1. Chapter 1
Claire
I’ve seen his picture.
I’ve read the articles about how the league’s golden boy managed to torch his reputation in under a year.
Darius Webb: six-foot-seven of talent, temper, and tabloid chaos.
I told myself I was ready for him.
But then he opens the door, and every prepared thought in my head evaporates.
I tighten my grip on my clipboard and lift my chin.
Good God, Claire. Get it together.
I've handled worse than a six-foot-seven walking headline. At least, that's what I tell myself as my pulse tries to sprint out of my body.
Hollywood. That’s what they call him. The cameras love him, the fans adore him, and he’s spent the last fourteen months starring in his own scandal miniseries.
The league finally got tired of the show and handed me the file.
Darius steps aside without a word, and I walk into a penthouse that looks like a signing bonus exploded and nobody cleaned it up.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook Houston. Marble countertops gleam beneath designer light fixtures. The kitchen island is roughly the size of my first apartment.
The place practically screams NFL superstar.
I pretend not to be impressed. Mostly because I'm here to clean up the man, not admire the set.
I set my tablet on the counter and find my voice.
"Mr. Webb. We have a lot to cover."
A smile pulls at the corner of his mouth.
"At least sit down first, beautiful."
There it is.
I haven't even opened my notebook.
His smile widens slightly, like he can tell exactly what I'm thinking. That should probably annoy me less than it does. Instead, it makes me want to charge him for wasting my time.
"Claire," I correct.
"Beautiful seemed easier."
I set my bag on the table. "Considering we're discussing your public image crisis, I don't think easy is the goal."
A deep, laugh escapes him. Unfortunately, that doesn't help matters.
Neither does the way he looks at me.
I pull out my notebook and take a seat.
"Let's begin."
He watches me for a moment before finally taking the chair across from mine.
Something tells me this meeting is going to be a lot harder than I planned.
"Mr. Webb." I keep my voice level. "I've read your file."
"Yeah?"
"All of it." I tap the folder. "Including your anonymous social media accounts. All three of them."
His smile drops. He straightens, shoulders back, chin up — caught off guard and covering it fast.
Good. We're done with the warm-up.
"Tell me what actually happened in Atlanta," I say. "Not the version that hit Twitter."
He goes quiet. It's the first time since I walked through his door that he doesn't have something ready.
His gaze drops to his forearm, and his thumb drags over the script tattoo there — the one I noticed at the Training Complex but didn't get a good look at.
I angle my head, trying to catch the name beneath his hand. He notices.
His eyes lift to mine, sharp and direct, and his hand shifts just enough to block my view completely.
I straighten like I wasn't just snooping.
Message received. Whatever that tattoo is, it matters. And he didn't mean to show me that.
"Atlanta was a mess."
His voice is quieter now. Less defensive.
I nod. "I figured."
His gaze flicks back to mine.
"I'm not asking you to relive the worst day of your life," I say. "I just need enough information to understand what I'm working with."
Something eases in his expression.
"Fine," he says, looking toward the window. "Here's what I'll tell you."
"I got involved with Camille Pierce."
"The PR director?"
He nods.
"She told me she was separated. Turns out that wasn't true."
My eyebrows rise before I can stop them. His eyes catch the reaction instantly.
"Don't."
"I didn't say anything."
"You didn't have to." For a second, I realize he's waiting for the lecture.
I set my pen down. "Then stop trying to read my mind and finish the story."
For the first time all afternoon, the corner of his mouth twitches. Then he keeps talking.
"I had a burner account," he says. "It was stupid."
I scroll to the transcripts. "You called your offensive lineman a sack of potatoes in cleats — then turned around and called your tight end a last-round charity pick."
"He dropped three passes."
I glance up. He doesn't look remotely sorry.
"The follow-up post read: Bro, charity implies somebody wanted you."
His mouth twitches. "Okay, that one's still funny."
I close my eyes for a second.
Lord, give me strength.
"And the nail in the coffin," I say, "was using that account to deliberately blow up your own teammate's relationship. You knew what going public would do — and you did it anyway."
"I wasn't thinking about her."
"No. You were thinking about Nick." I set my pen down.
"That's the part that's going to be hardest to defend.
The Camille situation looks like a mistake.
The fight looks like a bad temper. But what you did to Savannah James was deliberate.
You targeted someone who hadn't done anything to you because she was connected to someone you resented. "
Darius lets out a low whistle.
"Damn. We've known each other, what? Twenty-three minutes?"
"Close enough."
He shakes his head.
"You're already on my ass."
"There's a reason for that."
I lean forward. I hold his gaze.
"Look, I know this isn't fun to hear. It wouldn't be fun for anyone to hear. But the public already has an opinion about you, Darius. If we're going to change it, we have to be honest about where it came from."
He studies me for a moment, the amusement finally gone from his expression.
"Okay. Then tell me what I'm missing."
"An affair scandal. A locker room fight. A burner account. Different mistakes. Same result."
I hold his gaze as his expression hardens.
"Every single time something didn't go your way, you reacted. You keep giving your enemies exactly what they want."
The room goes quiet.
"And every time somebody challenges you, you act like you have something to prove."
Color creeps up his neck.
For the first time since I sat down, Darius looks away.
The reaction catches me off guard.
I didn't think a man like him embarrassed that easily.
"You're on a probationary contract," I say. "One slip and they cut you."
"So I need to be prepared for a drought."
"Exactly. Everything you need to do to repair your image is on that page. It's my recommended plan to get you back on track."
I slide the tablet toward him.
"But it only works if you follow it."
"No improvising."
A smile tugs at my mouth.
"Now you're getting it."
He picks up the tablet and starts reading. His eyes move quickly across the screen. Faster than I expect.
When he reaches the bottom, he looks up. His expression lands somewhere between amusement and reluctant respect.
"Church?"
"Only on Sunday mornings."
"You're killing me."
"Charity clinic."
"Twice a month. Minimum."
He shakes his head and keeps reading.
A minute later, he slides the tablet back across the counter.
"I'll do it," he says.
"Good."
"On one condition."
I sigh. "There are no conditions."
"One."
He holds up a finger. The teasing edge I've seen all afternoon disappears. For the first time since I walked into his house, he looks completely serious.
"What?"
His gaze settles on me. "Tell me one thing you actually believe about me."
I frown. "What?"
"Not what's in the file. Not what ESPN says. Not what social media says." He pauses. "You."
The question catches me off guard. Until now, I've been the one asking questions.
Now he's looking at me like my answer matters.
"Why?"
He leans back in his chair.
"I hired you to fix my image. I already know I screwed things up."
He rubs a hand across his jaw, considering his words.
"What I don't know is why I keep ending up in the same place."
His gaze stays on mine as the room goes silent.
"So tell me."
I let out a sigh.
"I don't know you well enough to have a complete opinion."
He smirks. "Nice PR answer."
"It's the truth."
The expensive house and the confidence are easy to clock. What caught my attention was his reaction when Atlanta came up. For the first time all afternoon, he looked afraid.
I think about it for a moment.
Then I look at him.
"You're terrified your career is about to go up in smoke," I say.
His eyebrows lift just enough to make me wonder if I hit something.
His expression doesn't change, so I keep going.
"And I think what really scares you is what happens after that. If football disappears, you don't get to decide what people remember. The headlines do."
Silence settles between us.
The kind that only happens when someone is either choosing their words carefully or wishing they didn't need them at all.
He just looks at me.
My stomach tightens.
And for a brief moment, he looks unexpectedly exposed.
He pushes away from the counter. Slowly. When he stops, there's barely any space between us. His eyes never leave mine.
My pulse stumbles.
"That's your professional opinion?" he asks quietly.
I swallow. "No."
His gaze sharpens.
"It's my personal one."
For a moment, neither of us moves.
Then I make the mistake of noticing how close he is. How insanely hot he is. How much easier it was to analyze him from the other side of the room.
I take a step back. Then another.
And as I reach for the door, one thought follows me out.
This arrangement suddenly feels a lot more complicated than a publicity stunt.