4. Chapter 4
Darius
I'm in the film room at six in the morning studying route trees when Jaylen Cross drops into the chair next to me, shoves his phone in my face, and tells me to read it.
I lean back. "What is this?"
"Your publicist dropped it at five-thirty this morning. Sports Illustrated picked it up an hour later."
I take the phone. The headline reads: Hollywood's Homecoming: Why the Webb-Cross Connection Could Be the Stallions' Most Dangerous Weapon This Season.
I read the whole thing. Claire didn't mention Atlanta once.
Nothing negative. Zero. Not a single sentence he'd have to survive.
Instead the piece is all forward motion — my catch stats, Jaylen's yards-after-catch numbers from last season, what happens when a receiver who plays big and a tight end who plays smart are lined up on the same side of the field.
There's a quote from Coach Donnelly about offensive upside.
A stat about red zone efficiency. A line near the bottom about the Stallions being a team worth watching.
By the time I finish reading, I've forgotten I was supposed to be annoyed she exists.
"She did this at five-thirty in the morning," Jaylen says.
"Yeah."
"Before practice."
"I can tell time, Jaylen."
He takes his phone back, still grinning. "It's a business arrangement, right?"
I look at the screen. "Right," I say.
He grins, slow and wide, like I just said exactly what he expected me to say.
"You know what your problem is?" He stands and heads for the door.
"You can't just turn on the Hollywood charm and watch her fall into your lap.
That move doesn't work on women like her.
" He glances back. "You're gonna have to actually earn it. "
***
Jaylen's words are still sitting with me when I pull into the Next Play Foundation parking lot that morning.
I've done enough of these to know the routine. Smile for the cameras. Sign autographs. Take pictures. Tell a few kids to stay in school. Everybody goes home happy.
The difference is that six months ago I never had to wonder what people were saying after I walked away. Now I do. The scandal follows me into the parking lot, onto social media, into every interview. Some days it feels like it follows me into the mirror.
I step out of the SUV and glance toward the crowd gathering outside the facility. Parents. Volunteers. Kids in football jerseys. A few of them recognize me immediately. I can't tell if they're excited to see me or just curious what a train wreck looks like up close.
That's the problem with public opinion. Nobody sends you a memo when it changes.
Claire is waiting for me at the entrance in a cream wrap dress and low heels, her notebook tucked under one arm.
Her hair falls in loose curls around her shoulders, and before I can say good morning, she's already scanning the setup.
Camera positions. Sponsor banners. Parking lot sight lines.
I watch her take inventory of the entire event in about four seconds.
Then she catches me watching.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Then why do you have that look on your face?"
I tilt my chin toward the cluster of photographers gathering by the entrance.
“You’re tense.”
She scoffs. “I deal with media for a living.”
Her fingers tighten around the notebook tucked under her arm. Barely. But I see it.
Claire follows my gaze to the cameras. “I’ll manage.”
“I know you will.” I step closer, offering my arm. “Stay with me. They’ll come for me first.”
She huffs a quiet laugh. “You should be the one who’s nervous.”
I can’t help the grin that pulls at my mouth. “I should, but if I can miss a pass in the fourth quarter of a Super Bowl and survive the headlines, this is nothing.”
Her eyes flick up to mine, surprised I said it out loud.
“It’s the truth,” I add, steady. “And you’re not walking in there alone.”
Some of the tension in her shoulders lets go.
I put my hand at the small of Claire's back the way we discussed, and we head inside together.
The cameras start clicking immediately. For a second I wonder if she'll tense up again.
She doesn't. She smiles at the nearest lens, leans slightly into my side, and looks so comfortable you'd think we'd been doing this for years instead of faking it for less than a week.
The scary part is that I almost forget we're pretending.
Almost.
The clinic kicks off, and Claire slips into the crowd while I work the room.
Every time I look up, she's talking to somebody — a volunteer, a sponsor, a parent, a kid who looks nervous.
She gives every one of them her full attention.
Not some canned bullshit. The real her. By the time she crouches beside a little girl clutching a football almost as big as she is, I'm starting to notice something.
Claire Wells is like that with everyone, which is strange because I spend most of my day actively avoiding people.
The little girl leaves smiling. Claire stands up and immediately gets pulled into another conversation.
I should probably be paying attention to the event. Instead I'm standing here wondering whether she's genuinely that nice or if she's the best actress I've ever met.
***
I'm showing a group of kids how to catch away from their bodies when Claire appears at my elbow with a kid in a Texans hoodie. The kid freezes the second he sees me.
Claire notices immediately. "There he is."
The kid somehow freezes harder. I look at Claire. She smiles.
"You said we needed more authentic community engagement."
"You brought me a child?"
"I brought you my little brother."
The kid finally finds his voice. "I'm Jacob."
"Nice to meet you, Jacob." I look him over. "You're sweating."
"I know." He tugs at the hoodie. "I forgot it was supposed to be hot today."
"Sounds about right." I grin. "Texas is hot as—"
Claire's eyes cut to me so fast I lose the word completely.
"—as the sun," I finish.
Jacob snorts.
"That's not what you were going to say," Claire says.
"Couldn't prove it."
"Anyway." She pivots like I didn't just almost corrupt her brother. "He's twelve, he's obsessed with football, and he's been watching your highlights for three years."
Jacob groans. "Claire."
"You have a framed picture of him in your room."
"Claire."
"You cried when he got traded to Houston."
"CLAIRE."
I bite the inside of my cheek. Hard. Because laughing would be cruel. Claire leans closer.
"Teach him something impressive. Let him catch a pass. Try to look like you enjoy helping children."
"I enjoy helping children."
"You once described a birthday party as a hostage situation."
"It was a Chuck E. Cheese on a Saturday."
She pats my arm. "Work your magic, Hollywood." Then she's gone. Just leaves me standing there with her brother.
Jacob stares at the ground. I stare at Jacob. Finally I hold out a football.
"You know how to throw?"
His head snaps up. "Yes sir." He freezes. "I mean — yeah. Yes."
Something about that gets me. "Good." I toss him the ball. "Because it'd be embarrassing if I got set up by a twelve-year-old and he couldn't."
The grin arrives before he can stop it.
Damn. This is a good kid.
Five minutes later he's running routes like we're the only two people at the clinic.
***
The clinic wraps at noon. Cameras leave first. Then the sponsors. Then the coaches dragging equipment carts across the turf.
I watch Jacob show his grip to another kid on the way to the parking lot — holds the ball up, points to his fingers, fully serious about it, like he's been doing this for years. He learned that twenty minutes ago.
Claire is at the far edge of the field with her notebook open, writing in that shorthand she uses when she's working through something. Heels off, shoes sitting in the grass beside her, standing barefoot on the turf like she's been here a hundred times.
She hasn't looked at me once since the clinic wrapped. Not when I finished with Jacob. Not when the sponsors lined up to shake my hand. Not when the last camera crew packed up and walked out. Every single person out here has tracked me at least once this morning.
Claire has been in that notebook like I don't exist.
I roll my neck. Once. Twice. The crack echoes and nobody looks up — including her.
What the fuck.
I'm the most recognizable person on this field. I have a Sportscenter highlight reel, a Lamborghini, and a jawline my agent once described as "monetizable." And Claire Wells is standing twenty feet away acting like I'm part of the equipment.
The wind comes off the field and the dress moves.
Just a little. The hem lifts and I get a glimpse of her thighs and my brain does exactly what I tell it not to do — which is picture those legs wrapped around me at eleven o'clock on a Tuesday night when we're supposed to be talking about media strategy.
Down, boy.
Then one of the foundation coordinators flags her down and she steps away to talk — notebook left open on the equipment bench, pen resting across the page.
Gametime.
I pull a piece of gum out of my pocket. I walk over. I set it down on the open page. I keep walking.
I don't look back until I'm almost to the gate, and when I do, she's back at the bench. She's not writing. She's standing there with the gum in her hand, looking down at it. Head tilted. Like she's trying to figure out where it came from.
I face forward before she can catch me watching. I'm smiling before I reach my car.
***
My phone buzzes as I reach my car. Unknown number. Atlanta area code. I open the message.
I heard you landed in Houston. We should talk. — Camille
My stomach drops. Because Camille never reaches out unless she wants something.
I lock my phone and toss it onto the passenger seat. The message stays exactly where it is. Unread would have been easier. Unfortunately, I know Camille.
And whatever she wants, she's not going away.