Page 2 of Fake Out

“I’m sorry. I tried to convince them otherwise, but they won’t budge.” He sounds genuinely apologetic, but that doesn’t make this any easier to swallow.

“Please, Xav, talk some sense into the general manager and owner! I’ll do anything — go to rehab, anger management classes, whatever it takes! Just… just don’t let them cut me!” Desperation laces my voice; I’d give anything to turn back time and undo last night’s mistake.

“I wish I could help you, but what’s done is done. The team has made their decision, and there’s not much more I can do at this point.” His words aren’t unkind, but they hit me like a ton of bricks. “I’m really sorry. I honestly thought you were turning things around, but this stunt has done you in.”

I slam my fist on the counter, feeling a surge of anger and despair. “This can’t be happening,” I mutter between gritted teeth.

My mind races, searching for a way to fix this mess I’ve made. Usually, I just smile and say I’m sorry, and eventually all is forgiven. People move on to the next scandal.

So why is the Thunderhawks’ owner so pissed this time? It’s not like I’ve done anything new, and I’m not the only NFL athlete who’s ever gotten in a fight!

It’s just not right, and it just isn’t fair.

“Charlie, take some time to process this. Maybe it’s an opportunity for you to reassess your priorities and figure out what you truly want. You’re talented, and there’s more to life than football.”

I know he’s trying to console me, but his words are empty. Football is my life, and without it, I’m lost. Since the first day I stepped onto the field in high school, I haven’t wanted to do anything else.

“Thanks for trying, Xav,” I say flatly, unable to muster any real gratitude. It’s not his fault, but the overwhelming sense of betrayal from my team, who is like family, crashes down on me like a tidal wave. “I’ll… I’ll call you later.”

“Take care, Charlie,” he says quietly before hanging up.

The silence that follows is deafening.

I stand in the kitchen, gripping the warm ceramic of my coffee cup, staring into the darkness of its contents. I would give anything to have this all be some terrible nightmare that I could wake up from. But it’s not.

The reality of my situation settles heavily on my chest: I am no longer on an NFL team, and unless I find a way to turn my life around, my future in professional football is bleak.

I don’t know where to go from here, but I know one thing for certain: I have no one to blame but myself for this disaster. And if there’s any hope of salvaging my career, Xavier is right: it’s going to take more than just apologies and promises. It’s time to face the consequences of my actions and start rebuilding my life from the ground up.

But where the hell do I even start?

CHAPTER 2

MARISSA

A cool breeze rustles my hair as I parallel park on a busy street in Chicago’s River North neighborhood. I take a moment to breathe, thinking about the stressful morning I just had.

Being an assistant sports agent should mean more than being someone’s errand girl. I can’t help but feel that I’m meant for more than fetching coffee and picking up dry cleaning for my boss, Isaac.

Yet, that’s exactly where I am in life. From the outside, it looks like I have my dream job. From the inside? Most days you would think that I’m an unpaid intern and not someone whose job description says they should be drawing up contracts and making deals.

At least I have breaks like this, where I can get away from it all for a while.

I exit my car and make my way towards the restaurant where I’m meeting Ria for lunch. As I walk, the smell of freshly baked bread fills my nostrils. My stomach growls in response, and I pick up my pace, eager to see my best friend and finally get some food.

“Table for two, please,” I tell the hostess upon entering the chic restaurant.

She glances at her list and nods, leading me to an outdoor table shaded by a large umbrella. Ria isn’t here yet, but that’s not surprising. She’s always fashionably late.

“Your friend will be here soon?” the hostess asks, her tone lighthearted.

“Hopefully,” I reply with a smile. “She’s worth the wait.”

“Of course,” she says, handing me a menu. “Enjoy your meal.”

“Thank you.”

As I scan the menu, I catch the conversation a group of women are having at the neighboring table. They’re talking about an upcoming work trip to Paris — something that sounds absolutely glamorous. Despite my best intentions, I feel a twinge of jealousy as they excitedly discuss their plans.

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