Page 13 of False Start
She pulled away, pacing off a couple of steps before returning to me, eyes pleading.
“I’m sorry, I can hear myself talk and I feel like an asshole, but I still need to ask. Would you mind?”
I minded very much, but if Trent had been called, there was no way he wouldn’t go for it. Especially with the media attentionthat we apparently already had. As Denny said: people loved a love story.
But if this was going to happen, we’d need ground rules.
“If we’re going to do this, it needs to be purely business,” I started, pretending not to be hurt at how quickly she nodded.
“That means last night can’t happen again.”
“Of course not,” she agreed, those hands twisting hard enough to whiten her knuckles. A flash of red crescents carved into her thighs flashed through my mind, and I pushed the image away.
“We’ll swap numbers so we can send through information we might need to know about each other, but we’ll leave it to management to coordinate public appearances.”
I was a little worried she would hurt her neck as she continued to nod along with each new rule I set down, but I kept going, needing to control the narrative we were building.
“My last girlfriend left me when I got injured last season. It hurt my brand, and I lost… a lot. When it’s time to end this, I want us to work through the breakup narrative together. No going rogue and fucking up my image to make your own look better.”
“I wouldn’t do that.”
“You’re willing to pretend to be my girlfriend for an unspecified amount of time to further your career. Forgive me if I’m a little less than trusting.”
I regretted the words instantly. She flinched as they landed, emotional arrows cast from a careless bow. I’d witnessed her have a panic attack less than twenty-four hours earlier, and here I was being an asshole because I got my feelings hurt.
Grow the fuck up, Naylor.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
“Yes, you did.” She pulled her shoulders back, looking me square in the eye. “You’re right. You don’t know anything aboutme. I’ll do my best to help with that while respecting the boundaries you have laid out. I can’t thank you enough for doing this. Truly. Hopefully I can find a way to return the favor.”
I grunted. This would be a lot easier if I could stop focusing on how fucking beautiful she was.
“Give me your phone.” I waited until she retrieved the device, and again for her to unlock it, then keyed in my number and called myself.
“Now you have my number and I have yours. We’ll see what our managers come up with and go from there. Deal?”
“Deal.” Her voice was a whisper, and I pretended not to notice the watery sheen to her eyes. I needed space and time to figure out how to be her fake boyfriend without being an asshole or losing more of myself than I could afford to give.
Weston
“Weston! Hey! Weston! Come outside!”
I groaned, hauling myself off the sofa and making my way into the backyard of my townhouse. At the fence, a scruffy blonde head appeared, followed almost immediately by a dark head of hair.
“Yes! I told ya he was home,” Amber — owner of the blonde head — crowed to Zara, her Australian accent thick despite having lived in Chicago since she was old enough to walk.
That little detail, along with her and her mother’s entire life history, was the first conversation I’d had with her when I moved in three years earlier with a freshly signed contract to play for the Engines and a shoulder that hadn’t yet been busted. I knew I was playing on borrowed time going into my fourth season, but I’d be damned if I didn’t finish strong. Fuck the law of averages with their 3.3 years of play statistic.
“I knew he was home. He brought me here, remember?” Zara’s tone was as dry as her father’s as she rolled her eyes at her friend.
“Ohh yeah. Anyway,” Amber said, returning her attention to me. “I challenge you to a bakeoff. We made brownies, so you have to make cookies and see if ours are better.”
I rubbed a thumb over my lip to cover a smile. When I’d moved to Chicago from Washington, I hadn’t just found a new team to play for, I’d found a new family. There wasn’t anything I wouldn’t do for Amber, or her mom, Marina, who ran a psychology practice out of their front room.
“How are we supposed to compare cookies to brownies? Shouldn’t I make brownies too? Even the playing field?”
Amber gasped, placing a dramatic hand on her chest as though I’d mortally offended her.
