Chapter 8
Kieren
I woke up pissed off.
Not that slow-burn irritation that eases with caffeine—this was full-body tension, every muscle aching like I’d been hit by a truck.
My ribs protested when I stretched. My shoulder throbbed like it was ready to seize up.
And my right hand? Still swollen from the punch I threw yesterday. Stupid. Satisfying. But stupid.
I’d didn't care about the fine. Wouldn’t be the first time.
I rolled onto my side, squinting against the morning sun leaking through the blinds. My phone buzzed against the nightstand, and I considered ignoring it. Ten seconds later, it buzzed again.
Groaning, I grabbed it. Cam, of course.
Take Daphne out. Today. Something low-key. Public but not staged. Try not to glower.
I stared at the screen. My eye twitched.
Take her out. Like this was normal. Like this entire fake dating contract to avoid PR fallout from my temper wasn’t already spiraling into some kind of twisted romcom.
I tossed the phone onto the mattress and let my head fall back against the pillow. This whole thing was a mistake. A bourbon-fueled, press-polished, emotionally irresponsible mistake.
Fake girlfriend. Fake date. Real headache.
Still, after a minute, I sighed and picked the phone back up. Might as well rip off the Band-Aid.
Lunch. 1PM. You in?
It took her less than thirty seconds to reply.
Try again. Use words a human would say.
I stared at that, blinking once. Twice.
Of course she needed the last word. And the word before that. And the tone. Always the damn tone.
Rubbing the back of my neck, I typed out the most polite version of myself I could fake without breaking into hives.
Lunch. 1PM. I’ll pick you up.
The typing bubbles popped up immediately.
See? That wasn’t so hard, Captain Sunshine.
Captain Sunshine.
I let out something between a laugh and a snort, but it didn’t last long. My body still felt like crap, and now I had to pretend to enjoy myself while holding hands with someone who knew exactly how to get under my skin.
She made it look easy. Hell, maybe it was easy for her. Maybe this was just another game.
But for me? This wasn’t just press. Wasn’t just damage control.
This was Daphne.
And no matter how fake this whole thing was supposed to be, I’d never been great at pretending around her.
I set the phone down again and dragged myself out of bed, every step stiff, every joint cracking. I ran a hand down my face and muttered to myself as I made it to the bathroom, “Let the circus begin.”
I took the truck.
Not the usual blacked-out Escalade that PR insisted made me “look like a franchise player”—whatever the hell that meant.
No, today I grabbed the beat-up pickup I kept mostly for weekends and nostalgia.
The one with chipped paint, two missing console knobs, and a cassette player that only worked if you smacked it just right.
I didn’t even know why. Maybe because I didn’t feel like putting on the show. Maybe because Daphne would roast me alive if I showed up in something too polished.
The thing rattled when I turned the ignition, like it was waking up hungover. Fair. Same.
I pulled up outside her apartment a few minutes early and parked. Didn’t text. Didn’t honk. Just waited.
When she walked out, I almost forgot how to be annoyed.
Jeans. Sneakers. Ponytail like she hadn’t even tried—but somehow still looked like she could headline a damn billboard. She was holding a water bottle and a tote bag and absolutely no patience.
She slid into the passenger seat like she belonged there, buckled up, and looked around the cab.
“This is shockingly normal of you,” she said, arching an eyebrow.
I grunted. “Don’t tell anyone. I’ve got a brand to maintain.”
She smiled—just a flicker—but it hit harder than I expected. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Captain Broody.”
I checked the mirror and pulled onto the road. “Thought I was Captain Sunshine.”
“You contain multitudes,” she said, sipping her water like this wasn’t the weirdest situation two people had ever willingly walked into.
I didn’t respond. Just focused on the traffic and the silence stretching between us. It wasn’t uncomfortable, not exactly. Just… loaded.
Fake dating.
Lunch in public.
Pretending to be something we weren’t while trying not to remember all the things we had been.
I drummed my fingers on the wheel.
“You hungry?” I asked eventually.
“No, I’m fake dating you for the ambiance,” she said dryly.
I shot her a sideways glance. “Careful. That almost sounded like flirting.”
She smirked. “You wouldn’t know flirting if it hit you in the face.”
“You say that like it hasn’t.”
She barked out a laugh. Short. Sharp. Real.
God, I liked that sound.
A lot.
I gripped the wheel tighter and took the turn toward a low-key bistro tucked between a wine bar and a boutique. Paparazzi-friendly without being obvious. Cameron would be thrilled.
Daphne pulled her phone out and held it up.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Just getting proof that you own a functioning vehicle made before 2020. Feels historical.”
“Delete it.”
“Say please.”
“No.”
She snapped the photo anyway, smug as hell.
And for a second, as we drove toward a fake lunch for a fake relationship with very real history, I felt something suspiciously close to okay.
God help me.
I pulled into a gravel lot behind a park.
No signage. No glowing neon. Just a faded awning and the scent of grilled meat drifting out from the open kitchen window.
“This is it?” Daphne asked, eyeing the place like it might give her tetanus on sight.
“Don’t judge by appearances,” I said, killing the engine. “Some of the best food in the town comes from places that look like crime scenes.”
She didn’t move. Just gave me a sidelong glance. “You take all your fake girlfriends here?”
“Only the ones I want to strangle.”
She grinned. “Charmed.”
We got out and headed inside. The guy behind the counter—Rafi—nodded when he saw me.
“Lo usual?” he asked.
“Make it double,” I said, then jerked my chin toward Daphne. “And give her whatever she thinks she can handle.”
Daphne stepped up, eyes narrowing at the hand-written chalkboard menu. “What’s the hottest salsa you’ve got?”
Rafi looked at her like she’d asked for a shovel to dig her own grave. “La Muerte.”
She smiled sweetly. “Perfect.”
I didn’t say a word. Just paid and took the drinks to a picnic bench outside, where the sun was strong and the breeze smelled like cilantro and smoke.
She joined me a few minutes later, setting down her tray like she was preparing for battle.
“You know you don’t have to prove anything, right?” I said, unwrapping my taco.
“I’m not proving anything,” she said primly. “I just like a little heat.”
Right.
She took one bite and immediately coughed, blinking hard. Her face flushed like a warning light.
I handed her my drink without a word.
She didn’t argue. Just grabbed it and took a long pull, eyes watering, dignity bleeding out of her pores.
“Say it,” she muttered hoarsely, voice wrecked.
I took another bite of my taco, savoring it slowly. “Say what?”
“That I shouldn’t have ordered it.”
I smirked. “Nah. Watching you suffer is better.”
She flipped me off, which only made me laugh harder.
For a while, we ate in silence. Real silence. The kind that didn’t need filling. The kind I hadn’t had with anyone in a long time.
No cameras. No agents. No teammates trying too hard to bond. Just the scrape of plastic forks and the occasional hiss of meat hitting the grill behind us.
She looked up at me between bites, her ponytail falling loose in the breeze.
“This is actually good,” she admitted, like it hurt her pride to say it.
“I know.”
“I still hate you.”
“You’re allowed.”
She rolled her eyes, but the smile tugging at her lips didn’t go away. And maybe it was the sun or the spice or the way she looked right then—comfortable, real—but for one strange moment, I forgot we were faking anything at all.
And that scared the hell out of me.
On the way back, we passed a high school I hadn’t thought about in years.
The field behind it was still there—mostly. Patchy grass, crooked goalposts, chain-link fence bowing in like it wanted out. It was the fields the South West Michigan Kickers team used. I used to train here before anyone knew my name. Before I was anyone worth marketing.
I slowed down. Then pulled over.
Daphne looked up from her phone. “What are you doing?”
I shifted into park. “You said this wasn’t a real date. So I figured we’d do something dumb and pointless.”
Her brows lifted. “More dumb than melting my taste buds off for street tacos?”
I ignored that. Got out, went around to the bed of the truck, and tossed her a scuffed soccer ball that had been rolling around back there for months.
She caught it with both hands, surprised. “You just have this lying around?”
“It’s my emergency therapy ball.”
She got out and followed me through the gap in the fence. “And this therapy involves what, exactly? Crying in the net?”
I dropped the ball onto the grass, bounced it with one knee, then passed it to her. “Trash talk from someone who couldn’t even handle salsa.”
She rolled her eyes and kicked it back—decent aim, actually.
The sun was lower now, cutting gold across the empty field. No crowds. No cameras. Just the distant hum of a lawn mower and the steady thump of the ball between us.
“I used to come here after school,” I said without thinking. “Before club practice. Just to clear my head.”
She didn’t answer right away. Just nudged the ball with the side of her foot, like she was considering how much she wanted to say.
“Why’d you stop?”
“Got too famous,” I said. “Or too paranoid. Or maybe I forgot what it felt like to play without expectations.”
“Sounds lonely.”
“Sometimes it is.”
She kicked the ball harder this time. I caught it clean with my foot and looked up to find her watching me—not with judgment, not with pity. Just… watching.
“Okay,” she said, brushing her hands off on her jeans. “So this was actually kind of fun.”