prologue
Maverick
The bass is thumping so hard it rattles my damn spine. VYCE is packed wall to wall with drunk bodies, bad decisions, and I’m right in the middle of it; laughing too loud, shirt halfway unbuttoned, and a woman I don’t even know hanging off my arm like I’m her boyfriend for the night.
She keeps calling me “QB Daddy,” which should be a red flag, but I’m a little too far gone to care. The strobe lights are catching every movement, and the paparazzi outside are eating it up like they’ve been starving.
Camera flashes cut through the tinted windows of the VIP section, every shot probably destined for some shitty tabloid with a headline that readsNFL’s Favorite Trainwreck Parties with Mystery Blonde.
I tip my head back and knock back a shot of something blue. No fucking clue what it is, but it burns like regret and goes down like trouble.
My phone starts buzzing in my pocket, the vibration sharp against my hip. I pull it out, still laughing, until I see the name on the screen.
Maggie.
I groan like I’ve just been told I’m getting benched for the season.
“Shit,” I mutter, stumbling toward the nearest hallway where the music isn’t drowning out my thoughts.
The blonde girl clings to me, kissing my neck like she thinks she’s about to end up on my holiday card. I shoo her off with a half-hearted, “Hold on, babe,” and answer the call.
“What?” I grumble. “I’m busy.”
Maggie’s voice slices through the speaker. “Busy doing what? Making a goddamn ass of yourself? Your image is fucking tanking, Hayes. We spent millions of dollars polishing it, and you’re out here playing wannabe Hugh Hefner at clubs with bottle girls in your lap.”
I scrub a hand down my face, suddenly aware that my pants are unbuttoned and I’ve got glitter on my chest. “It’s not that bad,” I mumble, “I have family values. I have brothers.”
“Family values,” she snaps, “meansyouhaving a family, dipshit. Not just a couple of shirtless hayseed siblings and a pet goat or whatever the fuck lives on your brother’s ranch.”
I wince, leaning against the wall as the blonde girl continues trying to grind on me. “Mags, I swear, I know how to make a family. Like?—”
“If you don’t clean up your image, you’ll be signing autographs at a car wash in two months,” she barks. “Do you hear me? I don’t care if it’s a fake wife, or a damn imaginary friend who bakes cookies for the PTA. But clean up your fucking act or I’m done cleaning up after your mess.”
The line goes dead.
I stare at my phone.
What the fuck?
The blonde tries to tug me back toward the VIP table, but I shake her off.
“Yeah, no. I gotta go.”
She pouts. “Seriously?”
“Go find another quarterback, sweetheart.”
She scoffs and walks back into the club.
I sneak out the side exit and slip into the driver’s seat of my truck, slamming the door shut. I don’t turn the engine on as I just sit there, blinking at the blur of neon and watching drunk girls stumble in and out of the venue.
My chest tightens with a familiar ache that I usually drown with my humor and partying.
How the fuck am I going to fake having a wife? Icouldcall the one woman who hates my guts and looks like she could kill me with her eyes and a tattoo needle. The only woman who makes my heart do that stupid thing it’s not supposed to do when she walks into a room.
I rub the heel of my hand into my eyes, my throat tightens as everything hits me all at once—Maggie’s threats, the cameras, the flashing headlines, the ghost of who I thought I was supposed to be.
Before I let myself delve into the dark parts of my mind, I pull out my phone again and scroll to the one number I call when it’s too much.
