I WAKE up to my phone vibrating under my pillow.
I grab the alarm clock sitting on my bedside table and toss it on the mattress when I see it’s only five thirty in the morning. I didn’t plan to be up for another two hours.
The vibrating starts a second time and I fumble with my phone, sitting up when I see my mom’s name on the screen.
“Mom? What’s wrong?” I ask, still half-asleep.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were dating Shawn Holmes?”
“What are you talking about? I’m not dating Shawn. Where would you get that idea?”
“The news,” she says. “The internet. Every person in the world except my daughter, who used to tell me everything.”
Dread ices my blood. I pull the phone away from my ear and my fingers fly across the screen to search my name on the internet. What once used to show my LinkedIn profile as the top hit, followed by a handful of articles I’ve written for various children’s pediatric magazines, is now replaced with a photo of Shawn’s mouth on mine at UPS Field and dozens of headlines from gossip websites.
Kiss cam gone wrong—or right?
Was this kiss cam kiss staged or real? Body language experts weigh in.
Who is Lacey Daniels, Shawn Holmes’ new leading lady?
Single no more! Everyone’s favorite NFL coach is finally off the market.
Caught on camera! A scorching display of public affection at a sporting event—and we are here for it.
“Fuck,” I say. “Fuck.”
“Lacey,” my mother admonishes. “Language.”
“Sorry.” I press the pads of my fingers to the space between my eyebrows as pressure pulses across my forehead. “We’re not… it’s not like that, Mom. Shawn and I are friends. Just friends.”
“That sure doesn’t look like just friends to me,” she says with a laugh. “I need more friends like yours.”
“Oh, my god. This is all a misunderstanding. It was just a stupid thing that happened at his game.”
“Well, someone better tell the media that,” my mom says. “They talked about you on Good Morning America. You were the pop culture moment of the day.”
“Pop culture—you’ve got to be shitting me.” I grab a pillow and put it over my face, screaming into the silk cover until I’m hoarse. “I have to go, Mom. I have to fix this.”
“Are you sure you don’t like him, Lace? The pictures of you two were very cute. And kissing in the snow? It’s like those Hallmark movies I love so much.”
“Of course I like him. He’s one of my favorite people in the world. I just don’t like him like that,” I say.
My mom hums. “Okay. Call me later. I love you.”
“Love you too,” I say.
I end the call and pull up my Instagram, nearly dropping my phone when I see I have three hundred thousand new followers. A full inbox. Comments and likes on photos from ten years ago, back when I wore skinny jeans and had a temporary tattoo of a butterfly on my left shoulder.
My profile has always been public, easily searchable by anyone who has my first and last name. There’s nothing incriminating on it, no glorification of illegal activities that would get me in trouble with the state medical board or have my patients’ parents not trust me.
I love my job, and I’ve worked hard to earn the accolades I’ve achieved over the course of my career. I would never act like an idiot then post it on social media.
But this sudden influx of attention means people I don’t know are finding these snapshots of my life. People who have never met me are flocking to cherished personal moments. Commenting on images of loved ones—on Maven—and criticizing her appearance.
“Goddammit,” I curse, and a knock on my apartment door has me flying out of bed.
I’m close to being sick. Acid churns in my stomach and bile sits in my throat. I stand on my tiptoes and peer through the peephole, breathing out a sigh of relief when I see Maggie’s anxious face on the other side. I turn the knob and fling the door open, and she wraps me in a hug.
“Are you okay?” she whispers in my ear, her hand stroking my hair and her arms around my shoulders.
“I don’t know what’s going on, Mags.”
It’s my apartment, but she’s the one to guide me to the couch. The one who sits me down and kisses the top of my head. She disappears for a minute or ten, returning to the living room with two mugs in her hands.
“Talk,” she says, and she thrusts a cup of tea in my direction.
“I went to sleep last night thinking whatever happened at the game was behind us. Shawn and I made a couple of jokes at the diner. He ruffled my hair and told me I use too much teeth when I kiss. I elbowed him in the stomach and said his tongue is too slippery. It was fine. This morning, I wake up to this massive shit storm and headlines saying I’m dating the NFL’s most eligible bachelor. How did we get here?” I ask.
“A video of the kiss got posted online,” she says slowly. She brings the chipped mug to her lips and takes a sip. “On TikTok. It has fifteen million views.”
I almost spill my tea. It sloshes dangerously close to the rim of the cup and a few rogue drops fall onto my fingers as I gape at her. “Fifteen million?” I repeat. There’s no way I heard her correctly. “How is that possible?”
“Social media.” She shrugs and sets her saucer and teacup down next to the photo of us at medical school graduation over ten years ago. We’re both in our black robes and doctoral tams, smiling proudly on a warm spring day. “It can be a blessing and a curse.”
“Right now, I’d say it’s a curse.”
“Why, exactly?” she asks. “Everyone thinks you’re dating the hot football coach. Is that really that bad?”
“I don’t want to date the hot football coach,” I argue. “I don’t want to date anyone, and certainly not my friend who’s seen me puke in a toilet after a tequila shot too many.”
“We are never doing tequila shots again,” Maggie says firmly. “But what if…” she trails off and grabs the blanket off the arm of the couch. She drapes it over our legs and runs her palms across the fleece. Her fingers work the fringe on the ends into tiny little braids. “What if you used it as leverage?”
“Leverage?” I bring the cup of tea to my mouth. I take a sip and hum my approval at the teaspoon of honey and splash of milk she added. “What do you mean?”
“Hear me out,” she says. “We have the annual hospital holiday gala next month.”
“What does that have to do with Shawn?”
“Nothing—yet. But it could. He’s one of the biggest names in sports. A previous Super Bowl winner. A current NFL coach with a hot winning streak. He’s young, he’s good looking, he’s wealthy. Plus, he’s a nice guy. You know Director Hannaford has a pattern of promoting people who bring in the best silent auction prizes to the gala. With a boyfriend like Shawn who could offer a coaching lesson or two for someone’s kid who’s trying to get on the varsity football team, well, the donations would triple. The hospital and all its affiliates—including your office—need funding. Badly. This could be an answer to that problem,” she says.
“So, I’m extorting him for his athletic talent and pretty face,” I say flatly. “How is that fair?”
Maggie laughs. “You’re not extorting him, Lace. It’s for the kids. And he would know your intentions ahead of time. You can keep up the dating through the gala, then pretend you broke up. Hannaford wouldn’t care by that point. It’ll be a new year, and all he sees are dollar signs.”
I weigh her words and consider them carefully, because what she’s saying makes sense. A lot of sense, and I hate that she lays it out so logically.
It’s no secret the hospital director looks forward to this time of year; he makes his rounds and asks what items the staff will be donating. The fancier the item, the more impressed he is.
More donations and more funding mean better medical equipment for our patients who desperately deserve it. It also means higher wages and more staff, so everyone can stop working such long hours. The overtime is nice, but five twelve-hour days in a row is brutal.
The position of chief physician at the pediatric office has been open for months, waiting for a replacement. Hannaford mentioned it once a few months ago in passing, but I never thought anything of it. Never considered throwing my name in the ring or dropping off my resume in his mailbox—especially because he referred to me as Nancy, and I didn’t have the guts to correct him.
Auctioning off a couple hours with Shawn—complete with a private tour of UPS Field—could go for a quarter of a million dollars, easily, and that’s chump change to a lot of the folks that come to the gala. It’s far more profitable than the fruit basket and bottle of wine I was planning to bring.
“He would do that as a friend, though,” I argue. “I don’t have to tell the world he’s my boyfriend to get him to do something nice; he’s always visiting the kids in pediatric oncology. I’m surprised he’s never offered to donate any of his athletic services before. He and Aiden have been friends for a lifetime.”
“Shawn doesn’t like the spotlight,” Maggie explains. “He comes to the hospital in a hoodie and a hat so people in the hall can’t recognize him. When he donates, he donates anonymously—and he’s donated a lot, Lace.”
My hands are sweating. I set the teacup down and rub my palms over my T-shirt before twisting the cotton into a knot in my fist. Unease settles in my stomach, a rock with a heavy weight sinking further and further to the ground.
“That would make him uncomfortable,” I say, and my voice sounds like a thousand splinters sticking up on a piece of wood. “I’d never want to make him uncomfortable.”
“Maybe he could benefit from this arrangement,” Maggie says. “Maybe he could find a way to use you, too.”
I cringe. “Can’t we just use each other as friends? Or not use each other at all?”
“You could, but the girlfriend of a star NFL coach sounds a lot better than a friend. Plus, it’s the holidays.” She sighs wistfully and glances out the large window to her left. The glass is nearly frosted over, but you can see the city covered in a blanket of white, six inches of snow coming down overnight. “This time of year is magical. It’s romantic. Holding hands while you ice skate and try not to fall over. Sitting in front of a fireplace, curled up with a blanket and a good book. Doesn’t that sound nice? Who does it hurt if you two pretend for a little while?”
“I have to talk to Shawn first,” I say. “This is a big ask of him.”
“How is he handling all of this?”
“No clue. I woke up to a phone call from my mother, saw the frenzy that the damn kiss created, and opened the door for you.”
Maggie scoots closer to me. She puts her head on my shoulder and sighs. “How are you handling all of this?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t realize there would be repercussions because of what he—we—did. It was bigger than a spur-of-the-moment thing—they’re talking about it on Good Morning America. I just don’t want anyone to get hurt,” I say. My eyes start to sting, and I blink away tears. “He’s my best friend, Mags, and I’d never want to jeopardize our friendship.”
“Was it a good kiss?” she asks.
My smile pulls at the left side of my mouth, then the right. I rub my thumb over the spot Shawn kissed yesterday. I can still feel him there, a phantom touch that followed me home after we slurped down milkshakes and devoured a plate of cheese fries—just like always.
What’s different is the lingering buzz on my lips, the memory of his teeth sinking into my skin and the sound he made when I pulled on the ends of his hair, right above his ears.
I was messing with him when we were joking around; his tongue isn’t too slippery. Everything about the moment was perfect, down to the snowflakes that stuck to his cheeks. I wanted to kiss those off, too.
“Yeah,” I admit. “It was good.”
Maggie giggles and squeals. “I knew it would be. Nothing about it looked nice.”
“It wasn’t.” My smile dips into one that’s secret. Something I’m not ready to share with anyone else yet. “He said I deserved better than nice. And I do.”
