False Start: A Fake Dating Sports Romance (Red Zone Rivals)

My phone buzzed with a text right as I pulled into the Badgers high school parking lot. I’d somehow survived rookie minicamp in May, but now I had about a month to get into the best shape possible before training camp started.

Just because I’d been drafted into the NFL and received a sick signing bonus didn’t mean I’d be taking that field come kickoff.

I almost assuredly had a spot on the team, but I wanted a starting spot. I wanted playing time. I wanted stats that broke every Seahawks record. I wanted to put up such monstrous numbers every season I played that I had a spot waiting for me in the Hall of Fame at the end of it all.

It wasn’t enough to be here.

I had to be the best.

So, I’d struck a deal with a local state championship high school to let me use their field and equipment for training. Braden and I had gone in on it together, both of us keen to show up in the best shape we could on day one of training camp.

Braden Lock and I played at North Boston University together, four years of grueling work that led us to a championship. We were a part of the best seasons that school had seen since the 90s.

I would miss it.

At NBU, we were serious, sure — but we also partied like our lives depended on it. We threw massive ragers at our team house, affectionally known as The Pit, and it wasn’t strange for us to end up in bed with a girl or two at the end of the night.

Sometimes we rolled into practice hungover or still drunk, but a quick puke on the sideline would set us straight and we’d still be able to perform.

That wouldn’t be the case in the NFL.

It didn’t matter that I was a beast in college. I was nothing here in Seattle. I was a rodent. Even at six-foot-seven and two-hundred-and-thirty pounds, I was too skinny, too small, too new.

I had an iPad stacked with the team’s playbook and film from the past three years to study, on top of a rigorous training schedule to get my body into shape.

Oh, and somewhere in there, I needed to find a place to live, too.

I pulled my phone from my pocket when I parked, chest sparking at the sight of an unfamiliar number. It was already being buried under a slew of social media notifications. I’d built a reputation for being active online, giving my fans an inside look at the life of a college — and now pro — football player.

I used to thrive off seeing those numbers climb, off posting a photo or video and watching it hit thousands of likes in seconds.

Now, it all felt like a numb annoyance I kept up with only because my agent, Giana Jones, used those numbers to land me sponsorships and licensing deals.

I slid my thumb across the screen.

Unknown: Hello, Kyle, this is Madelyn Hearst. If I’m going to be your real estate agent, we need to meet to discuss what you’re looking for. And I reserve the right to make my decision after that discussion.

I smirked, licking my lips before I fired back a reply.

Me: So hostile.

Madelyn: You wasted my time this morning, and I won’t put up with that if we’re going to work together.

A flash of her at seventeen hit me square in the stomach, the way she’d boss me around, only to have me fight her every inch of the way. I’d done it to rebel against my parents at first, but the more I pushed her buttons and she pushed back, the more I did it for me.

Me: Dinner tonight?

Madelyn: Tomorrow night. 7PM at Rains. Please fill out this questionnaire before then.

She sent a link through, and when I clicked it, I found two-dozen questions waiting for me. I scoffed and shook my head.

Me: I don’t have time to write you an essay.

Madelyn: Make time, or find another agent.

Me: There she is.

Madelyn: Don’t be late tomorrow. I’ll wait five minutes past 7 before I leave.

Tossing my phone in my gym bag, I slung the strap over my shoulder and climbed out of my car just as Braden pulled up in the lot a few parking spots down.

Where I had been anxious to start spending that signing bonus, Braden had his accumulating small interest in an investment fund. He still drove the same beat-up Camry he had in college, one I was surprised made the trip across the country to the West Coast.

“You do know that thing drastically impacts your score, right?” I said when he pulled his bag from the creaky trunk.

“My score?”

“Yeah. I’m a ten, obviously,” I said with a smirk. “And you’re a solid eight. But with that thing, a five, at best.”

“Fuck off, Robbins,” he said, but he grinned. I was thankful he was used to my antics, because not many people in my life put up with them.

I’d wanted it that way.

There was something comforting in building a shield, in pretending to be an asshole thirsty for attention. It kept most people away. It made them assume they knew all there was to know about you. It put you in the clown category, which meant when you had a shit day and wore it on your sleeve — no one noticed.

No one cared.

Add in the fact that I was pretty damn good at being an asshole, and it was the perfect defense for me.

But Braden was an exception. We’d roomed together at The Pit, and from the very first few nights, I knew he’d seen right through my bullshit. I’d hated it at first, and I was a first-class asshole to him to try to get him to bug the fuck off.

Lucky for me, he wasn’t deterred.

Now, he was my best friend, and we were about to play our first pro season together.

“Just promise me you’ll at least get a car made in this millennia before the season starts.”

“Hey! This is a 2010.”

I blinked at him. “And all the girls threw their bras, unable to control themselves.”

I said the words in a monotone voice that made Braden grab a sock from his bag and throw it at me. I flung it back at him before we made our way toward the field, each of us slipping on our headphones to warm up and get in the zone.

As I ran through my usual routine — high knees, burpees, stretching and the like — my mind drifted back to Madelyn James.

Hearst, I reminded myself.

My teeth ground together as I did. She was married. That was a fact that should have just been something I easily accepted. Instead, it made me see red, like she should have asked me for permission first — or at the very least, told me.

Then again, this was the girl who’d turned her back on me along with the rest of the town I grew up in, who’d abandoned me when I needed her most.

Madelyn Hearst was my babysitter — when I was fifteen.

I hadn’t needed a fucking babysitter, but my parents didn’t trust me. Not that I could blame them, since I threw a party the one weekend they did trust me. I was fourteen at the time, new to high school and desperate to make friends. And since I’d watched my parents drink like it was their job since I was born, I thought that was the way to do it.

Step one: get a shit ton of booze.

Step two: invite everyone I knew to the house.

Step three: tell them to bring friends.

It was an epic party, one that put me on the map at my high school. Of course, it also got my ass grounded.

I’d found it laughable when my parents had punished me, because my father was a proud alcoholic. As in, he knew he drank too much, and he took it as a challenge at every event to outdo his previous performances. He had a man cave at our house that had a full bar in it, and our outdoor entertaining space by the pool was even more of an alcoholic’s heaven.

Most of the time, he was funny, and charming, and a goofball when he drank.

Sometimes, he was a monster.

And when he was, I was his favorite target.

Where my father got louder when he drank, my mother became numb — shrinking in on herself until she practically didn’t exist.

And when my father screamed at me, when he told me I was worthless, when he backed those words up with physical reminders once I was big enough that he felt like I could take it?

Mom didn’t do anything.

I was sharpened into a man by the blunt force of my father’s fists, so when he told me I had a fucking babysitter as a fifteen-year-old sophomore in high school, I bucked like a wild mustang. It was stupid. It was unnecessary. And I was going to do everything in my power to drive every babysitter away until my parents gave up.

I expected some middle-aged woman with strict rules and a watchful eye.

Instead, I got Madelyn.

I could still close my eyes and see the first time she walked into our house, headphones draped around her shoulders and attached to the phone sticking out of the front pocket of her jean shorts. Her long copper hair was pulled into a messy ponytail, and when I’d scowled at her, she’d cocked a brow and smiled.

If I were a mustang, then she was the cowgirl ready to break me.

I snapped out of the memory when Braden threw a football at my head, my hands flying up to catch it just in time.

“Wake up,” he said, jogging out onto the field. “Let’s work.”

Braden and I took turns running drills, one of us running a route while the other threw the ball. I was a tight end, he was a receiver, so we both fucking sucked at throwing the ball. But that made it more challenging for the one trying to make the catch, which was good practice.

After a few hours, when we were both sweating and out of breath, we dragged our asses to the sideline to stretch and cool down. When we were packing up our shit, Braden pulled his phone from his gym bag and let out a laugh.

“Well, not surprised to see that in the group chat.”

I arched a brow. “What?”

He nodded toward my bag. “Check your phone.”

When I did, I saw multiple messages from the group chat we had with some of our teammates from North Boston University. And the first text of the day was from Clay Johnson, our safety who now played for Denver.

Clay: Don’t make any plans for next weekend.

The text came through before a photo of Giana — my agent, his girlfriend — holding up her hand.

I didn’t have to look hard to see it now sported a very large diamond ring.

The next text was a date, time, and location for the wedding, along with a promise that a more formal invite would be in the mail.

“For fuck’s sake,” I muttered, not even reading the rest of the texts that came through from my teammates after that before I shoved my phone back in my bag with more force than necessary.

“Try to contain your excitement, Robbins,” Braden mocked with a cocked brow.

“Next weekend? Why the rush?”

“Did you forget he knocked G up?”

I blew out a breath, pinching the bridge of my nose before I picked my phone up again long enough to type out a congrats text.

“What’s with the attitude?” Braden asked.

“I’m just tired of fucking weddings,” I grumbled, my chest tight with the words. “Excuse me if I’m not excited to shell out more money for a fucking suit, fly across the country during an offseason that’s already too short, and watch Clay and Giana stare into each other’s eyes all lovesick.”

It probably came off as me being an asshole, which was fine by me. But the truth was, I didn’t want to attend yet another event where one of my teammates was celebrating finding the love of his life while I continued to be the butt of every joke.

They’d given me so much shit when I’d shown up to our quarterback Holden Moore’s wedding without a date, making smartass remarks about me being in a relationship with Instagram. I’d covered up the sting of those remarks by fucking one of the bride’s cousins in the bathroom.

I was about to be in my rookie season in the NFL. I’d worked my fucking ass off to get here, and all I wanted to do was spend my summer getting bigger, faster, better.

But whether I showed it or not, these guys were my family.

So, if they wanted me to come to their weddings and baby showers and whatever else they were celebrating, I’d be there.

Braden knew as much without me having to say a word, which was why he didn’t judge me in that moment. He clapped my shoulder as if to tell me to shake it off before packing up his bag.

At the end of the day, I wouldn’t have made it through college without my teammates — even if I was a pain in most of their asses while we were there.

So, with a sigh, I wiped the sweat from my neck with a towel before nodding at Braden. “Guess we should book our flights.”

He gave me a knowing smile, slinging his bag over one arm. “I’ll take care of it. Just you?”

He asked that question with more curiosity than jest, but it soured my stomach all the same.

“Yep,” I bit out, already walking toward the parking lot. “Just me.”