The Cheat Sheet

Derek rolls his eyes. He thinks I’m such a prude. “Fine. But it’s still a good place to act as a springboard for a few of these other ideas.”

“You just want an excuse to party,” says Jamal with a tattletale grin.

Derek is the resident playboy/troublemaker/media magnet. He’s always getting into trouble, which is why during the regular season, I keep the guys on a short leash. There’s nothing I can actually do to stop them if they want to party, but for some reason, they look up to me. They want my approval. Which is why he has been chomping at the bit to get into a little trouble.

Derek clasps his hands below his chin like a pleading toddler. “Pllleeeasseee let me throw a party, Dad.”

“I actually think Derek is right,” Jamal says, thumping the back of his knuckle against the sheet of paper. “A party is a great place to unexpectedly short-circuit a fuse and have to light a bunch of candles.”

r /> I look at each of the hopeful puppy dog faces lined up around me. “Fine. A small one. But you guys better not end up on the news the next morning.”

Derek is already ripping his phone from his pocket and his thumbs fly across his screen. Jamal chuckles under his breath beside me and starts reading down the list again.

“Wait—did you really get stuck in an elevator?”

I tip my shoulder. “I paid my apartment’s security guard to stop it while we were inside it.”

Jamal’s eyes glimmer. This was another one of his ideas. “And? Did you get cozy?”

“She had to pee and started obsessing about possibly having to urinate in the corner of the elevator. I texted the guard and told him to get it running again after two minutes.”

He groans. “Don’t tell Lawrence.”

It’s Sunday night, and Bree and I are on our way to Derek’s victory party. That’s right, we won the game. Only one more to win to secure a spot in the Super Bowl. More importantly, whether we win or lose this next game, the Super Bowl will still happen, which means the commercial will still air, and this fake relationship will have no reason to continue on. No reason, unless…it’s not fake anymore.

Currently, Bree is sitting in the passenger seat of my truck reading me all the outrageous DMs she’s been getting from prying fans while on our way to the party. I only have a few weeks left to convince Bree of how great we could be as a couple, and I need to attend every public event I can so I have excuses to woo her.

“…and THEN she asks if I would snap a picture of you in the shower and send it to her! Can you even believe that?! Naturally, I asked how much she’d be willing to pay for it.”

I cut her a glance, and she just laughs and continues reading. We go on like this for twenty more minutes because Derek lives in a ritzy suburban community full of mansions a little outside of Long Beach. I’m exhausted from playing earlier today and wish we were headed back to my place instead of a party where I still have to be on, but this is important. Item number 20 important. Which, I’m still not planning. Only open to the possibility should it arise.

You might be wondering if I’m nervous about tonight and the prospect of finally making out with the woman I’ve loved since I was seventeen. Nah, I’ve gone out with so many women, and—YES I’M FREAKING OUT. My palms are so sweaty I can barely turn the steering wheel. My heart is hitting my ribs so hard they’re cracking. I’m sure she can hear it. Probably thinks it sounds like I’m crinkling candy wrappers, but nope, it’s just my bones disintegrating.

I’m hoping to cross some major lines with my best friend tonight, and if she doesn’t reciprocate, if she still sees me as a brother after this, I’m throwing in the towel. I won’t force something between us, and I won’t ruin our friendship in the process. If I make a move on her and she shuts it down and runs off like she did after my cameo as Sir Strips-a-lot the other night, I’ll officially make myself get over her.

But first, I’ve got to get a grip. How am I supposed to touch her with these sweaty palms? I’ll leave greasy streaks behind on the sexy black dress she’s wearing. No, Nathan, don’t think about the dress. Don’t look at the dress. Don’t slide your gaze to the tight fabric hugging her thighs—I looked. I’ve been looking all night and it’s doing nothing to help me keep my cool. I’m so far away from cool I’m an active volcano.

“So what sort of party is this going to be?” Bree asks, a touch of nervousness tinging her voice. At least I know I’m not alone, even if our nerves are for different reasons.

“It’ll be more like a low-key get-together. Nothing big.” Derek promised me it wouldn’t be over the top, nothing that could stir up any trouble for the guys on the team.

But apparently his word means nothing, because as we pull through the security gate that leads to his property, I see what looks like hundreds of cars. It’s a freaking carnival. His mansion is lit up like the Fourth of July, colored lights shining through the windows and the pulse of music hitting me as soon as I step out of the truck.

“Orrrr maybe it’ll be a rager,” I say after coming around the truck to open the door for Bree and help her down.

Bree is dressed to kill tonight. An assassin on the run in her jet black dress. It’s tight and cuts off midway up her thighs. Curls twist and spill over one of her shoulders, and I’m in awe of her. Those wide, brown eyes stare at the scene ahead of us, and I feel her hand slowly slide into mine. Our fingers lace. I can’t help but smile when I realize her palms are a little sweaty too.

She swallows audibly. “Stay with me, please.”

I grin. “Always.”

The crowd is thick in here. The lights are low and the music is loud. Unless someone is right in front of you, it’s hard to tell who anyone is. I don’t like that.

Bree has my hand in a death grip and keeps shooting me looks that say, I don’t belong here!

I squeeze her hand. Yes you do.

“Do you want a drink?” I have to lean down and ask in her ear so she can hear. It feels more like a club in here than a home. I’m going to kill Derek.