Page 4 of Good Girl’s Guide to Love (Guide to Love #4)

Feeling like I’m in trouble—because usually I am—I hang my head as we walk down the hall and step into the empty elevator.

Katie doesn’t say another word, instead spends the entire elevator ride typing something on her phone.

But that’s not unusual, the woman’s job as a publicist is to be chronically online.

But I can’t be in too much trouble, because she’s not swearing at me.

Katie’s more on the prim and proper side.

Hair always in a bun or off her face. Doesn’t swear unless I’m really, really, in trouble.

And is always smiling. Like always. Sometimes I wonder if her mouth hurts.

“Good job today,” she says, finally making eye contact with me as we drive away. “And as it turns out, we can use all the extra good press we can get.”

The good mood I was in just twenty minutes ago is now completely gone. “What does that mean?”

She lets out a sigh and places her hand on my leg, like she’s trying to comfort me, before handing me her iPad. “This came out while you were at the hospital. And before you say anything else, I’m already taking care of it.”

I grab it out of her hand and stare at the massive headline in a bold font:

HONEYMOON OVER? Nashville Fury’s Linc Kincaid might be back to his old ways.

“What the fuck!”

I scroll past the first few sentences of the article—I’m just going to assume that whatever it says is bullshit—before stopping at the first picture I see.

There I am, fist cocked back. I take a closer look, trying to remember where I was, or what I was doing. My teammates are all around me, and not just the few I hang out with on a regular basis, but the entire team.

Then it hits me. This was our last night of training camp. Coach told us to go have fun, so the captains arranged for us to go to one of those adult arcades.

An arcade that had a boxing game.

I remember it vividly now. A bunch of us were trying to get the high score, but our punter wanted it more than anyone.

Something about getting his girlfriend a rare Pokémon plush from the prize counter.

And since I’m the guy in the locker room who is known more for fighting than football, I took it upon myself to show him how to pull back for a proper—and powerful—punch.

He got the high score.

I got a misleading photo on the internet that could fuck up my world.

“This is fucking ridiculous,” I say, tossing the iPad back to Katie. “It’s so out of context it’s almost funny.”

Except it’s not. Because the Fury made one thing clear to me when they picked me up last year—and doubled down on it when they signed me to a one-year deal in the offseason—no fights.

Not one. If I do, I’m done. Contract void.

I’ll be back home in Detroit, delivering pizzas and praying that some schmuck will start a semi-pro football team that I can join to make a few bucks.

“I know you didn’t do it,” Katie says softly. “If you’d fought any of your teammates, I’d have heard about it immediately. And I know you’ve changed, Linc. I see you doing it every day.”

I appreciate her faith in me, but then again, I do pay her to say things and think like that. As my publicist, it’s literally her job to keep me on the good side of the news, and if I do get in trouble, to make sure I’m in good graces sooner rather than later.

It was a smart suggestion by my agent to bring her on board.

I’ve never been in a place in my career where I actually have something to lose, so knowing that Katie has my back is reassuring.

Because I guarantee you, if this photo got out and she wasn’t on my team, I don’t know if I’d be handling it as calmly as I am.

“You’re taking care of it?”

She nods and pats my leg for emphasis. “It’s already handled.

I’m trying to dig into who took the picture and who gave it to the gossip blog, but this isn’t anything.

Coach McAvoy knows nothing happened. Your teammates have vouched for you.

I just wanted you to know in case it comes up during the podcast interview.

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“Just doing my job,” she says, with a shrug, like she doesn’t know how invaluable she is right now.

“You just relax. Let me take care of everything. And luckily, in this case, it wasn’t anything we couldn’t put out in five seconds.

Plus, today was a good day. If anyone reads this garbage of an article, they’ll forget about it in three seconds when pictures from today start rolling out.

And judging by the notifications I’m already getting, that ball has already started rolling. ”

“I know,” I say. “It’s just…things have been so good. No trouble or anything. I just…every time I think I’m getting past the ‘bad boy Linc Kincaid’ persona, some shit like this pops back up.”

She shakes her head and reaches over, grabbing my hand. Sometimes I forget how touchy feely she is. “It was a few photos, Linc. Please don’t worry about it. That’s what you pay me to do. And I’m happy to do it.”

I nod as I move my hand away from Katie’s, letting my head fall back against the window.

She’s right. It’s just one picture. And I’ve kept my nose clean since I arrived in Nashville last season. This was just a blip. A fake one at that.

But even as much as I try to convince myself, there’s that little worm in my brain telling me that nothing has changed.

I’m still Linc Kincaid. The troublemaker.

The rule breaker. The bad boy of whatever team I’ve ever played on.

And no matter how many hospitals I visit, or how much time passes, that title will never leave me for as long as I live.