Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 97767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
“It’s the same thing!”
“Does she live in the same building?” Danica fires back before I can finish my protest. She doesn’t give me a chance to respond before barreling on. “What’s her occupation?”
I shrug, pulling open the fridge and staring blankly inside. “Don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” Her disbelief is palpable through the phone, as if she isn’t listening to a single thing I’ve said. “Great. Okay. Fantastic. So, we’ll go with: She’s someone you’ve been seeing, and it’s not serious.”
“Yes. I see her with my eyes,” I joke, grabbing a bottle of water.
Danica groans. “Gio, I swear to God, if you keep making jokes—”
“What do you want me to say?” I interrupt impatiently, leaning against the counter. “Should we lie and say she’s the love of my life and we’re planning our wedding for next summer?”
“That might actually help,” she mutters, typing.
I laugh. “Yeah, until they start following her to the grocery store and asking her how many kids we’re going to have.”
There’s a beat of silence, and for once, Danica doesn’t have a snappy comeback. “You’re right, that’s exactly what’s going to happen thanks to your impulsiveness.” There’s another pause. “That’s why we need to control the narrative before it controls you—or her.”
I rub the back of my neck, staring at the floor. This isn’t my first rodeo. Ever since I went pro, I’ve been stuck in this endless song and dance with the media—and I have the bad choices in women to thank for most of it.
Not this time. I will not let my past come back to haunt me.
“Fine,” I mutter. “What do you need me to do?”
“First, you’re going to text her and let her know what’s happening,” Danica dictates, her businesslike tone snapping into place. “Then, we’re going to draft a statement together. Something vague, but clear so we can all move on with our lives. Got it?”
“Got it,” I reply. “You’re the boss.”
I can hear Danica smile. “Thanks.”
She laughs, unbothered. Danica reminds me of a barracuda, but with glasses and adult braces. Ruthless and polished. The kind of person who smiles while she sinks her teeth into you.
“Look,” she says, her voice softening slightly. “I know this sucks, but if we play our cards right, this will all blow over in a few days. Just follow my lead.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, already pulling up my messages. “I’ve got it under control.”
“Good. And Gio?”
“What?”
“Try not to make it worse.”
I stare down at my phone as the call ends, the screen still lit with Danica’s contact photo—a stock image of a shark, which felt fitting when I saved her number. My thumb hovers over the screen, hesitating, as I debate how the hell I’m supposed to explain this to Austin. A girl I’ve only met in person once. And under a guise, no less.
I drop my phone onto the counter with a sigh, already dreading the conversation. If this situation isn’t awkward enough, I know my sister is bound to have an opinion about it. She always does. Honestly, I’m shocked she hasn’t already barged through my front door, armed with iced coffee and unsolicited advice, ready to insert herself into the mess.
Mess? Nah.
Not really. This isn’t a mess.
It’s just gossip.
Gossip is standard, part of the job. Lucky for me, I’m not usually the target—there are plenty of higher-profile players for the media to hound. Just so happens, though, that I’m single. Rich. Good-looking (I’m not going to argue with them on that point).
Toss in the fact that we’d lost three games in a row— then I mysteriously turn it around last night only after kissing the glass where she was standing?
Boom.
News.
It’s the perfect storm: a struggling team, a dramatic comeback, and a handsome bachelor “inspired” by a mystery woman. The media’s eating it up like it’s their last meal. And honestly? I can’t blame them. If I were in their shoes, I’d probably run with it too.
My ass is against the counter and I’m drumming my fingers as I think about Austin. What the hell am I supposed to say to her? What to say, what to say…
She’s a Baddies fan. Surely, she’s seen the headlines by now. If she’s even glanced at her phone today, she’s probably been bombarded with pictures, memes, and analysis dissecting every second of last night’s game.
I open our text thread, my thumbs hovering over the keyboard. How do you even start this kind of conversation?
Gio: Mornin. Not sure if you start your day off with local sporting stats, but
I stop, deleting the message before I send it. Too casual. Too cheeky. She might not be amused if she has seen the news.
I try again.
Gio: You’ve probably seen the news…
I delete that too, groaning under my breath. Why is this so hard? I’m a grown man. A professional athlete. I can handle a text message.