Page 16 of Faking the Shot
“We have dinner reservations,” she repeats, as if that’s a perfectly normal thing to do.
“How do you figure I’m just going to clear my schedule and jump when you say so? Last I checked, I’m the talent here. Aren’t you supposed to work around my availability?”
“Look, Kaden.” Her tone is chipper, but her words are a razor in disguise. “The media is in an uproar, your team isn’t thrilled with you, and if we don’t get a handle on this soon, your career will take a nosedive you can’t recover from. I’m not happy about this either, but we’re stuck together. So unless you want to keep seeing your name dragged through the mud, I suggest you show up.”
Her words don’t match her voice. It’s like she’s forcing herself to talk through a grin, and it’s unsettling as hell. Psychotic, almost.
“Fine,” I grumble, though it tastes bitter in my mouth. “I’ll be there.”
“Perfect,” she chirps, and I can practically hear her smile.
She doesn’t wait for me to say bye or ask any follow-up questions. Nope. She just hangs up.
She hung up on me.
I pull the phone away from my ear, staring at it like I might be able to reach through the screen and give her a piece of my mind. Who the fuck does that?
Chapter Eight
Kaden
When You’re Outplayed by Cake
It’s seven-oh-five when I pull up to the restaurant. I’m not in a hurry to get inside. Why would I be? Fake dinner with my fake girlfriend? Hard pass on the enthusiasm.
The valet strolls up to my car, and the second he sees me, his eyes pop wide like I’ve just descended from a fucking spaceship.
“Whoa, Kaden Crawford,” he says.
“Yeah, hi. Let’s just make sure you don’t scratch the car, kid.” I hand over the keys.
His hand hesitates mid-reach. “Oh, for sure, man. Absolutely—uh . . .” He shifts awkwardly, scratching the back of his head, and I already know what’s coming. Either he’s angling for an autograph or a selfie. Probably both.
I sigh, slumping back against the car. “Pic?”
His face splits into a grin so wide, I half-expect his jaw to fall off. “Yes. Please.” He’s practically bouncing as he digs out his phone, hands fumbling like it’s Christmas morning.
See? I’m not a total asshole. I’m nice to the fans. Sometimes. Okay, most of the time. But there’s a line, you know? A point where I’m a little short—or okay, a lot short.
It’s not because I’m a jerk; it’s because I have anxiety. Like, actual anxiety, not the kind people slap on a hashtag. When I was eight, Pop was coaching one of the teams that made it to the Super Bowl. Huge game. The team won, and it was a massive moment. At some point, I got separated from my family when a crowd of fans swarmed, shoving pens and memorabilia in his face.
I don’t remember much except being small and terrified. Lost in a sea of giants. Some asshole knocked me over, and I hit the ground hard—scraped knees, busted elbow, the works. Crying didn’t help. No one noticed. Not a single fucking soul stopped.
So, I did the only thing an eight-year-old could think of—I hid. Found a tiny gap under the bleachers, crawled in, and curled up tight. The damp smell of metal and spilled soda made my stomach turn, but at least it was quiet. Safe. Or as safe as hiding in a shadowy corner beneath stomping feet could feel.
It was hours before security found me, curled up in that space like a scared animal. By then, I was shaking so bad I could barely breathe.
That day? It killed any dream of following in his cleats. Football? No, thanks. I’d rather play hockey where I feel a lot safer.
The valet boy scrambles into position, shoves his phone in the air, and snaps the quickest selfie ever. “Thank you, Mr. Crawford. You’re the best.”
“No big deal,” I mutter, waving him off. “Just take care of the car. I mean it.”
Inside the restaurant, it’s quiet. Blessedly quiet. Crowds and me? We’re not exactly close. I head straight for the hostess stand, ignoring the faint murmur of recognition behind me. It’s not that I mind being noticed—I just don’t have the patience tonight.
“Valentina Holiday,” I say to the hostess, hands stuffed in my pockets. “Where is she?”
Her eyes widen slightly, darting over me like she’s confirming I’m real, before she manages to blink herself back to functioning. “Uh, right this way.”
