Page 11 of False Start
“Okay. Firstly, he’s a football player. Not justaplayer, either. He’stheplayer to watch going into this season. I’ll reach out to his team to coordinate some photo opportunities, but for now, they’re holding a training session today that’s open to the public. Get down there and look like the doting girlfriend. Leave the rest to me.”
She sent a pin for the location of the stadium and ended the call with a promise to send updates as soon as she’d been in touch with Weston’s team.
“This could be very good for your career, Gia. I’m talking visibility that could take you beyondShifting Sands.”
I made the appropriate noises as I clicked back into the article of Weston with the petite brunette. Was she going to be a complication in all of this?
Then a worse thought occurred to me.
Did she already hold the title of Weston’s girlfriend?
Was I a homewrecker?
With too many questions that the internet couldn’t answer for me, I took a quick shower, tried my best to make my face and hair immaculate, and then called an Uber.
Weston
There wasnothing better than the smell of fresh cut grass. I took a deep breath as I jogged out onto the gridiron for the first time in far too long. My body hummed with a level of energy I had no right to, considering I’d spent most of the night learning a woman’s body instead of sleeping. Maybe sex did cure all ills because I felt god-level ready for training.
“How was your night?” Christian Morales, our star quarterback and my best friend, asked as he jogged toward me. The question was innocent enough, but his eyes sparkled with mischief.
“The best night I’ve had in a while, my brother. Thank you for letting me use your crash pad.”
He scoffed, waving off my thanks as he glanced at the stands where his personal cheer squad sat in their usual seats.
“No thanks needed. It’s not like I’ve had the opportunity to use it much lately. Zara keeps me too busy. She looked cute, though.”
“Who, Zara?” I asked, adjusting the chin strap on my helmet.
“No, man. The redhead from last night. You know you made the sports pages this morning, right?”
“At least they’re talking about something other than my shoulder,” I muttered, ignoring the slight twinge as I rolled it out. I’d done the physio time, and I’d been cleared to play. My body was going to get with the program.
Christian laughed. “Sorry, brother. They’re talking about that too. You’re hot on socials at the moment. If you don’t have any endorsement deals, you will soon with the attention you’re getting.”
What the hell was the media saying about me?
I knew better than to look myself up, but while I’d been enjoying the anonymity of spending time with someone who didn’t know me as Weston Naylor, the football player who almost lost everything in a bad tackle last year, the local media had apparently been publicizing my downtime. Exactly what I tried to save Georgia from.
Shit. I hoped she was okay.
When she declined my suggestion to swap numbers the night before, I’d been more disappointed than expected, but a couple hours of sleep had given me some much needed perspective. What we’d had last night was explosive. Fun, hot, and exactly what both of us had needed. We’d allowed ourselves that experience knowing it would end as soon as we left Christian’s apartment.
She needed to focus on her stuff, while I needed to focus on getting back into the game. With the way my last relationship fell apart, I couldn’t see myself trusting anyone anytime soon. Harmony had taken something vital from me when she left, and I wasn’t sure it was something I could ever get back.
“Hey,” Christian murmured as our team gathered around Coach Laudner for a pre-training brief.
“It’s good to see you putting yourself out there again.”
I grunted and turned my focus to Coach’s start of season speech.
“Holy shit.I think I let Zara talk me into one too many movie nights over the offseason,” Christian panted as we moved toward the locker rooms for showers. He grinned, waving at the stands where his sister, Cami, sat with the troublemaker in question.
“It’s not the movie nights, it’s the monster milkshakes you keep drinking with her that got you in trouble,” I said, stretching out the ache in my shoulder as Christian’s ten-year-old daughter raced toward the field.
“They’re hard to resist.” He shrugged, completely unrepentant.
“Daddy, can I go to Amber’s house this afternoon?” Zara was the spitting image of Christian. Her dark eyes framed by long black lashes were especially large — all the better to wrap her father around her little finger. Her long brown hair was tied up in a ponytailwith maroon and gold ribbons to represent the Engines, and she bounced around with the kind of energy of a natural athlete.
