Page 11 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
“It wasn’t–” I try to interject.
“Let me finish,” Jimbo cuts in, his voice booming even though he isn’t intentionally yelling. “If Hunter was defending someone he cared about, the league might treat it differently. There’s already chatter online. People are wondering if something’s going on between the two of you. Why not lean into it?”
“But–” I try again to correct them, but Jimbo talks right over me like I’m background noise.
“Ivy tells me you two went to college together,” he says, directing the question at me like I’m being interviewed for a job I didn’t apply for. “Did you know each other back then?”
“We did,” I admit reluctantly, because lying seems like a bad way to start this conversation. My cheeks heat even though I have no reason to be embarrassed.
“Perfect!” Ivy claps her hands together like I just solved world hunger. “You’re absolutely perfect for this role, Juliet. And of course, we’d employ you as a PR consultant during the arrangement. Jessa says you’re interested in the field.”
Oh. If I’m employed by the team, that would mean I could no-call no-show for my next shift at Foxies. That’s a tantalizing idea. It’s too bad that the opportunity is with Hunter Huxley, who absolutely hates my guts for no reason I can figure out.
He always has, as far as I can tell.
I look at Hunter for support. Surely he knows that this is the worst idea possible. Hunter, however, is glaring fixedly at a spot on the shiny conference room table.
I want to scream. Not just because it’s the worst plan in the world, but because of how easily everyone assumes I’ll go along with it.
They see curves and lipstick and assume I’ll smile and say yes. They don’t see the years I spent building a career nobody takes seriously because I didn’t show up in a suit and a dowdy haircut.
Fake a relationship with a man who humiliated me in college? Sure, why not! Be charming, agreeable, helpful? Of course!
I swallow the resentment and let it simmer. It tastes familiar. Like every room I’ve ever walked into with a résumé.
Ivy looks at me. “You are interested in working in PR, aren’t you?”
The mention of actual employment, of a job in PR, makes my pulse quicken. I glance at Hunter, who’s now glaring daggers at me, silently begging me not to say yes. But this could be my chance. My way out of the Foxies crop top and into an opportunity for advancement.
“The relationship needs to be public, visible,” Ivy continues, warming to her theme. “It has to last long enough to sell the illusion. Long enough to make Hunter look like a changed man who’s found love and settled down. Only six months.”
“I’m not sure I want this,” I say, but even I can hear that my voice lacks conviction.
That’s when Ivy slides a tablet across the table. It’s a still frame from last night, captured right before Hunter threw that punch. But he’s not looking at the fan he’s about to hit. His eyes lock on me and his expression is fierce and protective in a way that makes my breath catch.
He looks like a man defending his woman. The narrative has already started writing itself. I swallow.
“No,” Hunter growls from across the table. “Absolutely fucking not.”
I want to protest too, but my heart isn’t really in it anymore. I’m staring at that image, at the way Hunter looked at me last night. Something warm is unfurling in my chest and I absolutely don’t want to examine it.
“We’ll pay you very well, Ms. Monroe.” Jimbo drops the hammer. “It’s this, or you get traded, Hunter. Period.”
The words hit the room like a physical blow. Hunter actually flinches, and for a second he looks less like the terrifying enforcer and more like a lost kid.
“I want to stay,” he mutters, his voice smaller than I’ve ever heard it. “My brothers play here. I’ve played my entire career here. If I get a choice, I’ll play here until I retire.”
The admission hangs in the air, raw and vulnerable. This team isn’t just his job. It’s his family. And they’re threatening to rip him away from it unless he plays along with this charade.
I’m furious and humiliated, but I’m also calculating. If I’m stuck in this situation, if there’s no way out that doesn’t hurt him and do me no favors, then I’m going to control the terms.
“Fine,” I say suddenly, sitting up straighter. “Two bedrooms, one shared address. Five months. I’ll handle the optics. He can sulk in the background, looking moody and misunderstood.” I pause, drumming my fingers against my lips. “The PR team can soft-launch us the day after tomorrow with some carefully staged photos. And I will get a really massive diamond ring. I’m talking about the size that rock stars buy their girlfriends.”
The words come out steady and professional, even though my pulse is racing fast enough to power a small city. I look up at Hunter, my gaze clashing with his. I’m pinned in place by his eyes, a violent swirl of blue-gray that makes me dizzy.
God, what am I doing?
Hunter’s eyes narrow on my face for a long moment. He looks conflicted. It’s a surprise to me as much as anyone else when he grunts, “Deal.” Something electric slides between us across the table.
