I didn’t know things were this bad with my contract. My agent never said anything about how close I was to being traded, so clearly I need to have a conversation with Calvin.
It’s no secret that the Panthers planned to play Sebastian until he retired. I knew that I wouldn’t get much playing time, and I could have put feelers out with other teams, but I wanted to learn from Sebastian. I wanted to stay close to my family. I want to be a Panther, but I was too stupid to consider the effect my actions would have on my career. I guess I thought the fans would give me more of a chance to prove that I’m still the guy who led Duke to back-to-back championship titles.
“Well, I guess we should figure this all out, right?” she asks, looking at me for confirmation.
“Probably,” I agree, trying to push the thoughts of how thoroughly I’ve fucked myself to the back of my mind.
We start to walk silently around the stadium, the tension in the air thick.I need to say something, literally anything.
“We’ve been together for a couple months. It’s still new, which is why we haven’t told anyone?” I suggest, scratching the back of my neck. “I’m sorry, I don’t know how to plan a fake relationship when I’m not very good at legitimate ones under the best circumstances,” I admit, racking my brain for a better cover story.
It’s not that I haven’t tried to make relationships work, but I have a hard time trusting that people want to be around me for the right reasons. I know my birth mother is to blame for this, reinforcing my belief love isn’t worth the pain it can cause, but I don’t know how to fix it. Being alone doesn’t bother me either; I’m an introvert, despite the reputation I’ve earned.
I’d be lying if I said the media didn’t play a role in my hesitancy to get over my fears. It’s easier to take a girl home for the night and never see her again than to fall in love, only to find out she’s interested in my money or the fame that she’ll undoubtedly earn by tying herself to me.
In the past, it’s made me nervous to think about the invasion of privacy I would face in a relationship, along with my partner’s, but I guess I don’t have to worry with Mirabelle. She understands it better than anyone else would, and since these interviews are ensuring my lack of privacy, a fake relationship might not be the worst idea in the world.
“Me either, but we have to figure something out. We can say I’ve had a crush on you for years—I’ll finally be living out my childhood fantasy. That’ll be a good headline for Stacey,” Mirabelle jokes, and I shake my head immediately. She’s doing this to help me, I’m not throwing her under the bus.
“You’re already agreeing to fake date me for the sake of my reputation. The least I can do is say that I’ve been interested in you for a while, and I pursued you. We could tell everyone that something sparked after the Super Bowl, and we’ve kept it under wraps until now.”
I can see Mirabelle’s brain processing it over, and the more I think about it, I think it’s the first smart idea I’ve had in a while.
“That might actually work,” she says, an impressed note in her voice. Mirabelle hits my arm with the back of her hand. “Henry, this could work.”
“Thank you. Hopefully it’s not for too long. I don’t want you to have to do this any longer than necessary.” If people simply speculating that we’re dating has already helped my image, this might be enough to fix everything if I make more of an effort with the fans and the media.
Mirabelle pulls her ponytail over her shoulder, playing with the ends. “I don’t mind. You heard Stacey: I’m football royalty.”
“What if you meet someone you’re actually interested in?” I ask, lowering my voice as a few maintenance workers walk past us.
“What if you do?” she counters, twirling her hair around her finger.
“The chance of that happening is slim enough it doesn’t even justify an answer.” I snort when Mirabelle rolls her eyes at my response. “You were right this morning, Mira. I’ve done a brilliant job of fucking this up for myself.”
She smiles, but it’s more sympathetic than anything. “Well, if the shoe fits . . .”
“It does,” I agree as another potential problem pops into my brain. “What the hell are we going to tell our parents?”
“Oh shit. I forgot about them.”
I don’t particularly want to tell my parents or hers how close the team was to trading me. I’ve worked so hard to be ready for this season, and it’s already a steep climb to get everyone’s approval without them knowing I was almost traded.
“I think it’d be fun not telling them the truth,” Mirabelle says, a slow, mischievous smile curving her lips upward, her dimples peeking through.
I’m not sure “fun” is how I would describe the way I’m predicting they’ll react, but I’m so damn relieved I don’t have to tell them the truth.
“Then we need to be pretty damn convincing if they’re going to believe us. Maybe it’s a good thing you have this fascination with my ass after pointing it out so many times this morning,” I joke, attempting to lighten the mood as she gapes at me.
“There’s a difference between discussing your ass and calling you an ass, Henry.”
I chuckle under my breath, considering the possibility that maybe everything will be okay. Aside from this morning, we’ve always gotten along.
Perhaps a fake relationship isn’t much different from a friendship.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Mirabelle
