“That’s right. Iownthat,” Rowan deadpans as he stretches his neck from side to side.
Wesley rolls his eyes. “Not the point, boys. Not the point.” He turns to me. “You were always sarcastic as fuck. Always steady. Always a grinder.” He smirks. “Now you’re a fuckingsap.” He claps his hands together and cackles like a madman. “And Iloveit.”
“Because he’s a sap like you.” Lambert grunts as he tugs on a T-shirt.
Wesley points to Max. “And you.” Then to Asher. “Andyou.” Then Miles. “And you.” Then Tyler. “And you, and you, andyou.”
I roll my eyes and wave a dismissive hand, turning my back so they can’t read my face while I change. Because they’re not wrong. I am raring to get out of here and see Skylar.
But before I can do that, the team publicist, Everly, knocks on the door, and calls out, “Are you decent?”
Max—her fiancé—shouts, “Never.”
She pokes her head in. “Ford, can you join Wesley for the press tonight? With your assist and all, it’d be good to have you there.”
“Of course,” I say.
After I pull on a T-shirt, shorts, and slides, I head into the media room and run through the usual game-day questions. Easy stuff. How did you feel out there, what were you thinking late in the game, and so on.
Until Gus—grizzled, sharp-eyed, and probably born in a press box—leans forward. “You’re having a great season—and it’s your last one. How does it feel to be a month in and playing like this?”
It’s a simple question, but it’s loaded with meaning.
If I say I feel good, I invite hypercritical attention. If I hesitate, they’ll read that as doubt. Either way, it’s a trap. I sidestep. “Any player wants to have a strong year.”
Then another reporter pipes up—a younger guy fromThe Sports Network. “Is your new girlfriend the reason?”
It catches me off guard. My brow furrows. “I don’t think she has anything to do with the assist,” I say, but that sounds callous. “But I’m glad she was here.”
It’s true. Every word. Yet it feels like I’ve changed the narrative—moved our fake relationship one step closer toreal by acknowledging it out loud. Here, in front of the sports press. Not just the lifestyle media.
And that raises a question I hadn’t fully faced until now: What happens when it ends?
It’s a sour thought, one I don’t want to sit with.
I skip the polar plunge this time. I shorten my post-game bike ride to ten minutes. A truncated routine now and then won’t hurt me. Besides, I am more than ready for the rest of the night to begin. By the time I’m showered and suited up, all I can think about is taking Skylar home and doing very bad things to her. Just like that, the game, the press, and the quiet dread I’ve been wrestling with fade into the background. With a one-track mind, I find Skylar chatting in the corridor with Sabrina and Leighton, as well as Everly.
I hope she doesn’t plan to hang out with them for long.
I head over to them, with Everly catching my eye when I’m a few feet away. She tips her head toward the other side of the corridor, the sign she wants to talk.
“Hey, Ford,” she says quietly, and I’m running through potential issues she might be drawing my attention to. Something I said wrong to the press? But that’s doubtful. I’m pretty bland—deliberately so—when I talk to them. “I didn’t want to say this in front of everyone,” Everly adds. “But we have family night next week when we play Vancouver here, and if things are going well, it’d be nice to have you two there.”
Oh.Oh.
That’s the game where players bring their partnersand kids, if they have them. Where the team takes all sorts of pics for social media. Everywhere we turn, it’s like the universe wants us to keep pretending.
Or maybe you do.
I school my expression, reining in the cat-who’s-got-the-cream smile. “I’ll check with Skylar, but it sounds good to me,” I say.
“Great.”
We return to the other two women, and this time Skylar peels away from her friends as I approach, flashing a flirty grin my way—a grin that says we’re on the same wavelength.
“Want to go home with the star of the game?” I ask, sliding my arm around her shoulders—a verypossessivearm.
She grins. “I do.”
