Ford tosses a chunk of white bread to a duck at Mallard Lake in Golden Gate Park. The waterfowl swims faster through the pond and dips his green head below the surface to grab the snack. He raises his beak, downs the bread, and quacks his appreciation. My agent fires off another piece, and a quartet of ducklings paddle through the water, fighting happily, it seems, to tear it to shreds.

I stroke my chin. “It’s not really duck mating season, Ford.”

“You have brains and beauty.”

“Speed, too,” I say.

“They were busy in the spring. The babies were born in July, I think,” he says, dipping into the brown paper bag he holds and tossing one more hunk of bread into the water as if he’s lobbing a curve ball. He played in the minors before an injury curtailed his baseball career.

“Are you calm now?” I ask, gesturing to the placid water. The small pond is edged by a quiet path and a smattering of flowers.

Ford slaps on a smile, his straight white teeth gleaming. The man looks like a million bucks, from the tailored black pants, to the white shirt with green checks, to the polished shoes. Not a blond hair on his head is out of place. His hair wouldn’t permit it. “Like a Zen beast.”

He chucks another piece then inhales deeply before he turns to me, setting the bag on the grass. He’s a gesticulator of the highest order, so he needs his hands free to talk. “Okay, I’m ready now. Tell me again what went down last night.”

I raise one eyebrow. “Everything?”

His blue eyes nearly bug out. “Everything. I’m your priest, your shrink, your Sherpa, your wife—”

I lift up a hand. “Just quit while you’re ahead.”

He waggles his fingers at himself. “Give me the deets.”

I share a solid CliffsNotes version with him, from Maxine, to Sierra, to Violet, finishing with, “That’s why everyone thinks Violet is now my girl, since otherwise, Maxine would want to play with the produce.”

“Fuck,” he says, seething as he spins in an angry circle, stomping his foot. “Maxine is trying to fondle the fruit?”

I laugh. “Yeah. Seems she wants to unpeel my banana.”

He scrubs his hand over his whole face. “I’m not happy about this.”

“No kidding. The banana isn’t hers.”

“And you know how Jasper is when it comes to his sister.” He pauses and spits out the word. “Oblivious. The sun rises and sets with Maxine.”

“Right, but disaster averted, so can we just move on? I have enough on my mind with the prospect of playoffs and, oh yeah, that other matter of not knowing whether I’m getting an extension.”

“In theory, we can move on.” He takes a beat, stares at me, then delivers his edict. “But in practice, you’re better off pretending with Violet. For now, while I negotiate.”

I blink. He can’t be serious, can he? How the hell does he think I’m going to pretend to be with a girl who’s just a friend? I point out the obvious. “But it’s not real.”

“Wah. Wah. Wah.”

I park a hand on my hip. “Did you just mock me like I’m being a baby?”

He grabs his imaginary violin and plays a sad tune. “I did. Is that so hard, to pretend you’re with her?”

I give him a you-can’t-be-serious look. “Pretend we’re together for real?”

“You did it on stage last night. I’m presuming you’ve got some fucking stamina. Keep that shit up.”

“I have more stamina in one night than you will ever have in a lifetime.”

“Brains, beauty, and humility,” he says, smacking my back. “God, I love you. Listen, this is your time. Earlier in the season, the GM would have dropped you like a hot potato. They were going to let you become a free agent with the way you were playing.”

I heave a sigh, hating the reminder of those first two games. “I know.”

“But I knew you had it in you to turn it around, and you did. You did it with a workman-like focus on the game. You did it by doing your goddamn job. Things are different now, and we need to strike just the right balance to get the best possible deal. You keep throwing like this, and no way will they let you go to free agency. You’re playing like the field general they want you to be, and if you keep it up through the last two games, they’ll want to lock you up. And that’s what we want. But it’s a dance, Coop.”

Ford shakes his hips. “I can’t just call them and say make him an offer now or we’ll walk. We need to go through the steps of the dance.”

My chest tightens, and a rare dose of nerves floods through me. I have every faith in the world that Ford knows what he’s doing, but I also want the security that comes with a done deal.

“So then, keep on dancing,” I say.

“I will. But to do that, there’s no way we can let on that you lied last night.”

I cringe at the word lie. “You say that like I didn’t disclose I took hush money from a foreign government.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

“Want me to soften lie for you?” He sketches air quotes. “A fast one? A ploy? A white lie? Do those better suit your sensibilities, superstar?”

“Fine, fine. A lie. It was a lie,” I admit grudgingly.

“The point being, you need to keep your dick in your pants, like you’ve done all season because you’re a superstitious motherfucker. And you’ll let me keep dancing with the GM. We don’t need any red flags, any concerns, any issues that make you look like anything but the future of this franchise. That’s what Greenhaven wants you to be, and all personnel decisions are vetted by him.”

I snap my fingers. “Yeah, speaking of Coach . . .”

Ford rolls his eyes. “Don’t make me need to take an extra yoga class.”

I draw a deep breath and tell him what the coach said on the sidelines about a woman being a stabilizing influence on a young man.

Ford cracks up then beckons for me to come closer, as if he’s going to tell me a secret. “Want to know what I call Greenhaven? Mr. Squeaky Clean. That’s how he operates, and that’s what he wants from you. And that’s what you’re going to be now.” He ticks off items on his fingers. “You’ve got a girlfriend from your hometown, you’ve known her your whole life, and you’re so motherfucking happy. This’ll avert the Maxine problem, and it’ll make the man with the Midas touch happy.”

“And what are we supposed to do? Parade down Market Street holding hands? Kiss in the stadium after I throw a game-winning pass?”

Ford’s eyes light up at that one. “I do like game-winning passes.”

“Yeah, me, too. Shocking, isn’t it?”

He claps me on the back. “Listen, you don’t need to make a reality show about how you and your new woman like to go on picnics and tandem bicycle rides. All we need are a few dates, a few pictures on Instagram, a few comments in the press. Boom.” He swipes one palm against the other.

I scowl. “You know I hate all that social media shit, and I don’t even have an Instagram account.” Life is for living, not for living online. I’ve no interest in snapping stories or chatting photos or hashtagging my days away when I can keep my head up and enjoy the real world rather than a screen.

“Man, I might need to rescind my comment about brains. You honestly think I’d make you handle a social media account? You send me a few pictures, and Tucker will take care of it. My assistant is aces at social shit, and we reserved your Twitter and Instagram handles a long time ago. We’ll just fire it up.”

Damn. Ford covers all his bases. “Fine.” I heave a sigh and shift gears. “Violet isn’t going to be happy about this.”

He cocks his head to the side. “Why won’t she be happy? You’re friends. You’ve known her forever.”

“Hard as it may be to believe, she’s not into me that way.”

His reaction is instant. Ford doubles over. He grabs his stomach, then sets his palms on his thighs and laughs, cries, and guffaws. Nothing has entertained Ford Grayson quite like that admission. “Oh, that’s a good one. That’s awesome. Tell that to me again. I can’t hear that enough.”

“By the way, did I mention Stuart Waters called me?” I say casually, naming his biggest rival.

He straightens, and his eyes turn into pistols. “And you said, ‘No, no, no, never ever. Ford Grayson is my guy.’”

I laugh, taunting him. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

Ford breathes deeply and raises his arms heavenward. “I am calm. I am a tree. I am peaceful.”

“No, he didn’t call,” I say. “But thanks for having a laugh at my expense.”

“It’s karma.” He lowers his arms. “Karma is coming back for you.”

“How so?”

“Years of you cleaning up with the ladies. Years of women throwing panties, bras, and stockings at you—”

“Stockings? When was that?”

“You can’t even remember the riches the Good Lord rained down? It was the time Tucker and I went with you to the club in that warehouse in SoMa last year. By my count, you had six free drinks sent your way, and we gladly finished them for you while you danced with the ladies. Then a woman threw her fishnets at you.”

I draw a blank.

He shakes his head, bemused with me. “You don’t even remember?”

I scratch my jaw and shrug. “I think you might have mistaken me for someone else when it comes to the fishnet story.”

“Some other young, cocky rising star I rep who earned a multimillion-dollar contract at age twenty-two to ride the bench and back up a great? It was definitely you, and you took the fishnets home along with the woman who wore them.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t someone who started games at twenty-two?”

He shoots me a look. “No one starts at twenty-two.”

I wave behind me. “Look, those days are in the rearview mirror. I’m not a player off the field anymore. I’m all about the game. The team. Leading the guys to victory. My days of catching fishnets are over.”

“No fucking shit they are. That’s because your number-one fan”—he taps his heart—“is going to score a big fat payday for you. That four-year rookie contract will pale in comparison. You’ll be buying your mama a couple mansions.” He hands out imaginary dollar bills like he’s holding a fat stack of greenbacks.

“Jesus, man. You’re as cocky as Einstein.”

Ford waggles his eyebrows. Rick is his client, too. “And his foot is golden. God, I love kickers and quarterbacks and linemen.” He knocks his knuckles on my head. “Now, listen, you take that smart head of yours and your multimillion-dollar arm, and you keep up the act with your girl.”

“How long?”

“At least through the next two games. Maybe longer. But definitely as long as it takes for me to score you the sweetest deal. And meanwhile, you don’t score. You’ve spent the whole season not scoring with chicks so you can score on the field, and far be it from me to mess with your superstitions when they involve your two favorite things.”

I arch a brow. “What are my two favorite things?”

“Your dick and football.”

I smirk. “I plead the fifth.”

“Does that all sound reasonable to you?”

“To me? Hell, yeah. But now I have to convince Violet to pretend to be mine.”

Ford laughs, an eminently satisfied cackle. “This is beautiful. You’re not afraid to run with the ball if you can’t find a man open, but you’re terrified to ask a woman you’ve known your whole life to play fake lovers sitting in a tree k-i-s-s-i-n-g?”

I scoff. “I’m not terrified.”

He holds up his thumb and forefinger. “A little afraid, though?”

I square my shoulders. “Fuck off.”

I make like I’m leaving.

“Wait.” He grabs my shoulder. “One favor.”

“What is it?”

“Can you record that conversation with her for me? Just so I have something to play back when I need a good laugh?”

“Why do I let you have three percent of my earnings? Remind me.”

He waves his arms from the sky to the ground. “Because when I make it rain, you are going to get down on your knees and thank me for making you one of the richest quarterbacks in history. You, Coop, are the real deal, so let’s remember to not fuck this up.” He sobers and stares at me, his blue eyes darkly serious. “And, also, because I will put my neck on the line for you.”

And he would. I know that.

After I say goodbye to Ford, who catches a Lyft, I take a deep breath, pick up my phone, and call Violet. It goes straight to voice mail. I look up the number for her salon and call to try to schedule a haircut. I don’t give the receptionist my name, and she tells me Violet is booked for the evening, asking if I would like to schedule something for a week from now.

I say no thanks.

I can’t wait a week, so I’ll have to make an unscheduled appearance.