An hour before I’m supposed to meet Tom for lunch, I take a quick shower and dress semi-casual, pulling on a pair of slacks and a shirt with the top buttons undone. I grab a sports jacket to put over it and a pair of casual shoes. By the time I headed out of my house, I have the message from Tom telling me where I need to go.

It’s a place I’ve heard of, called Tully’s, and I only need to take a quick look at his directions to know where to go. I get there with five minutes to spare. It has valet parking, so I step out and hand over my keys as I head for the door. I stop by the host booth, clearing my throat so the hostess will look up.

“I’m here to meet someone… Tom Price?”

She glances at her clipboard before stepping around the podium.

A flicker of recognition crosses her face, but I’m not sure whether she knows who I am or has just seen my picture around.

“Certainly. Come right this way,” she says, with a smile that’s just a shade past professional, into flirtatious. I ignore it.

I let the hostess lead me through the restaurant, all the way to the back, at a table with a bit of space from the others. At least Tom has thought about privacy. He sees me coming, and waves at me. I make it to the table and sit down.

“Has a waiter already passed by your table?” she asks Tom.

He nods. “Yes, I asked him to come back around once my friend arrived, thank you.”

She nods back, then turns around and is gone.

“Tom,” I say in greeting as I sit down.

He grins at me. “Why the serious face, kid?”

I frown in annoyance. “Would you please stop calling me ‘kid’?” I grouse. “I’m twenty-eight years old, for crying out loud.”

He just laughs. “You’re on your way, but you haven’t stopped acting like a kid since I met you, I swear. You’ll make it there eventually, but I’ll still be seven years older than you.”

I sigh and sit back as we wait for the waiter. Tom’s been a good agent, but he loves to pull this “you’re so young and stupid” shit with me. I’m just gonna let him tell me his news in his own sweet time. I’ll be damned if I try to coax it out of him.

It doesn’t take long. Just a few minutes later, the waiter comes around, and we both place our order. We chat about inconsequential shit like the weather — which actually make me think about Anna for a bit, for some reason. Then the food is brought over and we start eating.

“All right,” Tom says, partway through the meal. “Let’s get down to business. I have a proposition for you.”

A proposition? What the fuck does that mean? “Tell me what you’ve got,” I say instead.

He doesn’t waste time. “So, it’s not definite that you’re in.”

“Ugh,” I groan in disgust, leaning back against my seat as I stop eating. This fucker cannot be serious! “You made me come all this way for a goddamn no?” I snarl, leaning forward in my chair.

“It’s not a no!” Tom says, then amends quickly, “Not exactly. The thing is, a condition’s been set for you. It’s a little bit out there.”

I frown. I expected conditions, of course. When the photos of me at the rehab center surfaced after I had to take temporary leave, it completely tanked my image. But whatever the team’s demanding, if it’s giving Tom pause, it’s probably not good. I look down at my plate, but suddenly my stomach’s turning and I’m not hungry anymore.

“They know what really happened!” I growl, looking at Tom in anger. A couple people look around, and I clear my throat and continue in a lower voice. “You’ve told them everything. Why don’t they fucking believe me?”

“It’s not that they don’t believe you,” Tom says in a conciliatory tone. “Or, rather that they don’t believe me.” He spreads his hands wide. “But that’s not the point. It’s the optics. The public’s perception of you. They don’t want to deal with that. It’s bad for the team. They want something new about you that the media can eat up. Something positive. Because you know the press is gonna want a story, or else they’ll just go back to rehashing the rehab one.”

“Great,” I mutter gloomily. “So I’m gonna continue to be punished for something that happened a year ago.” Something I had no control over. Fuck my life.

“Look. It’s like this,” Tom continues. “You’ve been clean for months.” I glance up at him sharply, but he raises a hand to silence me, then continues. “I know, I know. You’re a good guy, and most importantly a fucking hell of a linebacker. You can go with the condition and get the contract you fucking need right now. I could do it for you by next week. If you decline, the opportunity walks. I actually expected something like this. You’re just lucky I managed to get them to see your potential enough that they’d agree to it.”

I sigh and sit back again as I listen to him stall. He isn’t saying what I really want to hear, and I wait until he runs out of words.

“Just give it to me straight,” I say blankly. “Please.”

He looks down a moment as he clasps his hands on the table, and when he looks at me, his eyes are serious.

“They want you, to look like exactly what you are right now. A changed man. But they want something concrete, not just your face looking pretty again.”

I narrow my eyes, but let it go. “So? What do they want?”

“They want you to fake a serious relationship,” he says promptly. “A fiancée, actually. It has to be someone perfectly suited for the job, mind you. You play the all-American family in front of the public, and you’re in the clear.”

All I can do as he explains it is stare at him.

“Are you fucking serious right now?” is all I can manage when he’s finished.

I’m not sure what expression is on my face, but I feel a mix of disgust, admiration and resignation. This is the craziest, stupidest shit I have ever heard.

“Yeah.” He starts to look apologetic, then his mouth sets in a hard line. “Look. This isn’t even that bad.” Tom fixes me with a hard stare. “You go on some dates, you get seen in public with a gorgeous girl on your arm. You make up some story about how in love you are and how all you want is marriage and a family.” He shrugs his shoulders like it’s no big deal. “I mean, shit, it’s not like you have to go through with the marriage, for Christ’s sake. You do this for, say, a season, then you break up amicably. The girl makes a public statement saying you’re a prince of a guy but things just didn’t work out. No harm no foul, and now the fans think you’re just a one-woman man who’s unlucky in love.” He gives a bark of laughter. “Hell, after that every chick in Springville will want to take this chick’s place as Mason Robichaud’s woman.”

I cut him a look. “I don’t need fake publicity stories to get tail,” I inform him.

“Focus on the situation at hand, Mason,” he shoots back. “This is your career that’s on the line, kid. You don’t take this, you may never play again. Two seasons without being signed is a fuckin’ death sentence.”

Goddamnit. He’s right. It’d be pretty damn hard to bounce back from that. Not to mention I’ll go fucking crazy if I have to sit out another season with nothing to do. Hell, it might drive me to become the alcoholic everybody already thinks I am.

I shake my head in disbelief that I’m even considering this.

“How are we gonna keep my ‘fiancée’ from spilling the beans about what’s really going on?” I ask.

“A non-disclosure agreement,” he responds immediately. “We can draw up a contract that outlines the whole thing. The confidential information not to be disclosed. The obligations and duties of the party receiving the confidential information. The time period that your ‘fiancée’ will be in a relationship with you. Compensation for her time and services.”

“Compensation?”

“You’ll be paying her,” he tells me. “Out of the fabulous salary I’m negotiating for you.”

My stomach is churning unpleasantly. I heave a deep sigh and push away my plate. “Do you have anyone in mind?” I ask wryly.

“We were thinking Kayla Barnes. The cheerleader,” he adds, as though I don’t know exactly who that is. “We’ve spotted you a few times with her.”

“What the fuck?” I explode, half-rising out of my chair. “They’ve been spying on me?”

“Calm down, kid,” Tom soothes. “Look. They’re on the verge of making a big investment in you. What do you think they’re gonna do?” I sit back in my chair and try to push down my anger as Tom continues. “She seems like a good fit, seeing as she’s got a link to the team. You think she’d do the job?”

I almost laugh. I have no doubt Kayla would do it. But I can’t imagine spending that much time with her. Plus, she’ll get ideas.

But I have an idea of my own.

Anna.

She’s in my head almost before I know what’s happening.

She’s hot. She knows how to act in front of a camera. She’s not boring as shit. And best of all, we could both get something out of it.

I get my fiancée — and I get to spend some more time with her. She gets exposure as the girlfriend of a high-profile NFL player for the local team. It could only help her ambitions to move up the ranks at the station where she works. Hell, maybe we can sweeten the pot by giving her a version of the story to tell afterwards that doesn’t violate the NDA. This deal could end up launching her career, not just locally but nationally.

It’s perfect. She’s perfect.

“Not Kayla,” I say firmly. “But I have someone else in mind. If she’ll agree to do it, I’m in.”