Page 10 of Faking the Shot
“We’re through, and I’ll make sure everyone knows the kind of person you are,” she spits.
My stomach drops—not from heartbreak, though. No, it’s dread. Pure, ice-cold dread. This isn’t going to end quietly.
“So you’re breaking up with me because of who I am?” I ask confused, because even when we’ve been going out for a couple of months, she doesn’t know me at all.
“Damn right I am,” she snaps, loud enough to ensure not a single soul in this bar misses it. “You’re selfish, you’re moody, and you and your little dick suck in bed. Do you have any idea how exhausting it is to date someone like you?”
I take a slow breath, forcing my jaw to unclench, fighting the urge to say something I’ll regret. The tension in my shoulders coils tighter, threatening to snap. This is not good for my image. The people staring don’t know the full story—hell, they don’t know any of the story—but they’ve already picked sides.
“Brit, come on,” I grit out. “You’re making a scene. You need to stop this.”
“A scene? And now you’re commanding me to stop?” she shrieks, her eyes wide with mock fear, her voice laced with theatrical outrage. “Oh, my God. Are you threatening me now?”
What the actual fuck?
The murmur around us grows louder, shifting from curiosity to judgment. I see it in the way people look at me—like I’ve sprouted horns.
She steps back, clutching her purse to her chest like I’m some kind of goddamn monster.
That’s when I see it. The way her phone is angled. She’s recording this. The whole fucking thing.
“I can’t believe you’d do this in public,” she says, her voice trembling just enough to sell it. “I knew you were cold, but this? This is too far. I’m done. I’ll file a restraining order, don’t get near me ever.”
She storms off, her heels clicking against the floor, leaving a trail of whispers and side-eyes in her wake.
I sit there, fists clenched, my pulse pounding in my ears. The damage is done.
“Hell of a breakup,” Hemming mutters, earning a round of awkward chuckles from the table.
I glare at him, and the laughter dies instantly. My grip tightens around the glass as I down the rest of my whiskey in one go.
Fucking Brittany. Of course, she couldn’t just walk away like a normal person. No, she had to burn the place to the ground on her way out.
The phone in my pocket buzzes, and I don’t even need to look to know it’s Jacob. He’s probably already seen the videos. Maybe there’s already a headline and here comes the goddamn fallout.
Fantastic. Just another day in the Killer Craw Show.
Chapter Six
Valentina
Fixing Your Image, One Lie at a Time
And this is exactly why I should’ve left my sister’s house months ago. If I’d just sucked it up and found a cozy studio—or even one of those overpriced lofts with “character” (translation: exposed pipes and a skylight that leaks)—I wouldn’t be here.
Instead, Jacob dragged me out of bed at an hour when I should be slathered in a face mask, listening to a true crime podcast, and blissfully minding my own business. Now, I’m planted in his office well past midnight, in that hazy time of night when my brain feels like it’s wrapped in gauze. Not that Jacob’s crisp, ridiculously expensive office lighting cares about my exhaustion.
The massive screen in front of me glows with the PR team’s faces, scattered like a corporate Brady Bunch. They’re all in California, of course—looking effortlessly alert and camera-ready—while I sit here in sweats, clutching a mug of tea like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered to reality. After a year of working with this company, I’ve developed a love-hate relationship with how they always look so polished, as if they walked straight out of a lifestyle ad.
Kimmy, my boss, keeps saying, “You need to try harder, Valentina. Just because you’re behind the camera doesn’t mean you can look like you’re barely trying. No more regular clothes and minimal makeup. You need to look on par with the trending fashion and makeup.”
“I really appreciate you coming in, Val,” Jacob says, handing me the tea like it’s some magical olive branch meant to erase the fact that he ruined my night.
I shoot him a flat look that practically screams, you owe me big time. “You dragged me out of bed. This wasn’t voluntary. So, what’s the emergency?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he clicks a button, and the screen floods with video clips. I squint at the first one, then the next, and within seconds, the puzzle pieces start to fall into place: Kaden Crawford, the famous hockey player and son of the Mathieu Scott Laferty—legendary captain of the Boston Barracudas in the ‘80s, beloved by the city for leading them to three championships—and John Dominic Crawford, aniconic quarterback whose name is still synonymous with record-breaking plays, just had the world’s messiest public breakup.
Poor bastard.
