Chapter 8
Mike: Did you see Hailey?
I pause as I read my friend’s message. Then I look over my shoulder, making sure no one can see it before I dare to write back.
Zach: Yeah, just after practice.
Mike: Honey hasn’t found out?
Zach: Nope, and it’s going to stay that way.
Mike: I don’t like this.
Zach: Don’t like what?
Mike: Keeping secrets. Not just from Honey, but from my own wife. Olivia will kill me if she finds out I knew about this and didn’t tell her.
Zach: That’s why she’s not going to find out. It’s fine. No one needs to know anyway.
Mike: Whatever you say, man. Just don’t come crying to me when this blows up in your face.
I pocket my phone with a grimace. Mike’s being dramatic. It’s not that bad.
I take a step toward the house and stop short when I spot a girl with her face pressed against my front window.
“Can I help you?” I ask loud enough to make her jump.
Honestly, what the fuck is she doing?
The girl spins around, her blond ponytail nearly whipping her in the face from the move. In St. Michael’s green, she’s clutching a football to her chest like it holds her last shred of dignity.
Great. Another fangirl trespassing because she thinks I’m public property.
This is exactly why I need a gate, or a fucking moat… with crocodiles.
I lean against the porch post with my arms crossed. “You’re on my property.”
“Hi!” she chirps, perky as hell. “Zach. I’ve heard so much about you.”
Yeah, I bet. I can practically see the hashtags in her eyes. #QBcrush #WifeyMaterial #JustHappenedToBeInTheNeighborhood
I don’t move. Don’t smile. Just let the silence do the heavy lifting.
“You’re on my porch,” I repeat, slower this time, in case she’s hard of hearing or high on delusion.
She sucks in a breath, trying to collect herself. Her gaze flicks down my body shamelessly. I could be shirtless or wearing a trash bag and it wouldn’t matter; she’s already imagining the fantasy version of me she thinks she deserves.
“Right! Sorry,” she says with a nervous laugh, flicking her ponytail over her shoulder. “I just… didn’t want to seem creepy by leaving this without saying hi first.”
Too late.
I glance at the ball, regretting ever signing that first ball left on my porch.
“I should’ve known you wouldn’t be home yet,” she continues, twirling the ball in her hands. “Your coaching session only ended an hour ago. You’ve got to shower, change, and probably do stuff on campus before you come back here.”
“You know my schedule?”
She throws me a bemused smile. “Not your schedule, but I know the team schedule.”
“Okay.”
Stalker alert: Level Orange.
Her eyes flick down my body in a way that makes my stomach turn, not because I haven’t seen it before, but because I can already tell what she wants.
Unlike the South Point girls who looked at me as a way to piss off their daddies, this one wants bragging rights.
Clout. A damn bite of the NFL, like I’m some endorsement deal she can fuck her way into.
She slowly turns the ball in her hand, edging toward me, and I instinctively step back.
“I was just hoping you'd sign this for me.” She lifts it, offering me a pleasant smile.
“Sure.” I reach for the football, assuming that the faster I sign this, the quicker she'll leave. “Have you got a pen?”
“Oh, yeah!” she says, perky enough to trigger a migraine. She arches, literally arches, to reach into her back pocket, her breasts doing the absolute most. The Sharpie she pulls out might as well be soaked in desperation.
I sign it fast, then toss the pen and ball back before she can lean in any closer.
She stares at the signature, brushing her thumb over it like she’s imagining it tattooed on her ass. “Your handwriting is so… manly,” she giggles. “Do you sign all your balls like this?”
Nope. Not reacting. The only person who gets to say vaguely sexual things about my balls is Honey.
Preferably while she’s kneeling on the floor, massaging said balls.
Either way, any hope of getting rid of her quickly flew out the window with her comment because she’s now watching me, expecting me to answer her.
I point to the door. “Is there anything else you need? I’ve got to go inside and call my coach.”
It’s a lie, but I’ll say anything to get her out of here.
Her smile falters. Did she think I was going to invite her inside?
She catches herself quickly and plasters on a wide smile again. “No problem. I know you're a busy guy, but before I go, I did also just want to give you something.”
Here it comes. The Hail Mary pass.
She slides a card out of her pocket and holds it out. Her fingers are manicured in nude gloss, and her hand shakes just enough to be noticeable.
I don’t want to take it, but I do. Out of habit. Out of fucking politeness, which I really need to work on killing.
I don’t bother to flip it over, already knowing it will have her name, number, and probably a little heart for good measure written on it.
I offer it back to her with a tight-lipped smile. “I appreciate the offer,” I say, voice all ice and zero warmth, “but I won’t be needing this. I’m in a committed relationship with my long-term girlfriend.”
Honey hates me using her as an excuse like this, but it's the truth, and I'm tired of all these girls fawning all over me because they think I'm going to be their first wealthy husband.
I'm not that stupid.
I went to South Point Prep, after all. That scholarship was worth something.
She shrugs, flicking my hand away, leaving the note in mine. “I have a feeling we’ll be talking soon, whether you want to or not.” Her eyes flick to the card. “Keep it in case you need it.”
Gritting my teeth, I crumple the paper in my hand because it’s the only way to stop myself from throwing it in her face.
Did she really think Honey was replaceable?
“See you around,” I bite out before brushing past her and shoving the door open because I’m done with this conversation.
The second it clicks shut behind her, I toss the card into the trash.
Hard. This is why I’m so hell-bent on marrying Honey.
It’s not because I want to own her or control her.
I don’t care if all she wants to do for the rest of her life is breed pygmy goats.
I want a ring on her finger so every girl like that knows I’m taken, and they’ll back the fuck off.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
My jaw locks, and the frustration building in my bones because if it's that girl again, I won't be able to hide my asshole side now. I signed her ball and made it very clear I wasn’t interested. Yanking the door open, I’m ready to show her my not-so-nice side.
But it’s not her.
It’s her.
“Honey?”
Just like that, my anger dissipates. She's here. I'm already pulling her into my arms, my lips finding hers like it's second nature. When she doesn't return it, I freeze.
With my hands on her shoulders, I pull back and take her in. She's pale. Her eyes are darker than usual. Something's wrong.
“Honey, what is it?”
She doesn't answer right away. She just stares at me, but I see the fear in her eyes.
“Did those girls do something again?”
My fingers clench slightly as my body goes into high alert, ready to take down an entire dorm if I have to.
Then, she finally says, “It's my father. He came to visit me.”
Everything inside me stills as I try to process this.
“He did? When?”
“Um, just now. He found me on campus.”
So those calls weren’t just threats. He actually showed up. Uninvited. On her turf.
“He flew here?”
“Yeah,” she says with a bitter laugh, brushing past me before she drops onto the couch. I follow her, close, but I don’t touch her. I need to let her lead.
“And he offered me a job.”
A job?
Why does the idea fill me with dread?
“Where?” I ask, trying to mask the uncertainty in my voice.
Her hands are shaking a little. She fiddles with the hem of her shirt, and I reach out, covering them with mine, pulling her focus back on me.
“Where else?” she whispers. “Sanderson and Nicks.”
My blood runs cold.
He’s still trying to get her to work at the family firm. The dynasty. The altar they planned to sacrifice her on right next to Jamie Nicks.
I don’t like this at all.
“But didn’t you already turn the job down because you didn’t want to marry Jamie?” I roll my eyes at the idea.
If anyone thought Honey and I were going to be with other people, they were reading the wrong story.
She nods slowly. “Yeah. I did turn it down. Jamie took his spot and is interning right now.”
Of course he did. The golden fucking boy with the trust fund jawline.
“So is this your father’s weird way of trying to get you back with Jamie?” I try to sound calm, but every ounce of my being thinks this is a setup. Still, I need to hear her out before I say something.
She shakes her head. “No. This is a different offer. Apparently, he hates Jamie now. Wants him out of the company completely.”
“Wants him out of the company completely? Did he forget the company name is Sanderson & Nicks? Surely it’s a little hard to get rid of the person who literally owns half of it.”
“I’m not sure, but he said if I get in, if I earn enough trust, I could shift the balance. Help him somehow get the majority share.”
I laugh, sharp and bitter. “So the forced engagement didn’t work, and now he wants you to be his corporate Trojan horse? Fuck me. Rich people really do make emotional terrorism an art form.”
She shrugs, barely a whisper of a motion. “Yeah.”
“You said no, right?”
She pauses. Fidgets. Looks up at me with those soft, pleading eyes. The ones that always land like a gut punch.
I sit up straighter. “Honey.” My voice hardens. “You said no, right?”
“His, uh… offer. It’s something I can’t refuse.”
“Like what? Money? Did he offer you money?”
Anxiety builds in my chest because I always knew this could become an issue with us. Not that Honey cares about money—she's never had to—but her family uses it like a weapon, and I haven’t secured NFL level funding yet.