“I’ve got something to say, everyone,” Max called out a bit later, his gaze encompassing the group. Murmurs came from the crowd of bulky football players and girls. They stopped what they were doing and leaned in to hear him. Someone even turned down the music. It was obvious he was their leader.
He indicated me with a nudge of his head. “Some of you have met her, but most of you haven’t. So, I’d like to formally introduce you to my girlfriend, Sunny Blaine. She’s beautiful, sweet, and I’ve never been happier.” His aqua eyes gleamed down at me, heartfelt emotion on his face. Like he loved me.
I swallowed. He was good.
He waggled his eyebrows at the crowd. “Be nice to her, and don’t forget to tell her how awesome I am. Tell her anything different, and I’ll kick your ass.” He lifted his beer to everyone. “Cheers!”
A few chuckles came from the crowd.
“ . . . hi . . .”
“ . . . nice to meet you . . .”
“ . . . glad it’s not Bianca . . .”
The murmurs came and went, and I smiled and waved at everyone—as promised.
“Alright. Let’s get this party started,” Max said, twirling me around in his arms as the music kicked back up with “She Will Be Loved” from Maroon 5. My stomach fluttered as he wrapped his arms around my waist and held me close. We swayed to the beat, our hips brushing against each other.
“They love you already,” he whispered in my ear, his breath caressing my neck. Goosebumps rose over my body.
I lifted my face up at him in what I hoped was fake adoration. He pushed a strand of hair out of my eyes and kissed me on the forehead. I sighed, admitting what had bothered me the most about showing up tonight. It wasn’t about the pretending. I could be a fake girlfriend. It was my body that was the problem. I wanted Max Kent.
Max
THE NEXT WEEKEND I WAS trying to hunt down my fake girlfriend. Without luck.
I parked my black 750 Harley in the detached garage next to my house. An over-the-top gift from my dad, the bike had been a reward for the prep school football state championship I’d won my senior year. Of course, we’d been to state three years in a row, but that last year had been mine. I’m not being cocky when I say that sportscasters and colleges had been talking about me being great since I was fourteen and how I had an arm like a bullet. I inherited it from the jerk who’d provided sperm for me, but I’d also honed my skill with drills and training. And the Heisman, that gnawing need that drove me? I wanted it because it was the one thing my father hadn’t been able to get when he was a college quarterback. Yeah, take that, dickhead.
My dislike for my father started the day my mom delivered me during the ice storm of ’95. A bleak day in December, Atlanta had woken to thousands of branches and power lines covered with ice. The city came to a virtual standstill, and my mom’s water broke right in the middle of it. Somehow she got herself in her car to drive to the hospital, but then skidded on a patch of ice and hit a tree.
Where was my dad? Screwing a groupie.
A stranger helped my mom give birth in the front seat of her Mercedes. From that day on, she said I was a fighter.
When she finally got ahold of my dad, a woman answered his phone. She told me that had been the beginning of the end for her, yet she never could bring herself to divorce the bastard.
When I was a kid, he’d show up periodically at our house, get back with my mom, then a month later she’d read about him having an affair with some country singer or model. He was a narcissistic bastard who only cared about himself, and I hated him most days.
I pushed the past out of my mind as I planted my ass on the stoop. I’d been cruising the streets looking for Sunny for an hour but hadn’t found her. And her house was still dark. She said she had to work at the library this evening, but it closed at nine. It was after ten.
How was she getting home?
Fuck. I should have taken care of this already. She was my responsibility.
I’d given her rides to class on the days we had class together, and she was catching a ride with a friend on the other days—with whom, I had no idea. Which reminded me that we really needed to sit down and go over each other’s history just in case we got asked any hard questions.
I’d sent her a text a couple of hours ago to see if she needed a ride, but she hadn’t responded. Calls had gone straight to voicemail.
Why was I worried? She was an adult. She could take care of herself.
But . . .
But today was weird. I’d wanted her to be home when the bus had rolled in from our away victory against number fifteen Florida. It had been a Saturday night ESPN game, and dammit, I’d wanted to tell her about it. I’d thrown for three hundred and ten and rushed for one twenty, shredding their over-ranked defense. Stellar game. When I woke up in the hotel this morning, the sportscasters were talking about me and the H word.
I’d barely seen her this past week. School and practice had both been intense, and my bed had been my best friend. Our little agreement was working well for me. Bianca was ignoring me, and groupies hadn’t shown up at the house to hound me. I was golden.