Even though I whispered that last bit, Riley’s eyes went wide as saucers before she socked me in the arm.
“Ow,” I said, rubbing the spot.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “We’re giving you the exclusive about our relationship like we promised we would all season. We just wanted to make sure we were focused and could secure this game first. And don’t even whisper about things like that,” she added, not even daring to speak the word pregnant out loud again. “You’ll start a whole rumor chain.”
I frowned, still rubbing my arm as I surveyed them, but didn’t have the time to pry deeper into whatever they were hiding before Charlotte gave Leo the last question sign from beside the podium stage.
“Okay, you’re up,” I told them, and as soon as Leo stepped off the platform, Riley and Zeke took his place.
Cameras flashed like mad.
Everyone spoke over each other, trying to get the couple’s attention for the first question as Zeke held out Riley’s chair for her to sit before he did the same. They shared an adoring look, Zeke grabbing Riley’s hand and holding it on top of the low table as a hundred more flashes assaulted them.
“Joe,” Zeke called out first, nodding toward a well-known reporter from the local sports station. We always liked to show him favor when we could — mostly because the local station covered all the university sports, and because Joe was actually a nice reporter focused more on football than gossip.
“Riley, you missed your first field goal attempt in the second quarter, but ended up kicking your longest one yet in the third. How did you come back from that first kick and re-center?”
“I’ve learned over the years to not let one kick get under my skin and to just focus on staying consistent. Everyone has bad kicks, bad throws, missed catches — but it doesn’t have to define the game.” She shared a knowing look with Zeke then. “Besides, when Zeke had that sixty-two-yard return at beginning of the second half, I knew I had to bring my game to show him up or I’d never hear the end of it.”
The room lit up with laughter, and then Riley called on the next reporter.
I watched, amazed, from the side of the stage as they fielded each question — and of course, they started steering more toward their relationship than the game after a while. They handled it all like pros, giving a little detail on how dating while playing on the same team had been without going into too much mush. They cracked jokes, illustrated their respect for each other and the team, and when the timing was right, one of them would deliver the perfect sweet line that had the whole room smiling at their young love.
Even me.
Even while my stomach coiled and chest ached with the kind of pain that can only come from having once had what they did and lost it just as fast.
Charlotte ate up every minute of their interview, too. She leaned in, speaking softly so the mics wouldn’t pick her up. “I don’t know how you managed to get this interview from them, but great fucking job, Jones.”
I beamed as Charlotte gave Zeke the signal to take one more question.
He looked out over the hands raised, the people calling out his name, and then pointed to someone near the back.
“Clay Johnson,” he said.
And my heart stopped.
Murmurs fell over the crowd as every head snapped in the direction of where Clay was in the back of the room. I peeked at him from beside the stage, my view mostly blocked, but I could spot his towering figure, his solemn face as he grabbed a nearby chair and climbed to stand on top of it.
He was still in his uniform, the white jersey stained with dirt and grass and sweat. His hair was matted with sweat, too, and the eye black he’d lined under his eyes before the game was smeared now.
But he was still breathtakingly handsome, rugged and intoxicating in the most effortless way.
“Uh, yeah, I was just wondering,” he said when he was standing on top of the chair fully, and he yelled out the words over the crowd. “Have either of you either done something really stupid that almost ended your relationship?”
A golf ball-sized knot formed in my throat at the question, at the way my heart raced with the words.
Zeke and Riley smiled at each other. “Both of us have made mistakes,” Riley answered. “But we admit when we were wrong. And we always come back to each other.”
The room shifted back to them, a few pictures snapped as more hands went up, confused as to whether that was really the last question or not.
“I appreciate you sharing that answer,” Clay said, and heads swiveled again, confusion washing over everyone trying to figure out what the hell was going on.
Me included.
“And you guys have a really great story.”
“Aw, thanks Clay,” Riley said, giving Zeke googly eyes as she leaned into him.
“But ours is better.”
My heart stumbled, stopping altogether for a long breath as Clay’s eyes snapped to mine.
“Wait… ours?” someone asked, and there was a brief pause before the madness, before every camera turned toward Clay and reporters struggled to find mics they could hold out toward him, since all the press ones were focused on Riley and Zeke at the podium.
“Yes, ours,” Clay confirmed. “Mine and Giana Jones’ story.”
“Oh, my God,” I whispered, covering my mouth with shaking hands.
“Oh, my God,” Charlotte repeated, though her voice was firmer, and filled with the disdain of a PR agent whose client had gone rogue.
“You probably don’t know Giana Jones, at least — not by name. But she’s the gorgeous girl who’s always wrangling us, who gets you your interviews and podcast exclusives and commercial spots.” The side of his mouth tilted up as he faced each camera. “And she’s my girlfriend. At least, she was — before I screwed it all up.”
Charlotte snapped her fingers, waking me from my haze. “Go fix this,” she hissed.
I nodded, bolting from behind the stage and squeezing through the crowd that grew thicker and thicker around Clay.
Clay, who was now holding up a small book for everyone to see.
“Blind Side,” he said, showcasing the simple black cover. “The story of how I fake-dated the girl of my dreams and then lost her from being an idiot.”
There was a mixture of laughter and the buzz of questions as the crowd leaned in, making it even harder for me to shove through.
“Excuse me, excuse me,” I muttered, shoving as politely as I could.
Clay opened the book, holding it up and showing the godawful stick figures drawn inside it along with the large text like it was a children’s book.
“Once upon a time, there was a beautiful PR princess named Giana,” he said, showing the stick figure with glasses and curly hair with a headpiece on. He licked his thumb and flipped the page. “And a dumb safety named Clay.”
The crowd laughed at the next drawing, which was a stick figure with beefy arms in a too-tight jersey.
“Excuse me,” I said, shoving through the last bit of the crowd. When they parted, someone murmured, “I think that’s her,” and before I could stop them, cameras turned.
Toward me.
Panic zipped through me as I finally reached Clay just as he turned the next page.
“Clay and Giana made a deal — he would help her get the attention of the Prince of Rum & Roasters, and she would help him make his ex-girlfriend jealous. How? By agreeing to fake date each other.” He turned the page, showing the two stick figures locked in a hug as people watched. “Except, there was nothing fake about what they felt for each other.”