Page 103 of How to Score Off Field

He isn’t taking this seriously at all.

Not that he takes anything seriously. To my brother, everything is a goddamn joke.

First Duke, when he was between teams and hiding out in the suburbs. Then Dallas, taking money to break up with his teammate’s girlfriend then bribing her to fake date him. Then Drake himself, who pretended to be me on dating apps, although the media never caught wind of that little gem.

I shoot him a glare. "It's not funny, Drake. This is serious."

My head is going to fucking explode. The story on television seems to be on repeat with one reporter then another commenting and giving their opinion on the rumor's validity.

“I didn’t say that it wasn’t, but come on. You know how this goes.” He flops onto the bed next to me, finally pinning a somber expression on his face. "You've always been the golden boy, Mr. Perfect—of course, they’re going to take one whiff of a scandal and run it. This just adds a little spice to your squeaky-clean image."

“I don’t want to add spice to my image.” I shake my head, not amused in the slightest. "You have no idea what's going on, do you?"

My twin rolls his eyes. "Enlighten me, oh scandalous one."

I let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through my hair. "It's Tess, it must be. This is the reason I haven’t heard shit from her in days."

Weeks.

Drake's eyes widen in surprise, his smirk fading. "Wait, what? Are you fucking with me right now?”

I nod, my heart heavy with a mix of emotions. "Yeah, her. I can't believe she went to the press with this before even talking to me."

My voice is a whisper now, my throat constricting.

Fuck, I think I’m going to cry.

Actually cry.

Drake's expression shifts from surprise to genuine concern. "Damn, Drew. That's messed up."

I groan, burying my face in my hands. "Tell me about it."

He pats me on the back, a surprisingly comforting gesture. "Look, bro, I get that this is a total curveball, but you can handle it. You've faced tougher challenges on the field, right?"

Now is not the time for his locker room diatribe, feel-good nonsense. But leave it to Drake to put things into perspective, even if he does it in his own Drake-like way.

"Yeah, you're right. Maybe it wasn’t her that went to the press, eh? Maybe it was…”

I pause.

Grady Donahue, that motherfucking bastard.

He couldn’t have.

Hewouldn’thave…

It had to have been him.

He was so pissed off on the phone, but dude, he promised me he would let me make this shit right.

“People get paid a lot of money for stories like this,” my brother says quietly as if reading my thoughts. “You know that. And if she could use the money…”

“Not her,” I whisper. “Him.”

“Him who?”

“Fucking Grady.”

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