Chapter Two
Flynn
Behind closed doors, I’m a creature of habit.
Football can be glamorous. The world is loud, bright, and big. Overwhelming.
But to me—to who I am to the public and the fans—I’m unfazed by it all. I smile and make jokes. I laugh on the sidelines and wink at the camera. I am the loud, the bright, the big.
Flynn Reed.
Number forty-nine. Tight end for the Boston Broncos. The charming, cheeky one.
I don’t mind it. Keeping up the act and the persona has become part of the job. When the social girls need someone for their content, they come to me. When the team needs a player for press days, I’m their guy.
I’m honestly happy to help out and step up.
I plaster a smile on my face, and I do whatever they need. I’ve done it since they drafted me right out of college, eight years ago.
When I get through my front door, in the safety of my own home, I get to drop the smile.
I toe off my sneakers just inside the door and flip the light switch on the wall next to me.
The lights over the displayed records hanging on the wall illuminate, and there is a pile of books I haven’t found a place for stacked along the corridor below them.
The dark wood paneling of the stairs seems to seep into the deep forest green color that I chose for the entryway. It’s moody, but it’s home.
I hoist my bag up further on my shoulder as I take two stairs at a time to the upper floor. Dropping the bag inside my bedroom, I rip off my hoodie and hop on one foot and then the other to tug off my socks. I throw them toward the hamper.
In the bathroom, I carefully unwrap the bandage covering my knuckles.
Just as I had suspected, the skin is red raw and chaffed. I turn on the faucet in the sink, leaning down a little to run my knuckles under the clean water. I hadn’t bothered showering at the stadium, not wanting to risk anyone seeing my hand. The open cuts sting, and I let out a hiss.
“Goddammit,” I groan, shaking my hand out.
I swipe the hand towel from the railing and press it gently over my skin.
There isn’t much point in drying my hand off when I’m about to get in the shower.
Still, I dab the dry towel over my damp skin before setting it back on the counter.
I wander back into my closet, pulling my T-shirt from over my head.
I strip off my shorts and my briefs. All get tossed into the basket as well.
Back in the bathroom, I turn on the shower and step under the spray. The water burns my skin, steam billowing out in waves. When the water trickles over my knuckles, they start to sting again, but I ignore them.
So stupid.
Punching the guy was so, so stupid. I am an idiot. A fucking idiot.
I should call Hollie. Tell her what happened, so she’s prepared.
If she finds out through some fucking article because this blows up, she’ll kill me in my sleep.
She’s barely five foot, but is a force to be reckoned with, and a loyal friend after all these years.
She functions as my manager, agent, and publicist, with an experienced team behind her.
I guess she needs it with me. Despite that, she still scares the hell out of me.
The fight is a haze of raised voices and unintelligible insults, all but that one comment that made me see red and snap.
The bright flash of a camera’s bulb, though? That memory is loud and clear.
Yeah, I need to call Hollie.
I add the task to my mental to-do list for this evening before running my fingers through my damp hair and lifting my chin, letting the water spray over my face. I close my eyes. The image of a woman is so clear, so prominent in my mind, that I feel like I could reach out a hand and touch her.
Blonde hair. Soft curls. Thick, long strands begging me to touch them.
Blue eyes. Sparkling and bright. Shining at me with amusement and wonder, and a little bit of lust.
Firm body, long legs, and curves in all the right places.
I groan and shake my head, but the mental image doesn’t disappear, doesn’t fade. I open my eyes and stare at the white subway tile of my shower wall. Picturing her is a nightly habit. And a morning habit. And afternoon.
Our night in Italy was months ago. Yet, I still remember the soft moans and the way she moved her hips. I still feel the way her nails dragged down my back when I made her come the second time, and the sound of her muffled screams during the third. Katie Murphy is everywhere now.
It doesn’t help that I’ve been frequenting the bar she manages more and more. So much so that I’m running out of excuses as to why I keep coming in to eat alone.
Not that she asks. She communicates in sarcastic comments and eye rolls.
It’s killing me that I don’t know what happened.
One moment, we’re sitting under the stars and sharing secrets. We’re drinking wine. We’re having the night of our lives with multiple orgasms. We even had a snack break and then went back at it. We were laughing, smiling, and flirting. I could tell she liked me. I liked her too. Still do.
The next day, we couldn’t keep our eyes off each other. Then, after dinner that night, I knocked on her door, hoping for a repeat, and she told me fuck off.
I have no idea what I did or what changed, and I cannot let it go. I cannot let her go.
The water runs hot down my back as I bow my head again. Don’t get me wrong, her sarcastic replies to my consistent pestering get my dick hard, but I want nothing more than to earn back her smile, her laugh.
I want, no, I need to know what the hell I did to make her hate me so much.
I shut off the water and take a deep breath. My hand hurts like hell, but I’ll just have to get used to it and get over the pain.
I towel off, drying my hair just enough that it isn’t dripping on the floor anymore, and wrap the towel around my waist. Step by step, I go through my skincare routine.
No one can judge me for wanting to look after my skin.
I sweat under a helmet and get tackled to the ground, into the mud, on a regular basis.
If my wanting to ensure my skin is clean and clear is a crime, someone sue me.
After hanging my towel back on the railing, I walk into my wardrobe and pull on a pair of gray sweats and an old T-shirt from college. I rotate between a few these days. They’re soft, and after a hard day, I just want to be as comfortable as possible.
Like I said, creature of habit.
I head downstairs with a plan to watch something other than game tape while I dig for something to cook for dinner, but barely make it into the kitchen before my phone rings.
Hollie’s name flashes across the screen, and my stomach rolls over.
Oh, fuck.
“Hey, Holl—” I begin.
“You asshat. You absolute fuckwit. What the fuck were you fucking thinking?!” Her voice is high-pitched and screeching down the line.
Shit, shit, shit.
Those pictures I should’ve called her about last night and put off instead have most definitely leaked.
“—in a contract year. Are you stupid? I actually think you must be fucking stupid. No one is this dumb. It was outside a bar you frequent. That Scott frequents. Did you honestly think there wouldn’t be some sort of paparazzi waiting to catch a glimpse?
You just gave them the pay day of a fucking lifetime. ”
“Hollie, calm down,” I try weakly. I regret it as soon as I say it.
“Oh. Yeah, sure. I’ll forget it.” There’s a pause, and I hold my breath. “I’ll forget you in a minute. Are you kidding me, Flynn? A fight? A fucking punch for punch, tackle the guy to the ground, and most definitely do some damage type of fight?”
“I can explain.”
“Go on then. Explain this mess.”
I take a deep breath. “They were drinking pretty heavily at the bar. I left, and just happened to be following them out. They were making comments about Ka—the staff.”
“So you punched him?”
“I fucked up. I know.”
“You more than fucked up, Flynn. The team called. They want answers.” She sighs. “Okay, first things first. Are you okay? Did you get hurt?”
I look down at my red, aching knuckles. “No.”
“Good. That’s good.” There’s some rustling on the other end of the phone, like Hollie is pulling notes in front of her or something.
“A sports gossip blog is circulating the pictures on their socials, and TMZ has now picked up on them. There’s a video on Instagram, too, but I am working on getting it taken down.
You certainly know how to make waves, Flynn. ”
“What did the team say?” I hit the speaker button on my phone and put it on the counter. If I don’t start doing something with my hands, I’m going to start spiraling.
“They’re pissed. Obviously. They didn’t outright say it, but they mentioned that your contract is up at the end of the season, and we should really, really be considering other options if you’re set on going down a destructive path.
The bottom line is, we need to clean up your act and keep your nose clean until the ink dries on your extension. ”
“Yeah,” I breathe out, pulling a box of dried pasta from the cupboard and two chicken breasts from the fridge.
“You do want to keep playing with the Broncos, don’t you?” she asks quietly.
I pause, the pot I just pulled from the drawer hanging by my side. That shouldn’t even be a question. I shouldn’t even be considering another path. Obviously, I don’t want to resign. Right?
I want a ring. I am chasing a ring. The Broncos are my best chance. Right?
I shake my head, trying to clear away the thoughts as much as possible. “Yeah. Of course.”
“Well then, we need a game plan,” Hollie says. “A good one.”
“I could publicly apologize?”
“No. We have already paid the guy’s emergency bill, and he’s happy with season tickets to stay quiet on the matter. We need something more obvious. Something the press can sink their teeth into, in a good way. Something that helps paint you in a better light, a softer and more relatable light.”
“Whatever you say goes. Just let me know where you need me to be and when.”
“Mmm,” she hums through the phone, and the sound makes my stomach churn. She’s already got a plan. That’s her I already have a plan hum.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing … nothing, I just …”
“Spit it out, Hol.”
I hear the smile in her voice when the next words come down the phone. “We need something more … long term …”
“You obviously have something in mind, so spit it out, would you?” I fill the pot with water and place it on the stove to boil, then I pull out a pan to cook the chicken and place it on the stove.
“You need a girlfriend.” The knife I pull from the drawer slips from my hand and clatters onto the countertop. “A proper, stable, game-attending girlfriend.”
“That’s insane. No.”
“You said whatever I say goes.”
“Yeah, well, I take it back. You’ve officially lost it.” I regain my composure and start slicing the chicken breast, still shaking my head in disbelief.
“This could work. You get a girlfriend. You’re photographed a few times with her: going for dinner, to the movie theatre, on the field after a game.
It’s perfect. You keep your nose clean, you show them you can be steady and dependable for someone, you drum up some good press in the meantime, and after you sign, we can release a statement that you two broke up. ”
“I am not dragging some poor girl into this world, knowing I’m just going to break up with her. She’ll get attached. It will get messy,” I say down the phone. This is a bad idea. A very, very bad idea.
“Don’t worry about that. It’ll be a PR relationship. You’ll both know what it really is. An even playing field and clear expectations. We do this shit all the time.”
“What the actual fuck, Hollie?” I curse down the phone while seasoning the pieces of chicken. She has got to be kidding. Right? People don’t actually have fake girlfriends. No way.
Do they?
“Yes,” she decides. “We’re going with the girlfriend plan. I will sort it out and come back to you with options in a few days. Till then, do not get photographed with any females and, for god’s sake, do not get into any more fights.”
“Hollie. I am not getting a fake girlfriend,” I say with a sigh. Drizzling some oil into the hot pan, I scrape the sliced chicken on top. It sizzles, immediately filling my kitchen with the smell of spice and seasoning.
“Oh yes, you are,” she replies, and the tone of her voice warns me not to argue. “We’ll talk about it in a few days when I get it organized. Keep your head down.”
“Hollie—”
“No, Flynn. You got into a fight, and it got caught on camera. You fucked up. But, luckily for you, I am going to fix it. Focus on winning games and let me do my job,” she clips. “Okay?”
I sigh, absentmindedly turning over the pieces of chicken. “Fine.”
“Great. Be a good boy. Talk soon.” The line goes dead before I get another word out.
Goddamn.
This is not how I imagined this going.
I thought, at best, I would have a few charity visits in my future. A couple of extra appearances at causes the team supports and maybe a few extra dinners with the major sponsors. Those I can get through. A girlfriend, though?
I can’t even imagine what that is going to look like. I don’t even know where to start.
By the time I sit down on my couch, a bowl of chicken and pasta in my lap, there’s only one face in my head. Only one person’s opinion on this plan I care to hear.
Will she care if I get a girlfriend? Will she be annoyed?
Do I want her to be?
Fuck, this is so not a good idea.