He whistles, low. “What is that, a ten- or fifteen-year age gap?”
“Fourteen, but yeah.” I turn my beer in my hands. “Greyson is ticked off even thinking about me dating his sister, even if it’s pretend. Coach is barely speaking to me, and their dad looks at me like I just stole the Hope Diamond.”
He cocks an eyebrow, but there’s a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Have you…”
“We kissed one time when she found out her boyfriend, Brooks Pendleton, was cheating on her.”
“The same guy New Orleans drafted?” he asks, his brows furrowing.
I nod. “One and the same. Total dick.”
He scrapes his fingers over his chin. “So? Will this ‘fake’ thing stay fake, or are you about to end up on the wrong side of a shotgun wedding?”
“Don’t even joke. Like I said, no kids for me.” I shake my head, but a traitorous flicker of hope twists somewhere low in my chest. “We promised—no lines crossed, no feelings. It’s just for show.”
Logan gives me a look—one he used to give rookie wide receivers when they were a little too sure of themselves. “Yeah,” he says, “good luck with that. If it’s nothing, why do you look like you’re in too deep?”
We let his question roll around in our heads because I don’t know the answer. Something just feels different.
I glance back at the birthday party. Girls are screaming—unlike the boys, it’s high-pitched, but my mind’s a thousand miles away, thinking about blue eyes, graduation dresses, and how impossible it is to keep something fake when I can’t stop thinking about her.
Logan holds my gaze for a second longer, then it breaks as I feel a soft tap on my shoulder.
“Matt!” Harper’s voice is all warmth and sunshine—even after all these years, Logan’s wife still greets me like family. She leans in, pecks my cheek, and Greer barrels into me with Roscoe, their doodle, pulling at the leash and sniffing my ankles.
“I can’t believe Roscoe still has as much energy as a ten-year-old,” I tease, ruffling Greer's hair.
Harper gives me a doctor’s once-over, that sharp blend of affection and medical assessment only she pulls off. “You look good, Matt,” she says, her eyes narrowing in a friendly inspection. “Taking care of yourself?”
I grin. “Trying to. My numbers have been good lately. Daily shots. You know the routine.”
But then I rub my eyes, blinking at the late afternoon sun, and Harper’s attention sharpens. “You sure? Anything bothering you lately?” She’s a pediatric surgeon but deals with the ramifications of diabetes all the time.
I shrug, squinting again. “Honestly? My vision’s been a little fuzzy the past few mornings.” I try to brush it off. “Probably just allergies or, I don’t know, old age catching up.”
Her doctor mode clicks in—brows knit, smile gone, careful. “Matt, with your diabetes, any changes in your eyesight can be serious. Have you gotten your eyes checked recently?”
“Not since—” I hesitate, then wave it off, “well, not in a few months. I’ll make an appointment. Promise.”
She gives me a look that could make any linebacker sit up straight. “Don’t put it off. If it gets any worse, call me, okay?”
“Scout’s honor,” I say, though something twists in my stomach. I glance down at Roscoe’s soft fur and Greer beaming up at me, then over at Logan, who’s pretending not to listen—but his frown says he is.
“Thanks, Harper,” I add softly, “for looking out for the old guys.”
“You’re not old, Matt,” she says, smiling now as she pulls Roscoe away from another guest’s hamburger. “Just… not invincible.”
She and Greer head off, Logan trailing after, but her concern lingers, settling in next to everything else I’m carrying.
NINE
NOELLE
My first official interview.
Staring at my reflection in the sun visor mirror, my hands shake as I dab a fingertip under each eye, smoothing out the faint trace of mascara that always mutinies when I need things to go right. “Sideline reporter,” I mumble to myself. College is over and a big-girl job awaits. Professional Noelle. Even after practicing a polished and approachable smile, the jitters threaten to take over. I tell myself that if they don’t hire me for this position, I have another interview next week with that startup sports streaming service.
“Get out of the car,” I utter. My brand of pep talk is talking to myself. The network’s office is in a bright steel building that looks the color of the team with the star on their helmet when the sky is clear blue. It’s like an invisible thread drawing me closer.
