Page 27 of Pump Fake

“What’s going on with you, man?” Liam frowned.

I glanced around. Most of our teammates were already off the field and heading to the locker room. “Nothing. Just tired. Practice was brutal.”

Liam snorted. “Your head may have been in the clouds, but I was on my game. Did you see those three touchdowns I ran in?”

“Kylian launched those with perfect precision.” I grinned, knowing the comment would get under his skin. “They landed in your hands like a gift from God, and you know it. That’s the QB1’s talent. You’re just a tool. One of many.”

Liam shook his head, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth before he ran a hand through sweat-slicked dark-walnuthair. “That makes you a tool too.” He winked. “Didn’t see anyone else fast enough to catch ’em in the red zone.”

“What’s going on with you and Brielle?” Kylian asked, his helmet dangling from his fingers as he joined us. “She was over again last night, and has been most of the week.”

He fell into line on my right side, Liam on my left, as we walked toward the locker room to shower and change.

“Nothing’s going on.” That wasn’t entirely true. “We’re just enjoying each other.”

“That’s the way to do it.” Liam’s laugh was deep and wicked. “Love’s for suckers. No offense, Kylian.”

I glanced at Kyl.

His brows furrowed, and instead of anger, worry bracketed his mouth. “Don’t listen to Liam. He’s biased. Relationships can be great, and the groupies get old. We all know what they’re about.”

“Bragging rights and a shot at being an NFL wife.” Liam’s words were by rote. “Still better than being tied down and miserable.”

We all knew about the jersey chasers’ goals and had experienced what it was like to be used for possible fame and a financially stable life. In the beginning, being a college football star had amazing perks—getting any girl we wanted being one of them. But Kylian was right. It got old real fast.

“Do I look miserable?” Kylian’s arms extended, and he walked backward, glaring at Liam.

“You’re the exception. You know Ares and I are crazy about Aurora.” Liam smirked. “And her cooking.”

Kylian smacked Liam upside the head, making them both laugh. Liam adored Aurora and treated her like a sister. He’d always said relationships weren’t for him and had stuck to that motto. I could only remember one time he’d been willing to throw away his bachelor status for a girl, but she’d walkedinstead. It had set the tone for him and solidified that his rule was sound.

“Aurora is the best thing that ever happened to me,” Kylian said. “And you guys got a first-row seat to our rocky start.”

“In other words, Ares”—Liam rolled his eyes—“watch out because a fake or no-strings-attached relationship can quickly turn into a real one.”

“You’re crazy.” I shoved Liam, slamming him into the wall, before turning down the hallway toward the locker room. “Bet you would think differently if S?—”

“Shut it,” Liam growled.

I exchanged a glance with Kylian. We both tried not to say the name of the girl who’d momentarily shaken Liam’s beliefs before they solidified when he never heard from her again.

“Take my advice,” Liam deadpanned. “Stay single. It’s a beautiful thing to be my wingman anyway.”

We dropped the topic as we joined the rest of our team, hurrying to shower and get dressed. We had film to watch—or at least the players who were serious about making this a career did—and weightlifting still to do. I should’ve let my best friends’ different relationship opinions go, but I couldn’t. The conversation followed me into the weight room, plaguing me with the need to decide.

What do I want with Brielle? Can I trust her, or any woman, for that matter?

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

BRIELLE

Decadent scents, the clink of glasses and tableware, soft lighting, high-end art, and picture windows overlooking the river created a luxurious atmosphere in Mom’s favorite place to eat lunch. She was decked out from head to toe in designer apparel. Tasteful diamonds sparkled on her ears and around her neck. With her hair blown out and makeup done to perfection, she looked younger than her fifty-two years. Plastic surgery and a good skincare line would do that.

I stopped myself from cringing at the prices as I perused the menu and prayed she wouldn’t expect me to cover the meal she insisted we have there. I would have preferred to make sandwiches at her place instead. I should have realized Mom wouldn’t go for that. She’d had to be dragged, kicking and screaming, from her former lifestyle, and it seemed she’d clawed her way back—somehow.Do I want to know the means she used to manage that?Probably not.

When the waiter arrived, we both ordered salads. I stuck with water. Mom had chardonnay, of course. The only plus side to the restaurant—to me anyway—was that the tables had amplespace around them, which would lessen the likelihood of being overheard. I wanted to get down to business, as my time wasn’t infinite like Mom’s.

“Serena’s applied to several colleges.” Different than her original Ivy League list where the scholarships she’d received were no longer enough for her to attend. I sipped my water, letting my statement settle between us. “She’ll be accepted to most if not all of them, and she has a good chance of getting financial aid and”—better—“scholarships. She’ll still have bills, and I wanted to talk to you about her college fund.”As in, what the hell happened to it?

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