Page 7 of False Start: Chicago Engines (Gridiron Warriors #3)
Weston
“Weston! Hey! Weston! Come outside!”
I groaned, hauling myself off the sofa and making my way into the backyard of my townhouse. At the fence, a scruffy blonde head appeared, followed almost immediately by a dark head of hair.
“Yes! I told ya he was home,” Amber — owner of the blonde head — crowed to Zara, her Australian accent thick despite having lived in Chicago since she was old enough to walk.
That little detail, along with her and her mother’s entire life history, was the first conversation I’d had with her when I moved in three years earlier with a freshly signed contract to play for the Engines and a shoulder that hadn’t yet been busted.
I knew I was playing on borrowed time going into my fourth season, but I’d be damned if I didn’t finish strong.
Fuck the law of averages with their 3.3 years of play statistic.
“I knew he was home. He brought me here, remember?” Zara’s tone was as dry as her father’s as she rolled her eyes at her friend.
“Ohh yeah. Anyway,” Amber said, returning her attention to me. “I challenge you to a bakeoff. We made brownies, so you have to make cookies and see if ours are better.”
I rubbed a thumb over my lip to cover a smile. When I’d moved to Chicago from Washington, I hadn’t just found a new team to play for, I’d found a new family. There wasn’t anything I wouldn’t do for Amber, or her mom, Marina, who ran a psychology practice out of their front room.
“How are we supposed to compare cookies to brownies? Shouldn’t I make brownies too? Even the playing field?”
Amber gasped, placing a dramatic hand on her chest as though I’d mortally offended her.
“What are we going to do with that many brownies? That’s just dumb. But if you don’t have ingredients for cookies, you can do a cake. We’ll give you some stuff, but it’ll cost you points.”
I shook my head, bemused by her logic.
“Give me thirty minutes, but your mom has to be one of the judges. I’m not getting in trouble for ruining your dinner again,” I told her with mock severity.
Turning back toward the house, I began mentally running through my pantry as Amber’s “That was one time!” echoed behind me.
As I was rolling cookie dough into balls, my cell chimed with an incoming call. Wiping my hands on the nearest dish towel, I put Trent on speaker.
“Hey man, what’s up?” I asked, returning to my cookie dough.
“I should be pissed at you for blowing me off yesterday, but I had an interesting call this morning. Wanna tell me how you ended up fake-dating a starlet?”
“Yeah… funny story…” I filled him in on the events of the previous day — omitting how we ended the night because it was rude to kiss and tell — and how a moment of chivalry had somehow spiraled into news headlines.
I slid the baking pan into the oven and set a timer, waiting through the silence on the other end of the line as Trent thought through the position I’d put myself in.
“How do you feel about continuing this fake dating thing? It seems like an odd move after Harmony,” he said eventually.
I grunted, rinsing off my hands. “I know what I’m in for here. With Harmony the relationship was real. I just didn’t realize how much of it hinged on me being Weston the football player instead of Weston the man.”
The image of a hospital bed flashed through my mind.
I’d been high on painkillers, only hours out of surgery when Harmony visited my bedside to tell me she didn’t see us working out long term.
The media had been speculating about the end of my career while I sweated on feedback from the surgeon about whether my shoulder would ever regain one hundred percent functionality again.
The woman I had been ready to propose to, who had come to every one of my games to cheer me on, apparently only had time for me when I was someone .
Last I heard, she had shacked up with some baseball player.
Best of luck to him.
“Okay, so it’s only for show. I’m going to be honest here, it won’t hurt to have her on your arm at events.
Her manager is confident she has a role on some soap opera in the pipeline.
She’s going to bring attention, and attention — good attention — means sponsorship opportunities.
Even if you do manage to see out the season, you need to be realistic.
The likelihood of you playing again next year is low.
You need to start thinking about the long term.
What’s next? And it’ll be a hell of a lot easier if you have padded your savings with endorsement deals.
Especially when last year’s deals fell through. ”
That was a nice way of saying every company I had a contract with jumped ship as soon as my shoulder splintered against the gridiron turf.
Chocolate and cinnamon wafted through my kitchen, and I wiped down my counters as Trent began to spitball events Georgia, or Gia, as he kept calling her, and I could attend to see and be seen.
“Pace clothing has a new season launch next week. We can get you on the guest list and hopefully reopen the door for sponsorship.”
“Fuck no. They ripped up my contract before I was stretchered off the field.”
“It was business, Weston.”
“I don’t care. I helped them launch that brand. They were just someone else who wanted to use me.”
Shit. Maybe I needed to do some soul searching, because the more I thought about the last twelve months, the more I realized I didn’t have that many people in my corner when I was just Weston.
The timer on the oven chimed, reminding me there was at least one person who liked me for me… or for my baking skills, at least.
“Look. I can’t make you go, but I think it would be a good soft launch for your relationship. I’ve seen the photos. She’s stunning, and you’re in better shape than you were this time last year. Go to the event, even if you’re only attending as a fuck you to Pace.”
Sometimes I hated him being good at what I paid him for.
“Fine. Send me the details. Now, if there isn’t anything else, my cookies are about to burn and I don’t want to lose this bake-off.”
I pulled the tray out of the oven, leaving it to rest on the counter while I grabbed a drinking glass to shape the soft treats into perfect circles.
“How are you actually holding up?” Trent asked, no longer using his manager voice.
“You’ve been through a lot in the last twelve months, and I know damn well you’re not telling me everything.”
Like it was responding for me, a small twinge bit through my shoulder.
“I’m good to go. Looking forward to my best season yet. You don’t have to worry about me.”
The silence down the line told me better than words that he didn’t for a minute buy what I was selling.
“I’ll send the details through.”
The call cut off just as Amber’s holler came from over the fence.
“Judging time!!”
I slid the still warm cookies onto a plate, marveling at how much better my life had been since I moved into this town house.
Amber and Marina had become a second family to me.
Zara had met Amber when Christian brought her around for my housewarming party and the two had been inseparable ever since.
My greatest fear when I injured my shoulder wasn’t that I’d never play again.
It was that I’d lose my community. My chosen family.
I shouldn’t have worried, though. My loved ones hadn’t abandoned me like the rest of the world.
If anything, they held on tighter. Marina had checked in daily in the first weeks, pretending she was helping with housework while asking pointed questions about my mental health like only a therapist would.
Amber decreed that my talents really laid in baking, and thus, the bake-offs had begun.
Christian had offered his spare room, but I couldn’t bear subjecting him and Zara to the mood I’d been in during those early days when my professional life was in shambles.
“Are you coming? Or are you chicken?” Amber called.
I stepped outside to a chorus of clucking noises.
“You two are trouble from A to Z,” I teased, pointing first at the fair head, then the dark one as they peeked over the fence. As usual, the joke was met with peals of delighted laughter.
“Is your mom there?” I asked, holding up my baked goods in offering.
“I’m here. What did they talk you into this time?” Marina replied.
“Cookies.”
“Of course.”
I dragged the nearest patio chair to the fence and climbed up, peering over to find two ten-year-olds vibrating with excitement, a Tupperware container grasped between them, as Marina reclined on a daybed nearby.
“One cookie each, girls.” She pinned me with a dark look, amusement dancing in her eyes. “If Zara goes home high on sugar, I’m sending Christian to you for answers.”
I winced dramatically, grinning at the conspiratorial giggles the girls let out. Christian was an amazing father. He’d raised Zara alone since her mother walked out eight years ago. But his obsession with clean eating was unparalleled.
“You’d sell me out? Just like that?”
Marina pushed out of her chair and stole a cookie for herself.
“In a heartbeat. Now, what’s this I hear about you having a new girlfriend and when do I get to meet her?”