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“So,” Blair’s voice eases, trying to understand. “You need me to go with you? Why? Am I even allowed?”
“Yeah,” I answer, “because Hawke is allowed to bring his girlfriend, Amber. He insisted on it. His manager pushed back against the coach and got him to compromise, and like fuck if I’m going stag now. It’ll make the fucking awkward even worse. I need a girlfriend.”
Blair flinches. I search her eyes. Suddenly, they look scared.
Like she’d rather date Satan than me.
“Like a fake date, a fake girlfriend,” I blurt. “Just for ten days, that’s it. I need someone to be a buffer between me and Hawke.”
It lands in Blair’s eyes, those silver, breathtaking eyes that could always see right through me—the ones that feel like home.
“Beau,” she aims them right at me, “why do you need a buffer from Colton Hawke?”
Why I even try hiding it from her, I don’t know. I’ve always been safe with Blair.
Only Blair.
“Because,” I confess, “he’s the one. He’s the guy I told you about in college.”
Slowly, Blair nods, letting my past and present shitshow rain over her too. She gets it. I need to tell her so much more, but she already understands. “So, I’m your beard?”
“Yes.” I shake my head. “I mean, no. You’re way more than that, and you know it. I’ve had my beard buried in your pussy, and I fucking love it, too, Blair. I can’t forget you, and trust me, I’ve tried. That’s not what this is.”
If you think secretly loving one person is hell, try loving two—for years. One would be a distraction, the other your destruction. And all you do is dream about her and him every lonely day because actually being with them would be a nightmare for all.
But hey, at least you can have football.
“Blair, you’re not my beard.” I plead, “You’re the only woman I trust, and I’m so fucked if you can’t help me. My career, my dream is over if you don’t because there’s no way I can make it ten days around Hawke without shit going sideways forever.”
A tender smile ghosts her lips. “Well, I guess I owe you, don’t I? You made me a bestseller, so now I’m your best beard.”
Fuck, she’ll be saying that for the rest of my life.
But is it true? No. I’m not closeting that I’m gay. I’m closeting I’m bisexual.
What’s the name for that?
In my sport, it’s called “survival.”
So I roll my eyes, go with it, and smile. “Yeah, you owe me. And maybe you can write another bestseller about us while we’re there.”
“Where?”
A thousand pounds lift off my chest.
Is that a yes?
“Belize,” I answer, almost relieved. “Our team owner has a friend who owns a private island there. No press. No cameras. No tourists. No one but a chef and maid who don’t know us from Adam’s house cat. We’ll be trapped on it. Just the four of us, trapped in paradise.”
“How many bedrooms?”
“I don’t know. Why? You have to stay in mine. Fake girlfriend, remember?”
“I’m not sleeping with you, Beau.” Blair shakes her head like I’m threatening her with a pit of snakes. “And I’m not fucking you again, either.”
Why does that sound so sweet and sour?
“Why not?” I smirk. “We can make fake real fun, too.”
