Faking the Shot (The Crawford Family Playbook #1)
Prologue
Kaden
The Midnight Penalty Call
The phone vibrates on the nightstand, rattling against the empty glass I didn’t bother putting in the sink last night. I groan, cracking one eye open to glare at the offending glow. Four fucking a.m.
Who the fuck calls this early?
I don’t have to guess. The name flashing on the screen—Jacob McCallister—answers that question for me. My agent. My babysitter. The guy whose job is to keep me from blowing up the empire I’ve built.
I grab the phone and swipe to answer, my voice rough with sleep and last night’s whiskey. “What?”
“Don’t just what me, Kaden Crawford.” Jacob’s voice slices through the line, all East Coast rage and not a hint of pity for the hour. “Do you have any idea what the fuck you’ve done?”
“Not this shit again,” I mutter under my breath, rolling onto my back and throwing an arm over my face. “Do you know what time it is here?”
“It’s time to clean up after you in Boston—again?” he snaps. “I’ve been up for hours dealing with your latest disaster. Care to explain why you’re trending—this time?”
I blink up at the ceiling, my brain sluggishly piecing things together. “Trending?”
“Oh, you don’t know? Let me give you the highlights,” Jacob says, his voice laced with frustration, the sound of his pacing practically rattling through the phone. “Nightclub. Almost a brawl. Paparazzi swarming. You’re lucky security stepped in before your fist could make headlines.”
But it wasn’t security. It was Killion, my twin brother, who separated us. He should call him, get the scoop about what happened afterward, and leave me the fuck alone.
My side is pretty simple. Some drunk asshole spilled a drink on Scottie. No one touches our little sister. He shoved her like she was nothing—or maybe because he thought she was some free-for-all to grope.
“Guy bumped into Scottie, practically drenched her in alcohol,” I growl. “What was I supposed to do? Let the fucker walk away like nothing happened? What would you have done if it were your sister?”
“Kaden,” Jacob says, his tone razor-sharp. “Here’s what I wouldn’t do—I wouldn’t throw punches in a bar because some asshole spilled his drink. You’re not some random dude. You’re a professional athlete—a walking brand with endorsements on the line. Start acting like it.”
I sit up, the sheets pooling around my waist as I drag a hand over my face. My head pounds, and the taste of whiskey lingers like a bad decision I’m still trying to swallow.
“Relax, my man,” I mutter. “People love a good villain. I’m sure Killion looked like a damn hero last night. There’s your story: quarter back saves the day. Spin it, and let me get some sleep.”
“Are you always this dense, or is it a special occasion?” Jacob fires back, his words like a slap of cold water. “Sponsors don’t pay villains. They pay professionals who look good in suits and sign autographs for kids. Your contract with the San Jose Warriors is up for renewal, and since you’re a free agent, we can make that move you want before you retire. However, that might not happen. Keep this shit up, and you’ll be lucky if you’re playing beer league hockey.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, his words hitting harder than I want to admit. Losing my edge is one thing—losing everything I’ve worked for? A different beast altogether.
“Look,” I say, leaning back against the headboard, “I was out with my siblings. Some guy decided to be a fucking dick, and I handled it. That’s it. Just let the press know that it was because I defended my little sister’s honor. It’s in the Crawford family playbook.”
Jacob lets out a long, exasperated sigh. “Sometimes I want to burn that fucking playbook—or fire you all. It’s always a problem with you, your siblings, and even your parents.”
“You love the Crawfords. We’re the ones who sponsored your honeymoon to . . . where did you go again?”
“The wedding isn’t until December, but that’s not the point,” he growls. “Here’s another rule you’re forgetting: keep your fucking shit together. Make sure you put that in the first page of the fucking playbook. Do you know how close you are to blowing this whole thing up?”
“It’s the off-season,” I snap, my voice rising. “I’m supposed to blow off steam. You know—relax, let loose, have a life?”
“Yeah, well, your version of ‘relaxing’ comes with a TMZ subscription,” Jacob shoots back. “And for the record? Sponsors don’t give a shit about your ‘steam.’ They care about what their name looks like attached to your face.”
“Christ,” I mutter, dragging a hand through my hair. “What’s your plan? Another PR team? An apology tour? What, you gonna call my parents and have them ground me for the summer?”
Jacob’s tone shifts, colder now, like he’s lining up for the kill. “No. For now, I want you to lay low. No bars. No drama. Don’t give the media a single goddamn soundbite.”
“And if I don’t?”
“That’s not a fucking option, Kaden,” he says, his tone cold and unyielding, “I’ll find a way to make you look like the poster boy for obedience school. I need you to look like a puppy who everyone wants to love. Because right now, you’re one bar fight away from flushing your career down the drain. Sponsors don’t cut checks to athletes with a bad reputation, Kaden—they drop them for good.”
His words land with precision, slicing right through the whiskey haze still clinging to me. I lean forward, elbows braced on my knees, my pulse pounding like it’s got something to prove. “This is total bullshit.”
“No,” Jacob says, all business now. “This is reality. Get your shit together, or I drop your ass. Your choice.”
The line goes quiet except for my own heavy breathing. My jaw clenches so tight my teeth ache. Fuck.
It’s four in the goddamn morning, and my life feels like it’s teetering on the edge.