The crowd loses it the second the clock runs out with Derek having just caught his twelfth catch of the game in the end zone—making it his third touchdown. The winning touchdown.
My mom and I both scream and launch ourselves at each other, hugging and jumping up and down like kids. Derek throws the ball to the ground and jogs to the fifty-yard line, stopping to face me. He smiles, drops to his knees, and fans a bow like I’m his queen. Like he did it for me. The rest of the guys quickly follow suit and before I know it, most of the team is bowing before me like I had anything to do with the incredible game Derek just played.
I’m laughing my head off, gesturing for them all to stand up, all the while feeling so relieved and proud, I could explode. He did it—and I knew he would. The entire team played like champions, but Derek was unstoppable the whole game. No one could cover him. And Nathan’s passes were flawless today.
Speaking of Nathan, when the guys all rise back to their feet, I see him cast a silly face to one of the boxes above me. Sure enough, there’s Bree sticking her tongue out at him in return. I love them. I love that I get to call them my friends now.
“Let’s see them try to cut your man after that game!” my mom says, taking my hand and squeezing it because she knows how worried I was for Derek. I didn’t want to show it, because I know that even if he played terribly today and got cut, he’d still be okay and find something new to love. Derek has too much to offer to ever truly be out of options. But I know how much he loves the Sharks and thinks of them as family. I wanted with all of my heart for him to get to stay with his friends on this team. And thanks to how he played today—there’s no question the Sharks will keep him on. It was like his ankle injury never existed and I can’t wait to listen to those assholes on sports radio eat their words.
Derek stands, tosses off his helmet, and runs full steam for me. I lean over the railing as he approaches, wrapping my arms around his sweaty neck and placing a kiss to his smiling mouth. “I’m proud of you,” I tell him, happy tears clinging to my lashes.
“Thank you for being here for me,” he tells me, his breath coming quickly. “For always being here for me.” Several people behind us are shouting his name trying to get his attention. Their new football god dropping from his throne to lavish us with attention. He kisses my cheek once and then looks past me to the crowd, taking off one of his gloves and tossing it back to a little boy about ten years old in the stands.
He then snags my hand and kisses my tattoo ring. “See you in the media room?”
He’ll have to go do a postgame press conference now—and I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Not when I know he’s going to get to gloat over how well he played.
“I’ll be there.”
He hops back down to the shouts of the crowd, and my mom beams at me. She’s told me repeatedly over the last several weeks how much she likes Derek. It means the world to have her blessing.
We pack up our things and move against the crowd, heading to the second level to Bree and Nathan’s box. It’ll be a bit until Derek’s press conference because the players will shower, and then most likely Nathan will go first with his interview. I plan to hug Bree and then eat all her free food in the box while I wait.
Except when we make it into the box, Bree is staring at her phone with a frown. And then those eyes lift to me, and somehow, I instinctively know something is wrong. Something that has to do with me, judging by the way her eyes fill with a mix of fear and pity.
“What?” I breathe out.
There are a few other people in the box: Bree’s friend Dylan and her sister Lily. They each look at me like I’ve just been announced as the newest tribute in the Hunger Games.
Bree opens her arms to me. “Come get a hug first, and then I’ll tell you.”
My stomach falls, but I comply, stepping into Bree’s arms and letting her squeeze the life out of me before she releases me, handing over her phone.
I hold it but can’t bring my eyes to look yet. “Do you think if I avoid looking at whatever you’re trying to show me, it’ll just…go away?”
“Not likely,” Bree says with a frown that makes me even more nervous. “And you should read it quickly.”
My mom steps up beside me to read over my shoulder—scanning the online article that just dropped a few minutes ago on the heels of the Sharks’ win. The article isn’t about the L.A. Sharks, though, it’s about me. And Derek…but mostly me.
The title of the article is Conniving Agent Marries Football Legend to Further Career.
Wow, how original. But then the terror sets in because as I read, I realize a lot of what this article says is truth. I mean, it’s spun to make me look like a manipulative witch, but the foundation of the truth is there. It states that although Derek and I presented a romantic front, it was all a lie. That our spontaneous elopement was nothing more than a drunken mistake on Derek’s part.
The source has the audacity to suggest that I purposely got Derek drunk and used him as a way to get ahead in my career (that part an obvious lie). It then goes on to spell out how our honeymoon was nothing but a publicity stunt that Derek was forced into to cover our butts so he didn’t ruin his reputation. Which…is not at all true either. Derek’s reputation has withstood far worse. (Including the time he got drunk in a club and stripped completely naked in the center of the dance floor. He was escorted out and put in a car and all that came of it was a lot of blurred-out gifs. His endorsements still flowed in.)
No, it was my reputation that Derek was voluntarily protecting.
“How dare they write this,” I say, shaking as I near the end of the horrendous article and see that the source is cited as anonymous, but this is undoubtably the work of a jealous co-worker. And then I remember the day I spilled my guts to Nicole in the office several weeks ago and us thinking we heard someone in the hallway. Apparently, there was someone listening in.
I’m going to barf.
“Are you okay, hon?” my mom asks, wrapping her arm around my shoulders.
“Yes…no…somewhere in the middle maybe.”
“Do you have any idea who wrote this?” Bree asks, concern etching her brow.
“Someone jealous enough about the sudden spike in my career to want to see it end,” I say, knowing exactly who it is. It’s the same person who’s been whispering behind my back for weeks. The same one who has been upset watching the office slowly accept me as one of their own. And the same one who has tried to poach the athletes I’ve been in talks with right out from under me—claiming he’s seen my work ethic and it leaves much to be desired. Your work ethic leaves much to be desired, Marty, judging by how poor a job you do of cleaning up your trash in the break room.
I hand Bree’s phone back to her when my own begins vibrating in my back pocket. I pull it out and find Nicole’s name on my screen. She must have seen the article.
“I just read it,” I tell her in lieu of a greeting.
She doesn’t bother with one either. Instead, she cuts right to the point. A point that makes a cold sweat break out down the back of my neck. “Derek’s press conference. You need to get to him and prepare him before he steps in front of the cameras.”
I mutter a curse and take off in a sprint out of the box.
I jog as fast as I can through the stadium, accidentally bumping into a few people in the process. One guy holding a beer is not watching where he’s going and clearly doesn’t expect a woman running toward him at the speed of light because he steps out directly into my path. That beer ends up all over my beautiful new jersey and if I weren’t already in a frantic hurry to make it to Derek, I’d (1) stop and buy him a new drink because courtesy is the currency of my life. (2) I’d feel buzzed with excitement to try out a new stain-removing hack. But there’s no time, so I keep pushing through the crowd.
I manage to dash off a text to Derek while moving, but upon a second look, I realize it reads Trbl. CLL mE.
When he doesn’t call me immediately, I call him on repeat while zigzagging through the crowd and flashing my media badge to security guards as I rush down tunnels until I’m field level. After the fifth time Derek doesn’t answer his phone, I’m fairly certain he must have left it in his damn locker.
There’s a security guard posted outside the media room, and when I race up to it dragging in breaths like I’ll never get another, the man looks as though he’s debating throwing me in handcuffs out of precaution alone. I try to push past him, but he stops me with a sharp frown. “You can’t go in, ma’am. They’re in session right now.”
“I know—that’s why I need to get in there.”
“No one goes in after they’ve started.”
I summon my inner Nicole and hold up my badge three inches from his face. “I’m an agent and my client is participating in a press conference right now without me. Kindly step aside or find yourself without a job next week when I speak with the GM about your conduct.”
He still looks a little torn but ultimately decides not to risk it and steps to the left. I’m in a hurry and have no seconds to waste, but…my conscience is so obnoxiously loud. So I pause and smile up at him. “But you’re doing a fine job keeping everyone out. Next time I throw a party and need a bouncer you better believe I’ll be calling you!”
And then I walk through the door of the media room and my panic swells to a new height. It’s a packed room full of reporters with cameras and recorders pointed in the air. The constant soft clicks of pictures being snapped fills the air, and they’re all aimed at Derek Pender. He’s on the stage already, standing behind the lectern with a mic in front of his face. Behind him is a backdrop with the Los Angeles Sharks logo.
His hair is still a little damp on the ends, peeking out from under the hat he’s wearing. The stern set of his face has my thighs clenching because I love this look on him. His all-business face. I also love the new black team hoodie he’s wearing right now. I might have to abduct it tonight.
Right. Not here to jump Derek, steal his hoodie, and then climb him like a tree. I need to get his attention before someone can ask him about the article.
“Excuse me,” I whisper frantically, pushing past a man hovering in the aisle. Jeez, it’s congested in here. So much liberally applied cologne and perfume that I’m nearly choking. I try to catch Derek’s eye as I move slowly toward the front of the room, but he hasn’t seen me yet.
My shoulders tense as a hand goes up from a man in the front row and Derek calls on him. “Congrats on playing an incredible game today, Derek. How did your ankle feel while you were out there?”
An easy one.
I sigh with a little relief as I continue moving around the perimeter of the room to get to the front without drawing too much attention to myself.
“Thank you. I felt better than ever. No problems at all from my ankle.”
Another reporter speaks up. “We’ve seen other athletes sustain similar injuries and not come back half as strong as you played today. What do you attribute the success of your recovery to?”
“Yeah—I owe it all to my trainers. They worked just as hard as I did to get my ankle back in good shape.” The agent in me swells with pride at his answer. And the part of me that’s in love with that man is even more proud knowing that the gratitude he showed for his trainers and the people he works with isn’t just for show. He means it.
Derek calls on another reporter and something about the way the man’s shoulders straighten before he rises from his seat—which is completely unnecessary in here—has me catapulting myself toward the stage. But I don’t make it in time.
The man’s low voice booms through the room. “Derek, are you aware that an article was published just after the game stating that your and Nora Mackenzie’s relationship is a fraud?” I freeze in place as blood roars in my ears. The clicks and flashes of cameras are as frenzied as a lightning storm. I’m going to faint. Everything I’ve worked for—everything I’ve accomplished—is going to go up in flames from this article. And I doubt Derek will take a hit from it—but if he does, I’m not sure how I’ll live with myself.
But Derek, bless him, is stone-faced. He betrays no hints of emotions or surprise at the question, showing only his years of experience in media training by not letting his eyebrows so much as twitch. But his eyes move swiftly over the room, hunting for me. And like he can sense me in here somewhere, his eyes slide straight past everyone else and land on me.
The moment our gazes lock, I feel his tenderness like a tangible caress. It’s him briefly taking a time-out from this circus and acknowledging the turmoil I’m swimming in. It’s a language only we can read, though—no one else realizing the silent conversation taking place between us.
When Derek doesn’t answer immediately, the reporter continues with a smug grin like he knows he’s just gotten the scoop on the story of the week. “The source reports that the elopement was due to a night of heavy drinking, and that Nora Mackenzie only used you and your status to launch her career. Do you have a comment?”
I want to shout across the media room that I would never use him. That I love him more than I’ve loved anything or anyone in my life. But like in my recurring nightmare, I’m frozen and silent. Probably for the best since my comment or sudden appearance would only make it worse. Because as it stands, they’ve phrased the question in a way that doesn’t hurt Derek—only me. And I can live with that.
I hate to admit it, but in this moment, I have no idea how to fix this. If he doesn’t comment, we look guilty. If he does comment, there’s a possibility it will come out all wrong and blow the entire thing up into a bigger deal than it is. Which is exactly what the media would love. He needs to tread very carefully and I’m just holding my breath that he’ll know how.
Derek’s eyes settle on me again and even though I’m a swirl of terror, he looks utterly calm and confident. And then he flashes me a subtle grin. Of course my skin curls with anticipation before he turns his eyes back to the reporter and leans toward the mics. “Listen up, because I’m only going to acknowledge this once.”
I clutch my hands to my stomach as it bottoms out. The room goes utterly silent except for the sounds of cameras snapping pictures. Recorders are raised in the air all over the room to catch each and every word that comes out of his handsome mouth. “First, her name is Nora Mackenzie Pender now, but don’t be mistaken. She might share my name, but she owes her success to no one but herself. My role in her life has nothing to do with how hard she’s worked for years and years to get where she is now. And I swear to god, anyone else who dares question my wife’s integrity or work ethic is going to have to deal with me, but more terrifyingly, you’re going to have to deal with her. Don’t be fooled, she can be ruthless as hell.”
I can’t breathe. Can’t blink. Can’t look away from the blazing fury in Derek’s eyes. I watch as they shift to me once more and then I see it—the wink.
Oh, Derek. What are you about to do?
He leans forward slowly; he’s holding a winning hand of cards and he knows it. “And now…” he says in a stern, no-nonsense rumble. “We can continue talking about that joke of an article supplied by some desperate source…or…we can discuss how I’m officially retiring from the NFL.”
I clutch the back of the nearest chair. Voices rise. The energy of the room uncaps and now everyone is practically falling all over one another to get Derek to notice their raised hands and shouts of questions. Cameras are flashing like fireworks. And Derek—the smug devil just stands there and lets it erupt around him with a quiet grin on his face.
