Page 12 of Hard to Fake

"Where's Atlas?" I'm looking around. Our center was injured in a hard hit the first game of the season, but he was supposed to be back today.

Coach huffs out a breath. "He’s day to day.”

Normally, we’re a loud bunch. There’s a lot of laughing, teasing, calling each other out on our bullshit.

Now silence falls over us.

“Meaning…?” Jay asks.

“Meaning we’re a man down for a game or two.”

A gloom descends over the gym.

It’s true that this year there’s a target on our backs. If what happened to Atlas is any indication, no one in either conference is pulling any punches.

“It’s a couple of games. We’ll hold the fort,” I say with confidence.

I’m a role player, the guy who can slot in anywhere. I love the game almost as much as I love getting to joke and catch up with my guys from around the league.

I keep us level when the world tries to rip us off our axis.

The higher you fly, the more important that is.

My phone buzzes in my bag.

The name on the screen coupled with the message have me intrigued instantly.

Brooke: I need your dog.

Most girls show up in my phone to ask me out or send me naked pics. Not this one.

Miles: You want to cast him in a production, you have to go through his talent agent.

Brooke: He goes with my costume for the party, and I intend to win.

“You put her up to this?” I ask Waffles.

He cocks his head, his dark eyes becoming hypnotic pools of cuteness overload.

Brooke’s not so much a woman as a force of nature. She’s brave and bold and unapologetic, which lands her in hot water—or yesterday, cold water.

I’d never tell her how much I enjoyed carrying her out of the pond, because she’d cut off my balls and nail them to her door like jingle bells.

I would’ve driven most girls home after what happened because it was the right thing to do, but this wasn’t just any girl—it was Brooke.

Brooke, who’d show up for a backyard BBQ in head-to-toe Fendi carrying a bag of hot dog buns.

Who makes fun of my practical jokes but can come up with a mean prank herself.

Who’ll stomp her spiked heels and tell off any of the guys as though she’s one of them.

Who’d probably die before sliding into my DMs with a naked pic.

Not that I wouldn’t take a long look if she did.

From the gangly freshman I met back when Jay and I were still playing college ball, she’s grown up to be a damned smoke show.

But she’s sister to the guy who’s my teammate, my friend. She’s so far off-limits she might as well live on the moon.

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