Fake Fiancée

“Then what are we? Define it.” I hated the insecurity I heard in my voice—but I just needed him to tell me how he felt.

A muscle clenched in his jaw, his face hardening. Distance grew in his gaze. “I can’t do this a few days before a game—”

I held my hand up. “Fine. Then let me finish getting dressed.”

He stood there as if he wanted to say something, his shoulders tense, but then pivoted and left, neatly shutting the door behind him.

Once at Mimi’s, things went well. Her apartment was comfortable and before long, we’d all eaten and the guys had disappeared to do chores for Mimi—which mostly consisted of getting down her Christmas decorations from the small attic she had.

Mimi watched Max drape green garland around the mantel in the living room as Frank Sinatra holiday music filled the air. He pulled a snow globe from one of her boxes and set it on the coffee table. “Such big hands around that globe.”

My lips twitched. “Stop having sex fantasies about Max, Mimi. It’s weird.”

Isabella just snorted.

“Just because I’m old, doesn’t mean I’m blind. I still got some life left in me yet.” She put away dishes in the cabinet. “You know, I see how he looks at you.”

I stopped wiping her table. “The only thing important to him is football. Always will be.”

Max

MONDAY I WOKE UP, SHOWERED, and dressed in jeans and a flannel that Sunny had commented she liked once.

My chest ached, and I rubbed it. She needed me to reassure her about us—but my head was all over the place. Pressure was everywhere—from Coach, the players, and myself.

Not to mention, today was my mom’s birthday. I pinched the bridge of my nose. I’d give anything to have her here with me when I played my last regular season game this week.

You look like hell, I told myself, staring into the mirror at the dark shadows under my eyes.

Tate was peering into the fridge wearing boxers and nothing else when I came into the kitchen.

“Morning, Gorgeous,” I said, setting my backpack on the counter. “You ready for this week?”

“No.” He sent me a bleary-eyed look as he opened a carton of OJ and drank it straight from the mouth.

My phone pinged. It was my dad.

I’m coming back to Atlanta this weekend for your last game.

Just great.

I replied, Do what you want.

His next text blew me away. I’ll call you later. I know what today is. She’s on my mind too.

He’d remembered it was her birthday?

I was fucking shocked.

Tate gave me a considering glance. “You okay, mate?”

I nodded and leaned against the counter. “Yeah. Just family stuff gets me worked up—and I don’t need it before a big game.”

Tate took another swig from the OJ. “What do you need?”

Sunny came to mind, but I didn’t say it.

I grabbed a Gatorade from the fridge. “Just the game, man.”

I stalked off, not wanting to talk anymore. I went outside and immediately checked out Sunny’s place, making sure everything was fine. It appeared to be, so I walked to my Land Cruiser.

What the hell? I came to a halt at the knife in my front driver’s side tire. I dropped my backpack to the ground and inspected it. Not only had they stabbed the damn thing, but they’d punctured it in several places before leaving the knife for me to find. I yelled for Tate and he came out the door, still clad in boxers.

We checked out the rest of the car, and sure enough the passenger side door had a deep gouge going all the way through the paint to the metal of the frame.

“Bloody hell, someone doesn’t like you very much,” Tate said, scratching at his jawline. “I know you’re thinking Felix, but with the game coming up . . . it seems risky for him to pull this.”

I paced around the car again. Someone had been right outside my bedroom window last night screwing with my property. With Sunny just across the street.

Was she okay?

My mind flew in a hundred different directions . . .

I called her but she didn’t pick up. I knocked on her door, and when I didn’t get an answer, I ran around to the back and knocked. Nothing. I peeked in the windows and had a direct view into her kitchen. Everything looked fine. I jogged back to my house.

Tate was still standing in the yard, hands on his hips like a mother hen. “Everything good?”

“I guess she’s in class already.” I hoped so.

Feeling a sense of urgency, I booked it to the detached garage where I kept my Harley.

“Let me know if she isn’t in class,” Tate called out to me as I backed my bike out. I adjusted my helmet, Tate handed me my backpack, and I cranked it up. Within seconds, I was on the road and pointed toward the Clark Science Building.

By the time I parked and got inside the building, I was five minutes late. I took the stairs at a run. I got to the third floor landing and almost smacked into a couple kissing when I turned the corner. They split apart and the male spun his head to see me.

Felix.

“Watch it,” he muttered, his face flushed and sweaty. His eyes narrowed when he saw it was me.

I was planning on ignoring him—until I caught a look at who he was with. It wasn’t Bianca, and for that I was glad. After the game when I’d followed her home, she’d told me that he hadn’t actually hit her, but he’d pushed her a few times. She’d made excuses for him . . . he was frustrated about the game, etc., but he was trouble waiting to happen.

“Hey, Max,” Cyndi, the waitress from the coffee shop, said. She raked fingers through her long red hair as she tried to put it back in place. My eyes went to her shirt, which was halfway unbuttoned, giving a perfect view of her cleavage.

“You see something you like, Kent?” Felix asked, a sneer on his face.

I shook off his irritating tone. Don’t get sucked in. I forced a nonchalant shrug. “Carry on,” I said and kept going up the stairs.

He called up after me. “You seem to be running late this morning, Kent. Hope everything’s okay.”

I stopped on the landing above him and glared down. “Yeah. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

His shoulders puffed up. “Just being civil, that’s all. Making conversation.”

I searched his face, looking for clues that he’d been the one who messed with my car—but all I got was a blank stare. No gleam of amusement or knowing look. Either he’d learned to hide his expressions better and had become more sinister with his pranks, or he didn’t have a damn clue what was going on.

I exited the stairwell and rushed into class. There she was in her usual seat and all my anxiety melted. She had her blond hair up in a tight ponytail and wore a gray shirt that said Nap Queen.

Mr. Whitt came into class and we got started, but Felix’s image loomed in my head again. Something was tugging at me, pricking, and I couldn’t nail it down.

Then it dawned on me. The knife in my tire—I recognized it. Coach had given the team pearl-handled knives freshman year after we’d won the Southeastern Conference. He’d also had them engraved with our first initial on the metal end. It was small and barely noticeable, but most decidedly there.

The knife in my tire had a pearl handle.

I waited until Whitt wasn’t looking, pulled my phone out, and texted Tate, asking him to check the knife.

He replied right away. I was just about to text you. I remembered too. Yes, it’s the same. I pulled mine out to compare. The initial on the bottom is F.