Instead, all I can think about is the moment before Marnie interrupted. How close we were. How badly I wanted to close that last inch.
My phone buzzes. A text from Patrice.
Patrice: Just saw your post. Please tell me you know what you're doing.
I stare at the message, then type back:
Me: Absolutely. Totally under control. Why do you ask?
The three dots appear, disappear, appear again. Finally:
Patrice: Because you both looked at each other the same way Trace looked at me when we were "just friends." And we all know how that ended.
I don't respond. Can't respond. Because she's not wrong.
The post has 20,000 likes now. Comments pouring in about how cute we are, how perfect, how 'meant to be.' They have no idea this is a strategic business arrangement with five rules and clear boundaries. I pull up the photo again. The way I'm leaning into him. How his smile looks genuine instead of camera-ready. Three more games. I can keep this professional for three more games.
I screenshot the photo and save it to my camera roll. Not for content. Just for me.
Chapter 10
Ryder
The Instagram post has been live for thirty-six hours, and my phone won't stop buzzing.
I'm lying on my back under Engine 3, checking brake lines because Chief thinks busy hands lead to clear minds, when my phone vibrates against my hip for approximately the hundredth time this morning. I ignore it. Again.
"You planning to answer any of those?" Chief asks from somewhere above me, his boots visible from my position under the truck.
"No."
"Your mama called the station line. Says you're ignoring her."
"I'll call her back."
"Sage called too. And Jax. And someone named Preston who sounds like he sells used cars for a living."
I slide out from under the engine, wiping grease off my hands with a rag that's seen better days. "Preston's my agent."
"The one who wanted you to fake date the girl?" Chief's expression is carefully neutral, which means he's about to meddle. "How's that working out?"
"It's working fine."
"Mm-hmm." He examines a wrench with intense focus. "Saw the Instagram post. You two looked happy."
"That's the point."
"Was it real happy or fake happy?"
I stand, stretching muscles that protest being horizontal on cold concrete. "Does it matter?"
"Son, if you have to ask that question, you're already in trouble." He sets down the wrench, and that fatherly look appears—the one that says I'm about to get wisdom whether I want it or not. "Real feelings and fake arrangements don't mix well. Trust me on that."
"We've got rules. Clear boundaries."
"Rules are great until you start wanting to break them." He pats my shoulder. "Just be careful, Ryder. That girl's been hurt before. So have you."
He leaves me with that, and I check my phone because avoiding it isn't actually solving anything.
