Fake Fiancée

“That was a pretty little show,” came a silky voice in front of me.

I spun around. Bianca.

She did a slow clap and then fluffed her brown hair over her shoulder with blood-red fingernails. Up close, her gray halter top was the perfect complement to her dark complexion, and her matching skirt dripped with blue lace, the same blue as the players’ uniforms. My eyes went back to that necklace, and my fingers itched to yank it off her neck.

She sucked her bottom lip through her teeth. “You must have been practicing that look of shock all week. I suspected something from the very beginning, you know . . . especially when I heard him say in class that you guys met at the toga party last year. Max wasn’t even at that party. I know because I was.”

I stiffened and pivoted around to leave, but her nails dug into my arm.

“Oh no, you’re not running off,’ she said, her eyes narrowed. “I bet he’s paying you. You seem like the type who’d need money. Not that I’d blame you. He’s a maniac in the sack, and who can blame you for wanting someone to notice you.”

“You’re babbling,” I said quietly. “Can’t you just congratulate me, Bianca?”

She scoffed. “I’m not stupid. I know Max. All he cares about is football, honey. And if he’s asking you to marry him at a game—it isn’t because he wants to live happily ever after. It’s because he wants the attention. He has to have it all, so much that there isn’t room for anything else.”

My hand tightened on my purse. “You don’t know the Max I know.” Why was I defending him?

“I know what he likes, and it isn’t sweet little girls like you. He likes his sex hard and his girls harder. You”—her brittle eyes raked over me and found me lacking—“are way too nice for him, and if you’re smart, you’ll leave before it hurts too much.”

“Isn’t Felix enough for you?”

“Max is the best, and he only wants the best. Which is me. Here’s some info: he’ll never be over me. I’ll be the one he comes running back to once he gets through with whatever he’s got going on with you. You’re nothing.”

Nothing? I’d pulled myself from hell to be where I was today. I’d lived through a mother leaving me for a man she was having an affair with. I’d lived through my father lashing my back with a belt. She didn’t know anything about me.

“You don’t know who you’re screwing with,” I said softly. “I’m not always a nice person. You just have to push me far enough.”

Her carefully manicured eyebrow arched. “Then prove me wrong.”

Max

I’D FUCKED UP. BIG TIME. My gut screamed the words at me.

“ . . . beating the number one team in the country. How does it feel?” The reporter jabbed a microphone in my face, and I refocused. He went on to talk about the rest of the season and the teams we faced.

Sweat still dripped down my face from the last play, and I wiped it with the back of my hand. We’d won the game thirty-five to seventeen. Louisiana had never come back after the half, and we’d crushed them in the last quarter. It was our biggest win so far—but all I could think about was Sunny.

I chatted about the game, my eyes trying to stay on the reporters huddled around me, but my eyes kept darting to the stadium. Where was she?

Another journalist eased in front of me, halting my way to the locker rooms. “What can you tell us about your new fiancée? Do you have a date set for the big day? How long have you known each other? Do you think we can get a quick interview with her?”

“She’s a sweetheart. For the rest, it’s between us. Thank you.” I gave her a nod and a cool smile.

Why did I feel sick after winning one of the biggest games of the year?

My stomach churned as I marched down the line of reporters, flashbulbs and pats of congratulations coming from everywhere.

I searched the stands again. I’d forced myself to keep my attention off her for the rest of the game, but as soon as the game had ended, I’d glanced up and found Mimi sitting next to a sullen girl with black hair. The dark-haired girl had flipped me off and mouthed something that looked like fuck you.

Felix’s bulky frame stepped in my way as I walked in the doors of the locker room.

“What?” I snapped.

Everyone around us froze, eyes darting as we faced off.

He had these weird eyes—almost navy colored—with a line of white around the pupil. “Just wanted to congratulate you, man. Fans are gonna love that. Smart.”

My hands clenched, itching. I didn’t trust him. I moved past him to my locker.

“I can’t wait to meet her at your party tonight.”

I turned around slowly. “Party?”

He worked on getting his pads off. “Dude. Your girl is already planning your life for you and you don’t even know it. Your engagement party. Sunny invited the team and whoever else. It’s all over Instagram.”

Several of the other players agreed, and I nodded, pretending to go along. Sure. Yeah. Party at my house.

Not a good idea.

Not when I knew damn well she was angry.

I showered, changed back into my dress clothes, and went with Coach and some of the other first string to hold a small press conference, something we did after each home game.

Coach grabbed my elbow right before we walked out to take our seats. “Be in my office Monday morning, Kent. We have some harsh topics to discuss.”

“Yes, sir.” I nodded. I’d never in my entire life disobeyed an order from the coach, and he expressly said no when I’d told him I wanted to propose to Sunny at the game.

We took our seats at the table, the school mascot and banner behind us as a backdrop. Lights flashed, reporters popped off questions, and Coach went through them, calling on myself, Tate, and a couple of other first string players to chime in.

An hour later, it was over and Tate and I headed home in his Tundra. Because of all the cars, we were forced to park on a street several houses away from ours. I clenched my teeth and prayed no one called the cops on us.

Sunny had parked my Land Cruiser in the middle of our yard at a crazy angle, the tires mired up in grass and dirt.

We entered the house, and people congratulated us for the win and me for the engagement. Across the staircase, someone had made a hastily scrawled banner with Congrats on Your Engagement, Max and Sunny.

I looked around everywhere inside, but no Sunny.

I headed out the back door and made my way through back slaps and fist bumps. Keeping my face cool, my eyes scoured the groups of people congregated around the pool.

I saw Bart—what the hell was he doing here? He sent me a dirty look as he talked to a couple of the players. I sized him up, trying to see what she’d seen in him. He was handsome in a poster boy kind of way. Clean-cut. Well dressed. Focused on his goals.

But . . .

All I could see in my head was him being Sunny’s first, and then breaking her heart.

He strode toward me, carrying a beer. A petite brunette trailed behind him and he said something to her, causing her to stop following him.

It hadn’t taken him long to find someone else, but no way did she measure up to Sunny.

He came to a stop in front of me. His eyes swept over me and his lips compressed. “I don’t see what Sunny sees in you. You’re an arrogant sonofabitch who thinks he’s better than anyone else.”

I stiffened, my fists tightening, adrenaline still high from the game. “What do you want?”