actually, it's six-one; we just scored our first goal of the game."
Alan's joy solidified on his face; his raised arms froze, mouth still an "O," like someone had hit pause—every cheer stuck in his throat.
That expression—shock, embarrassment, crushing disappointment—was a masterpiece of mixed emotions.
After Sean walked over to Alan, the little drama in the stands was far from over.
Brooke leaned back in her chair, turned her head, and in a low, competitive tone said to Gloria behind her:
"So he's your 'target' now? I don't think you get to decide that alone."
Gloria languidly smoothed her golden hair, a confident, victorious smile on her face, utterly unruffled by Brooke's declaration of war.
To her, Brooke was merely being impulsive, whereas she already had Sean's number and a tacitly agreed "arrangement."
Her glossed lips parted as she offered, in a tone almost kind but laced with condescension:
"Dear Brooke!"
She nodded toward the sideline where Alan, in a faded baseball cap, was frantically organizing his things—momentarily ecstatic over his son's lone goal, then plunged into monumental embarrassment:
"I think… Mr. Alan over there might be a better match for your attention?"
Brooke followed Gloria's gaze just in time to see Alan frozen by the "six-one" revelation, his khakis sagging dangerously low, cap askew, radiating a vibe of "my life is falling apart."
Indeed, ever since Judith had kicked him out, what little dignity Alan had left had been stripped away; now every inch of him screamed "loser," hardly attractive.
Brooke's pretty face twisted in disgust, as though she'd spotted something to avoid at all costs.
She yanked her gaze back and declared decisively to Gloria:
"I think… I'll pass!"
The disdain in her tone burned hotter than the California noon sun.
Without Sean around, Alan might still have caught Brooke's eye; for someone desperate enough, the quality of the option hardly mattered as long as it filled a void.
But with Sean present, Alan looked unbearable—given a choice, who settles for second-rate when premium is available? Who wants a night with Alan when Sean is an option?
A brunette woman in a white baseball cap and a casual red windbreaker over a crisp white tee sat nearby.
She was half-listening to Sean and Alan's exchange, amused; now and then a smile tugged at her lips.
Sean noticed her watching him but had no intention of striking up conversation, offering only a slight nod in polite acknowledgment.
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