To pour salt on the wound, a magazine is slid across the table, landing in front of me. The cover is a picture of me sitting on a couch at a club with two scantily dressed girls on either side of me with a table in front of us littered with expensive alcohol. A couple more are laid out, each with an unfavorable headline, but none are as bad as the first.
It looks bad. It looks really fucking bad, but that picture is cropped and taken out of context. What the version—the version that apparently ended up everywhere—doesn’t show is Quinn, our new wide receiver I was asked to welcome to the team, on the other side of the girl on the left of me, and the other girl’s boyfriend standing to the side of her. I’m holding a bottle of water in my hand, but everything on the table counters the truth that I was stone cold sober and went home alone.
Sure, the last few seasons it probably would have been a different story. I would go out with some guys from the team, have a few too many drinks so I wouldn’t act stiff as a board all night, before ultimately taking a beautiful woman home. Andrew and I always kept each other in line before anything too crazy could happen, but there were still more than a few headlines printed. When Sebastian confided in me about finally retiring last season, I knew I had to step up, especially with my upcoming contract renewal. I wasn’t lying when I told Mirabelle my focus this season is football.
“Fuck,” I swear under my breath, dragging a hand over my face. The headline only adds to the false narrative:Henry Price, the Panthers’ new golden boy or playboy?“I wasn’t drinking, and I spent most of the night with my ass planted on that couch, alone.”
“No one cares what the truth is behind that photo—they care about what the photo shows. This is what people see you as, and it’s not the first time you’ve been seen partying. If I were you, I’d agree with the plan we spent time and resources putting together to give everyone else something else to talk about besides this,” Greg says, watching me closely to see what choice I’m going to make, but it’s not like I have one. To put this conversation in simpler terms,I have to get the fuck over it if I want to stay.
I never should have agreed to go out that night. I’ve turned over a new leaf. I’m doing everything I can to get ready for this season because I refuse to let anyone down.
I nod slowly, trying to maintain my professionalism. “Okay. They can shadow me. Is that all?”
“No, it’s not. We also scheduled some additional photo opportunities and press events for you to attend to help revamp and bolster your new image. You are not to attend any team functions, or anything additionally scheduled for you without one of your shadows,” Greg continues, and I clamp my jaw shut so it doesn’t fall on the floor. I can’t fucking believe this is happening.
“Preseason starts next week. How am I going to have time for all of this with our schedule?” I ask, bouncing my leg under the table. I’ve apparently already fucked up enough to warrant babysitters, so the last thing I need is to lose my shit in front of half the front office.
“Nothing will conflict with the team’s practice or game schedule,” the team’s public relations manager is quick to jump in. “Coach Lewis has agreed to be flexible with you if a conflict arises for any reason.”
I look at Owen who is tight-lipped now, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s not happy he has to be flexible for this PR bullshit.
“My priority is football. I’ll do all this . . . stuff, but I’m not going to miss practice or workouts for it. That’s nonnegotiable.” The amount of self-control it takes to call this shit “stuff” is insane. It’s probably not worth even trying to say my priority is football, because at the end of the day, I don’t have a say in any of this.
Playboy is a new one, but it’s not the only label I’ve earned in the media. I don’t love talking to them, but apparently I can be described as broody, and if you add in my sleeve of tattoos to the equation, it ends up equating to me being a dark and mysterious bad boy.
The truth is, I’ve never done anything remotely close to deserving any of those labels. I’m a rule follower, obsessed with Greek mythology to the point that I have an entire sleeve dedicated to my favorite myths, and my little sister is my favorite person to hang out with.
The thing about labels, though, is you can’t choose what you’re given.
“Deal,” Owen says, causing everyone at the table to turn to him.
“Coach Lewis, you’re here as a courtesy. You don’t have the authority to agree to that,” Greg says, a warning in his voice.
“Respectfully, is Henry’s job not to play football? If I’m remembering correctly from the meeting we had prior to training camp, you asked for back-to-back Super Bowls, and I cannot do my job and prepare my team for that if my quarterback isn’t there. From my experience, winning games will also boost his reputation in the media just as well—if not better—than holding puppies in pictures.”
I bite my lip to hide back my smile as Owen pretty much gets as close as he can to telling the general manager to fuck off. This whole thing is bullshit, but it’s reassuring to know he’s on my side.
None of them argue, too surprised he actually defended me.
“So when do I get to meet my shadows?” I ask, accepting my fate, at least for a little while, hoping that if I bring the attention back to me, Owen won’t find a way to lose his job in the next minute.
Greg clears his throat, a pleased gleam in his eyes as he focuses on me. “They’re right outside,” he answers, pulling out his phone to send off a short text. “I don’t think I need to remind you this is the last year of your rookie contract. If I were you, I would take this all very seriously.”
I’m still recovering from the whiplash of that when my babysitters step into the room.
I recognize the first figure walking through the door, although she’s never acknowledged me before now. I don’t know her name, but I can already tell she is going to make this as painful as possible. She’s tall, wearing a pantsuit, and a pair of deathtrap heels that are intimidating as fuck. Her dark eyes narrow in on me, and I think I’m a little afraid. She seems like she’d have zero qualms about stabbing me with her pointy shoes.
Behind her, I spot a familiar short blonde that causes my mouth to tug upward automatically, despite the awfulness of the last twenty minutes. Mirabelle looks professional, wearing light grey dress pants and a white blousy top, and her wild mane of waves is pulled back into a bun with a few stray pieces hanging in her face. She looks . . . grown up. Mira’s also wearing a similar pair of deathtrap heels that make her taller than normal, but I’m curious to know what they’d feel like hooked around my—I nearly jolt out of my seat at the intrusive thought that would normally be kept locked behind a stone wall in my mind, trying to slow the sudden racing in my chest. I cough lightly, trying to compose myself before anyone notices the heart attack I nearly gave myself.
I do everything I can to not let those thoughts pop into my brain when I’m around Mirabelle, because I have a feeling that once they start, I won’t know how to make them stop.
Mirabelle’s hovering behind her, but I stare, unable to look away. Her dark brown eyes are bright as she makes eye contact with me, offering me a hint of a smile. I’m not sure I know how to smile because I think my brain is glitching.
This has to be some weird dream. I’ll wake up, laugh about this with Andrew, and forget all about needing babysitters and finding Mirabelle Walker attractive. Well, okay, that’s partially a lie. I’m not blind—Mirabelle’s a very pretty girl, but she’s so off-limits, it’s not even remotely funny to joke about, let alone allow my brain to consider the possibility.
“Henry, this is Stacey Arnold, but I’m sure you know who she is because she’s been on the public relations team since you were drafted.” Greg doesn’t bother introducing Mirabelle. I’m not sure if it’s because Mira’s an intern, or because she’s Sebastian Walker’s daughter, and has been around the stadium since she was a kid.
Fuck, definitely not a dream.
