Page 30 of The Fake Date Agreement

“But what about your part of the deal?”

Can I see myself chasing off the girls who distract them during practice and doing something about Caleb’s laser focus on the championship that threatens his mental health and potentially his body?

Uh, no. I don’t see that happening.

“We’ll handle it.” Reid gets to his feet. “If you’re not comfortable with this, then this ends.”

“And ifyou’renot comfortable with this?” I ask.

Reid’s smile is impossible to decipher. “That won’t happen. Oh, and you might need this.” Reid fishes a keycard from his pocket and hands it to me.

I frown as I take it. “Your keycard?”

“In case you need to get into our dorm. We’re all in Reynolds. Different floors, though. I have a spare in my room so you can keep that,” he says.

Javier picks up his phone. “I’m sending you a text with our room numbers.”

“Why would I need to know that?” I frown.

“You’re our new girlfriend. It’s going to be suspicious if you don’t know where we live, right?” Caleb asks.

“Right.” I cross over to my desk and rummage through a drawer, then hand Javier my spare keycard to get into the building. “Here’s mine. I only have one spare.”

“Don’t need more than this,” Javier says, pocketing it. “We can share.”

God. There’s that word again.

Share.

It makes me tingly every time I hear it.

“I, uh…” My voice trails off as they all look at me.

Surprisingly, none of them tell me just to get out whatever it is I’m hesitating over.

“Sometimes I have bad days,” I tell them, picking my words carefully.

Reid grins at me. “Yep. Us too.”

“I have Hashimoto’s disease,” I tell him, avoiding all their gazes. “It’s an autoimmune disorder, and it means there might be days that I can’t be what you need me to be.”

“Our needs are fluid,” Caleb says. “Mainly they involve us making this up as we go along. What do your bad days look like?”

My condition doesn’t steal large chunks of my day the way it used to. My daily thyroid meds help a lot in managing my symptoms.

“I can’t eat fast food, at least not all the time. So if we have to eat out, it’s probably something you should know about me. If I don’t get enough sleep, it can trigger a flare-up, which means I won’t be out playing fake girlfriend. That’s, uh… part of the reason I was never a big partier.”

“So, a flare-up is a bad day?” Reid asks.

It feels a little—scratch that, a whole heap more than a little—strange to be opening up about my symptoms and condition to literal strangers like this. But what is so surprising to me is how actively they’re all listening.

“Fatigue mostly. Feeling like garbage, muscle aches, my bones feel so heavy, and sometimes it’s like I can’t lift my head. Reducing my gluten can help slightly, but not enough that I would give up pasta for it.” Reid opens his mouth. I keep talking. “I don’t want you to feel sorry for me or…” My voice tails off under his smile. “What?”

“I was going to ask if there’s anything we can do when you have these flare-ups,” Reid says. “You know, to help?”

I blink at him, surprised by how accepting he is about this aspect of my life.

I shake my head. “Just rest and keeping up with my meds.”

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