Page 68
That is…until I hear his teammates’ comments.
“Did you see the way he placed her hand over his heart?”
“Our boy is double-P whipped.”
“You know what they say: ‘Happy wife. Happy life.’”
I’d taken every one of Shane’s actions as genuine, but maybe they were all for the benefit of his teammates. There was a man’s voice right after Shane answered, so he must have been close to everyone when the call came through. Maybe the running, the growling, the looking like he was going to rip the security guard’s arms off was all for show.
An itchy sensation scratches down my back as my gaze falls to my hand. My wedding band glints back at me like a prop in a bad play. Then a chorus of This is Fake, Oh so Fa-ke sung to the tune of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” sounds in my mind, reminding me that’s the whole reason I’m here—to sell our fake marriage.
Nevermind that I genuinely wanted to see Shane play.
This was the only way I could convince him to let me come today.
My mind tries to spin This is good scenarios out of Shane rushing to free me from a holding cell. With how he cradled me in his arms, every teammate now believes our marriage is as perfect as described in this morning’s press release. But a sour taste remains in my mouth no matter how many times I swallow.
Telling myself to get a grip, my fingers twitch beneath Shane’s warm palm. It’s only then that I notice he’s in a Waves jersey.
“You’re not wearing black.”
Shane’s small smirk settles some of the unease that’s taken residence in my stomach.
“I’m in uniform.”
“Yeah, but…” I can’t help that my fingertips roam, that I reverently trace the buttons of his jersey. “It’s blue.”
“Waves blue. Do you like it?”
There’s something in the scratch of Shane’s voice that sends my focus back to his face.
“It’s my new favorite color.”
The broad grin stretching his lips should come with sweeping orchestra music. Something turns over inside me as we smile at each other. This has to be for me, right? This part, our banter…it isn’t fake. It’s been like this since I sat next to him in a noisy bar.
“So this is where my players have been hiding.” A man with a salt-and-pepper mustache leans against the doorway to the security room, his hands in his pockets.
All the merriment dies instantly as the players stand a little straighter.
Trevor nods to who I’m assuming is a coach—or the owner maybe? I’d expect an MLB owner to wear a suit, and this man is wearing joggers and a lightweight Waves hoodie, so probably a coach.
“There was an incident.”
The older man glances around. “Is it sorted?”
“Yes, sir,” says a player with Wells across his back.
The man pushes off the door with a nod, turning to leave. “Let’s get to it, then.”
Most of the team follows him, but Trevor hangs back with Shane as they talk to the head of security. Then Adam, Delilah, Piper, and I are being escorted upstairs by a different guard. Shane stays with me until the last stairwell before the concourse, his hand interlaced with mine.
“I have to get back,” he says, pulling me to a stop and squeezing my fingers. The action presses my wedding band against my palm.
“Oh. Sure.” I cringe when disappointment creeps into my tone.
Being overly sentimental isn’t what Shane needs right now. He needs a chipper wife who’s cheering for him in the stands. Because let’s not forget that I’m the one who’s truly benefiting from this fake marriage, with incredible health insurance, a palace to live in, and hours and hours to paint with unlimited supplies.
“Get out there and take ‘em by the horns.” I free my fingers and gamely punch Shane in the shoulder.
