The truth landed in my chest like a weight I hadn’t seen coming.
I didn’t feel dread.
I felt… anticipation.
And that was the problem.
This was supposed to be damage control. A distraction. A fix to keep the board happy and the press spinning the right narrative until we landed Hayashi and reset the season.
It wasn’t supposed to feel real.
She wasn’t supposed to feel real.
But every time I saw her—every time she rolled her eyes at something I said, or touched my arm without thinking, or called me out on my crap without hesitation—I forgot we were pretending.
I forgot this had a deadline.
I pushed off the wall and ran a hand through my hair, trying to shake it off.
Get your head on straight, Walker.
This wasn’t real. Couldn’t be.
But as I looked at the clock and realized I was counting down minutes until I’d see her again, one thought refused to leave me alone:
Fake dating was supposed to be damage control. So why did it feel like the one thing in my life that was actually working?
Chapter 11
Daphne
I stood in front of my closet like it held the answers to life’s biggest questions.
It didn’t.
Blouses, dresses, jeans I hadn’t worn since college—none of them screamed fake girlfriend attending high-stakes team dinner with the league’s most emotionally repressed star. I tried on a red dress. Too bold. Then a cream sweater. Too casual. Then jeans and a bodysuit. Too I didn’t try, but not in a cute way.
By the time I settled on a silky black top with a deep neckline, tailored blazer, and ankle boots sharp enough to kill a man, I was ten minutes behind schedule and exactly at the right level of chaotic confidence. Classy but bold. The outfit said I’m hot but unimpressed. Which, let’s be honest, was sort of my entire brand.
My phone buzzed.
Nora.
Send pics. If he doesn’t lose his mind, I’ll sue.
I snorted and sent her a mirror selfie—half-body, good lighting, one raised brow for dramatic effect.
He won’t even blink.
Another ping.
That man would blink if you called his name while unbuttoning his shirt.
I laughed. Loud enough to scare the cat, who blinked slowly at me from the windowsill before going back to ignoring me.
Leave it to Nora to throw gasoline on my already blazing nerves. I hadn’t told her I’d spent all morning replaying Kieren’s last text in my head. You couldn’t if you tried. That one line had looped so many times I might’ve accidentally turned it into a love song.
Not that it meant anything. Obviously.
