Page 14 of False Start
“What are we going to do with that many brownies? That’s just dumb. But if you don’t have ingredients for cookies, you can do a cake. We’ll give you some stuff, but it’ll cost you points.”
I shook my head, bemused by her logic.
“Give me thirty minutes, but your mom has to be one of the judges. I’m not getting in trouble for ruining your dinner again,” I told her with mock severity.
Turning back toward the house, I began mentally running through my pantry as Amber’s “That was one time!” echoed behind me.
As I was rolling cookie dough into balls, my cell chimed with an incoming call. Wiping my hands on the nearest dish towel, I put Trent on speaker.
“Hey man, what’s up?” I asked, returning to my cookie dough.
“I should be pissed at you for blowing me off yesterday, but I had an interesting call this morning. Wanna tell me how you ended up fake-dating a starlet?”
“Yeah… funny story…” I filled him in on the events of the previous day — omitting how we ended the night because itwas rude to kiss and tell — and how a moment of chivalry had somehow spiraled into news headlines.
I slid the baking pan into the oven and set a timer, waiting through the silence on the other end of the line as Trent thought through the position I’d put myself in.
“How do you feel about continuing this fake dating thing? It seems like an odd move after Harmony,” he said eventually.
I grunted, rinsing off my hands. “I know what I’m in for here. With Harmony the relationship was real. I just didn’t realize how much of it hinged on me being Weston the football player instead of Weston the man.”
The image of a hospital bed flashed through my mind. I’d been high on painkillers, only hours out of surgery when Harmony visited my bedside to tell me she didn’t see us working out long term. The media had been speculating about the end of my career while I sweated on feedback from the surgeon about whether my shoulder would ever regain one hundred percent functionality again. The woman I had been ready to propose to, who had come to every one of my games to cheer me on, apparently only had time for me when I wassomeone.
Last I heard, she had shacked up with some baseball player.
Best of luck to him.
“Okay, so it’s only for show. I’m going to be honest here, it won’t hurt to have her on your arm at events. Her manager is confident she has a role on some soap opera in the pipeline. She’s going to bring attention, and attention — good attention — means sponsorship opportunities. Even if you do manage to see out the season, you need to be realistic. The likelihood of you playing again next year is low. You need to start thinking about the long term. What’s next? And it’ll be a hell of a lot easier if you have padded your savings with endorsement deals. Especially when last year’s deals fell through.”
That was a nice way of saying every company I had a contract with jumped ship as soon as my shoulder splintered against the gridiron turf.
Chocolate and cinnamon wafted through my kitchen, and I wiped down my counters as Trent began to spitball events Georgia, or Gia, as he kept calling her, and I could attend to see and be seen.
“Pace clothing has a new season launch next week. We can get you on the guest list and hopefully reopen the door for sponsorship.”
“Fuck no. They ripped up my contract before I was stretchered off the field.”
“It was business, Weston.”
“I don’t care. I helped them launch that brand. They were just someone else who wanted to use me.”
Shit. Maybe I needed to do some soul searching, because the more I thought about the last twelve months, the more I realized I didn’t have that many people in my corner when I was just Weston.
The timer on the oven chimed, reminding me there was at least one person who liked me for me… or for my baking skills, at least.
“Look. I can’t make you go, but I think it would be a good soft launch for your relationship. I’ve seen the photos. She’s stunning, and you’re in better shape than you were this time last year. Go to the event, even if you’re only attending as a fuck you to Pace.”
Sometimes I hated him being good at what I paid him for.
“Fine. Send me the details. Now, if there isn’t anything else, my cookies are about to burn and I don’t want to lose this bake-off.”
I pulled the tray out of the oven, leaving it to rest on the counter while I grabbed a drinking glass to shape the soft treats into perfect circles.
“How are you actually holding up?” Trent asked, no longer using his manager voice.
“You’ve been through a lot in the last twelve months, and I know damn well you’re not telling me everything.”
Like it was responding for me, a small twinge bit through my shoulder.
