From that moment on, I don’t see Eli as much as I did before. Yes, at night he comes into my bed, silently slipping between the sheets, fucking me, bringing me to delirious peaks, but he always leaves me with nothing more than a lingering kiss. Then he goes back to his room, awakening earlier and earlier each morning, then repeating the cycle.

He buys me a new, shiny red sports convertible, but it’s Natalie who gives me the keys. He leaves me beautiful jewelry on my bed with the intention of my showing off how much he “loves” me in public, but none of it has luster.

Four more games come and go, including our bye week. The Rustlers win two and lose two, keeping them firmly at rock bottom in the division. The wins are against other last-place teams, and that doesn’t exactly boost our hopes of making it to the playoffs. At this point, the pundits are talking about how we should pray that the other teams lose rather than depending on our own record to secure the Rustlers a postseason slot.

With each loss, Eli becomes moodier, and I’m pretty sure it’s because his dad has taken his life over, probably barking orders at him, barring him from all his so-called distractions. If there was ever anything between Eli and me, it’s now being torn apart at the seams, strained by our reality. Then again, there was never meant to be anything. I have the contract to prove it.

But a contract can’t shield me from the consequences of this deal I agreed to.

I’ve driven my new car to the stadium for today’s game against a division rival. People know my car—I’ve been photographed in it enough times by now for it to become a “Jeli” trademark—and as I drive it toward the blocked-off special-access entrance, there’s the usual mix of boos and cheers from the fans who are streaming toward the stadium.

At the entrance to the lot, I greet Gail, one of the attendants, and it’s only after she gives my sunglasses a second glance that I realize I’m even wearing them. They’ve become a habit, a protective wall against all the stares, but right now, they’re no doubt making me look like a stuck-up media princess.

I smile at Gail while she waves me in, but as I’m about to pull away from her, something hits the side of my car.

“Damn it all!” Gail yells, scanning the nearby crowd as they hoot and holler at me. I’m trying to ignore what they’re saying, but some of it seeps through.

“Jinx!”

“Why can’t you just stay away, you unlucky bitch?”

It’s only when I look where Gail’s looking and find egg dripping down my door that I realize someone hates me that much.

“Don’t fret about it,” Gail says, coming back to my window. “Fans can be assholes, and this isn’t the first egg job from someone who got a little too emotional about his team. We’ve got some cleaning solution to use on it while you’re watching the game.”

“I really appreciate it, Gail.” Why does my voice have to be wavering?

She winks at me. “Now get in there before someone makes an omelet on your lovely paint job.”

Her sense of humor makes me feel better, but as I park away from the crowds, there’s a big ball of lead in my stomach.

There’s someone out there who hates me that much. A lot of someone’s. But I won’t let it bother me. In less than a month, this so-called engagement will be over and done with anyway. I’ve even received the 45-day contractual payment from Eli.

I can take the crap. There are fifty thousand reasons to take it…

I find a seat in the box that Courtney Dexter and her husband share with some of the other wives I’ve gotten to know. Where there used to be champagne served—and where there used to be laughter and hope for the team—there’s now beer and hard liquor to chase away the hours. No one is in the mood to have a good time lately.

Pre-game festivities have already started, the announcer’s voice echoing around the massive enclosed stadium with its aggressively colorful screens and the fans filtering in to take their seats. Courtney notices how quiet I am and sits next to me.

“Hors d’oeuvres?” she asks. “We’ve got garlic-roasted shrimp cocktail that’s to die for.”

“Thanks, but I’m not very hungry today.”

I glance at her and her bright eyes. At least she hasn’t lost any optimism about her husband. Michael’s recovery is still going well, and she thinks now, more than ever, that he might be able to return to the Rustlers if their regular season extends into the playoffs.

I attempt to make light of what happened outside earlier. “Someone egged my car. Do all the wives undergo some kind of special hazing ceremony before they’re fully accepted by the fans?”

Courtney draws back. “You’re kidding me. Someone actually…” She imitates tossing an egg.

“I wish I were kidding.” Yeah, I wish…

God, where have all my wishes gone lately?

She pats my knee. “Today’s the day everything will turn around for the guys. I have a feeling they’ll start pulling out the miracles. We’re too talented of a team not to.”

Good old optimism.

Too bad the first quarter doesn’t live up to Courtney’s hopes: the quality of our team’s play isn’t any better than usual, and Eli seems to have lost his spirit. Or maybe he’s just lost altogether, and I have to wonder if he’s refusing to be the leader everyone wants him to be on the field because that’s his biggest act of rebellion against his father yet. Maybe his brooding stubbornness is also a huge “fuck you” to some of his teammates who’re beginning to say he’s over-hyped and overpaid. Most of the other guys are just plain ambivalent about him, and I’m sure that’s not sitting well with Eli either.

Then comes the second quarter. It’s the worst ever, because that’s when Eli fumbles and turns the ball over, leading to a touchdown for the Chiefs. But it seems as if we haven’t hit the basement yet. Nope, that moment comes when the stadium Jumbotron screen cameras look to me for a reaction to Eli’s error, and I appear on the huge screen for thousands of fans to see.

As I stare forlornly at the field, then notice the image on the screen, the boos start off low and ominous, then grow and grow. They don’t stop until the screen is taken over by an ad from a casino. Tears clog my throat, and I stumble up from my seat and leave. It feels as if I’ve just been blindsided, and it doesn’t help when Courtney follows me to the restroom.

“Oh, honey,” she says.

As she draws me in for a hug and the tears trickle down my face, I think how much I don’t deserve her sympathy. Eli’s sucky playing truly did start after he met me. Even I can’t just ignore that fact, can no longer convince myself it’s all coincidence. Maybe I really am a curse on him.

Maybe it’s finally time to quit this entire backfiring charade...

* * *

Eli stopped giving interviews to the press a week ago (even though he’s surely going to be fined for not living up to his contractual obligations), and he doesn’t allow them access after today’s humiliating loss either. No one even seems to know where he is, because he’s not with the rest of the team.

Whatever his location, I know he’s probably tearing down the walls out of pent up rage at the outcome of this latest game.

I’m not about to desert him by going home by myself; no matter how harsh this loss was—the score was 10 to 48—I’m going to drive Eli back to our place. It’s a strong part of our act, with the loving fiancée supporting her football-playing man, and it’s always been the one time I do get to see him, even if Bo Brennan intercepts us in the driveway to spirit his son off to wherever they go to talk strategy. So, in spite of the resentful looks I’m getting from the support staff and some of the team’s family members, I walk to the corridor that leads to the locker room.

Wouldn’t you know it, I run in to most of the offensive linemen and Michael Dexter, who spent the game on the sidelines, perched on his crutches and hooked into a headset as he gave moral support and tips to our second-string QB. When I see the group, I nearly turn on my heel to avoid them, but Michael calls my name.

We’re alone in the corridor because most everyone else has gone home, but I get the feeling that there’s been some sort of clandestine meeting going on with these guys. Their stony faces tell me as much.

I drag myself over to them. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Michael asks.

What should I say? I’m sorry that my fake fiancé is such a disappointment and a rebel, and that I suspect he’s that way because of his father’s influence on him over the course of so many years? Or should I apologize for being the curse that’s bringing this team down?

One of the linemen, Harry “Ajax” Jackson, shakes his bald head. “This isn’t on you, Jenna. We’ve got to find a way to pull out some wins, and it has nothing to do with—”

The line’s center speaks up. “The Curse.”

Michael shoots him a look, then glances at me. “That’s what some of the sportswriters are calling it, but we don’t put much stock in that.”

“You don’t have to explain anything to me,” I say. “I’ve already seen the headlines.”

We all shuffle around for a second until Michael digs the rubber tip of one of his crutches into the floor, making an abrupt sound that has some of the guys clearing their throats.

“Ah, forget this,” Michael says. “Jenna, we veterans have wracked our brains about what to do with Eli. We’ve been doing it since last year, so this isn’t anything new. You actually seem to be a good influence on him off the field.”

Ajax folds his beefy arms over his chest. “I was even gonna ask you over for a barbecue on our day off, mostly so the rest of the guys could thank you, too. I figured you might be fun to have a beer with anyway. Amy says you’re a riot.”

At the mention of his piano-playing wife, I offer a smile. Maybe I’m not the evil villainess in everyone’s eyes after all.

“I thought some of you were superstitious and believe in curses,” I say. “This whole jinx thing fits that bill.”

“Oh, we’re superstitious,” the center says. “But there’s more going on than that.”

Michael takes over. “Might as well talk to you now about what’s on our minds.”

“We could do the barbecue, too,” Ajax says.

Michael ignores that and uses his crutches to take a step closer to me. “Is there a chance you could talk to Eli for us? Really talk to him? He doesn’t like to acknowledge it, but everyone in that locker room still looks to him to see how to go on. No matter how wild he was in college, he had the reputation of knowing what to say to the team before and after a game. Then he got into the pros and…”

“I get it,” I say.

“Jenna, we’ve tried everything to get his ass in gear, and since you seem to be able to tame the beast, we thought you could help out.” Michael gives me a hopeful gaze. “We need him to step up or this season is going to be over before it even gets started.”

My smile falters. They have no idea that I have no actual sway over Eli. If I did, I would do anything for these guys, especially since they aren’t treating me as if I’m a viral disease that they might catch.

I can’t let them down. “I’ll talk to Eli, but I’ll have to find him first.”

Ajax brightens up. “We can help with that. He showed up in the locker room a few minutes ago for a shower. God knows where he was before that, but I suppose he was waiting for it to clear out.”

I sigh in relief. But will Eli want to see me?

“I can go in there?” I ask.

Ajax nods. “If we have to stand out here and chase away the staff while you’re giving things a try, we’ll do it.”

The men seem to breathe a collective sigh of relief. Then Michael says, “Good luck, Jenna.”

The others echo him, and as I move toward the door, my heart lodges in my throat. When I glance back at them, they’re all watching me with such appreciation and positivity that I can barely recall the egg on my car and the boos from the Jumbotron.

Here it goes then.

When I enter the locker room, the smell of sweat mixed with cleaning product hits me. The lighting is subdued, and LED televisions are poised over the open wood lockers, the team’s logo emblazoned on the ceiling. I expected to find benches and cement, but instead there are folding chairs and red carpet.

There’s also one player with a towel wrapped around his waist and one draped over his neck as he hunches over, his forearms on his legs.

It’s Eli. His shower-wet hair covers his face, so I can’t read his expression. But his body language tells me everything I need to know. He’s shut down. He’s as good as gone.

And when he looks up to see me standing there, his eyes are more lost than I’ve ever seen them.