1. CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 1

“It’s no surprise to me, I am my own worst enemy”

My Own Worst Enemy – Lit

Deon

“ D eon!” Victoria's high-pitched voice slithers through the locker room and I slide behind Jack Walters, an offensive lineman, to hide. “You were supposed to be in the media room five minutes ago. Do not make me come in there where it’s smelly and gross to drag you out.”

The media coordinator’s words strike fear into my heart and I cower behind Jack, using his massive frame as a human shield.

“You can’t hide from her forever.” Jack chuckles, shifting to slide on his tennis shoes. I mimic his movement so Vicky doesn’t spot me.

“I’m your quarterback. It’s your job to protect me,” I hiss, keeping my voice low. Vicky has super-sonic hearing.

“Yeah, from rushing defenders.” He spins and cocks an eyebrow. “Not from middle-aged women.”

“Tomato. Potato. Same difference,” I scoff. “You make millions to keep me safe. I will pay you fifty dollars to stand here until she gives up and forces someone else to answer the media questions.”

Hell is a place on Earth formally named the media room. Vicky is my personal Charon, ferrying me to the Underworld. Week after week, I’m forced to sit in front of reporters and answer questions. Player interviews. Pre-game media access. Post-game press conferences. The type of media doesn’t matter; I am always chosen.

There are fifty-one other men on the roster. Are they ever chosen? No.

When I mustered up the courage to ask Vicky why I had to suffer every week, she informed me I was a ‘team leader’ and ‘well-liked’ and ‘I look good in front of the cameras’.

She doesn’t care that ‘I hate the media’ and ‘my leadership has nothing to do with news reporters’ or that ‘looking good in front of the camera is not a valid explanation’. I lost the battle when she kicked me out of her office, tail tucked between my legs, threatening to speak to Coach Barrett, our head coach, about my unwillingness to do my job.

Jack chuckles and saunters to the showers, leaving me with a target on my back.

“Traitor.”

His laughter echoes throughout the locker room as he disappears. I was a groomsman at his wedding last week and this is how he repays me. Stretching deeply, I keep my gaze lodged firmly on the floor .

Nothing to see here. Just a man stretching, not avoiding the media at all.

I lift my head to determine if Vicky left. Wrong choice. We lock eyes and the smile she returns could peel paint.

It’s her classic we’ve already had this talk look and I resign myself to my fate. Some teams hire media personnel fresh out of college who make silly videos and pass out candy to the players. I would much prefer that tomfoolery than this torture. I could respect her years of experience if she didn’t terrify me and make me miserable.

My feet drag as I follow Vicky to what I consider the fires of Mordor. I am Frodo, except I have no Fellowship of the Ring to join me. This is an unwanted, solo adventure. Chatter travels down the hallway and my palms begin to sweat as we inch closer to the door.

Dozens of media personnel fill the space and my gaze snags on three very empty seats at the front of the room. Vicky’s eyes sparkle as she clocks my frown.

My fingers trail along the seam of the tablecloth as I wait for other players to arrive. The adrenaline pushes me through these chats post-game, but the pre-game media makes my skin crawl.

It’s all too revealing. Football-focused questions are tolerable, but when they veer toward more personal questions…well, my anxiety skyrockets. The majority of reporters are solid people who stick to the game, but a small percentage will tear you apart for their gain.

Those are the ones I’m worried about.

Henry Parker saunters in and chats with reporters, asking them about their lives like they’re old friends. Moments later, Declan Monroe—a tight end—enters, head high with his classic star-studded smile. He pauses to flirt with one of the social media interns, who blushes a fire engine red when Declan purrs her name.

“Flirt,” I cough under my breath and Declan shoves my shoulder. If I have to be here, I might as well find joy somewhere. It happens to be in the form of teasing Declan.

“Trying to find my zing man,” he whispers, as he and Henry settle into the chairs beside me.

I groan at his mention of ‘zinging’. I heard too much in Michigan this summer when we had to share a room for Henry and his wife's joint bachelor-bachelorette party. He also gave me an in-depth analysis of each date he’s gone on in search of his zing . There were many and I left the trip with a weird bond with Declan and the knowledge he’s a…playboy in search of love?

It’s an odd combination.

My nerves rocket as questions begin to fly. I won’t settle until I’m at home, finishing the puzzle I’ve spent the last week working on. All of the pieces are the same color, which offers an extra challenge. If Gordito would stop knocking them off the table, I would be finished by now.

Questions are tossed my way about Tampa’s defense and I answer with as few words as possible. Curt and direct.

The kernel of anxiety lodged in my chest loosens as the questions dwindle. I can taste the freedom. My bed calls to me and Gordito is probably starving which sends a tremor through my body. I make a mental note to order more toys when a reporter asks Henry about his wedding. He lights up, describing in vivid detail how radiant his wife, Sawyer, looked as she walked down the aisle.

He doesn’t mention he sobbed so aggressively that he needed thirty seconds to calm down before the officiant could begin the ceremony. I refrain from snickering, but a glance at Declan’s smirk tells me he’s replaying the same moment.

As Henry finishes his story, my gaze connects with a reporter, whose smile tilts up into something serpentine. My stomach plummets as his hand rises and Vicky points him out.

“Deon, first of all, you played great last week against Detroit.” I nod, fear rushing through me. Not a good start. This is where he fattens me up on compliments before the slaughter. “Henry mentioned you were a groomsman in his wedding.”

“That’s right.”

“You were also at Jack Walters’ wedding this past weekend?”

“Uh…” He shouldn’t know about the wedding. Maren, Jack’s wife, threw the whole event together in a few weeks, asked him to marry her in the morning, and by sundown, they were married. My knee shakes and I pick at the wrapper on my drink. If he knows about Jack’s wedding, what else has he discovered?

Declan jumps in. “If you have questions about Jack’s personal life, take it up with him.”

“Understood.” The man nods, scanning his notepad, before continuing his inquisition. The tension in my shoulders is stronger than the tension during the Council of Elrond. “Just a few more questions for you, Deon.” No. No more questions. My gut is telling me this is wrong . “You got engaged a few years ago, right?”

The water bottle in my hand slips, banging against the table. Henry’s head jerks in my peripheral vision, but all I see is the smarmy smile on the reporter’s face. He knows the truth and he wants me to confirm it.

“Huh?” I choke out.

Instead of moving on, he elaborates.

“You’re engaged to Savannah Lear, correct? Are you two planning on finally tying the knot like your teammates?”

My heart stops beating. This can’t be happening . My brain scrambles for about four seconds before uncensored words tumble from my lips. “T-That didn’t work out but I am in a happy, committed relationship now. That was my past.”

“That’s all for questions,” Vicky booms from the back of the room, and I dart into the hallway, desperate for fresh air and a time machine so I can take my words back.

Relationship? Happy, committed relationship!?

You need a girlfriend for a relationship. I haven’t had one in five years. Longer, if you count the time I had a fiancée instead of a girlfriend.

I bolt into the offensive locker room with Henry and Declan hot on my heels, both screaming my name as I slide to a stop in front of my locker.

In a few words, I confirmed I was engaged to Savannah and now I’m dating someone new.

How did he learn Savannah’s name?

Fuck, this is bad.

My phone dings in my bag, undoubtedly with notifications about my dating life and speculations about who I’m dating.

The problem with avoiding the media spotlight like it’s a plague—because it is—is the mystery around my life draws people in like a moth to a flame. They demand more because I offer them so little. They create conspiracies and obsess over the inner workings of your life and relationships until it becomes theirs and it’s no longer yours.

I don’t date. I haven’t dated since I ended my engagement and left for Seattle, and I have no intentions to date, ever again .

You can’t have your heart shredded to pieces if you don’t give it away.

I shove my things in my bag to prepare for my breakaway. I need to get out of here and figure out how to fix the shitstorm I created.

I make the horrible mistake of looking at my phone. Holy shit, things move quickly. The screen is full of messages from my mother, my sister, and the scariest of all: Maren.

Maren: Pretzel privileges are revoked until you explain why I got an alert that you were engaged and are now in a DIFFERENT relationship.

A wildly embarrassing whimper tumbles from my lips, but to withhold my pretzels…that’s… downright cruel. Few things bring me such joy in life. Puzzles. Football. When Brian rides the bench when we play Atlanta. Those pretzels.

But to take them away…the sudden weight of my confession strikes me. Why the fuck did I tell the media I have a girlfriend?

Oh, God, this is so, so bad.

Shit!

I drag a palm over my face, trying to calm my heartbeat, when two large hands bracket my shoulders and spin me around.

My phone dings incessantly in the background.

“You’re dating someone?” Jack asks, Declan and Henry standing beside him. “Maren is blowing up my phone with questions.” He glances down to read his messages from his wife. “You should probably text her. She’s hurt that you didn’t tell her you were dating someone.”

My stomach roils.

Now, I’m panicked and guilty. What a great combination .

“I have a better question. You were engaged?!” Declan asks, blue eyes wide with shock.

I pause. Which answer hurts less to admit? How I lied to the press, or that I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with someone but ended up with my heart in smithereens when I found her in bed with one of my teammates?

I shrug, deciding to answer neither and drop my shoulder to sneak out the door. Jack shifts to the left, blocking my path, and raises a single eyebrow. God, that's intimidating. Maren must have taught him that one.

“Well…” I shift on my toes, eyes darting to the exit when Declan and Henry stand on either side of Jack. It's an impressive wall of muscle, but I am a cornered animal, so I like my chances. “I’m not not dating someone.”

Declan puts it all together first. His laughter starts as a soft chuckle, growing more boisterous as he realizes how stupid I am. He’s bent in half, heaving air into his lungs.

“It’s not funny,” I grit out.

“H-He lied,” Declan chokes out between breaths, “This is great. What are you going to do when they want to know who you’re dating?” He glances at my bag, which chimes like a church bell. “There are probably half a dozen articles already.”

I scowl at Declan but he waves a hand. My ability to intimidate him took a hit when we were forced to share a room.

“This is a call for the Seattle Super Spies,” Jack says with a smile that instills fear into my heart.

Not this again. Since Henry and Declan were drafted two years ago and Henry needed love advice to win the heart of his best friend—and now wife—Sawyer, Jack has been calling our little friend group the ‘Seattle Super Spies’.

The name is stupid. They love it. I’m not opposed to giving each other advice, but I am opposed to the dumb name and the requirement we eat at Donna’s Diner, a 1950s-themed diner where the waitresses and other patrons stare at me.

“Diner?” Henry asks, a pep in his step as he throws his practice gear into a bag.

“I could go for pancakes,” Declan adds.

They all wait with expectant looks. “Fine.”

As we pack up, Krista, the events coordinator, saunters into the locker room. She meets my gaze and changes her course in my direction. My shoulders stiffen.

“Deon, you only RSVP’d for one person for the auction. Is that still correct?”

My brows furrow. Henry clocks my look.

“She’s asking if you’re bringing your…girlfriend to the event.”

“Oh.” Shit. Ten minutes ago I didn’t even have a girlfriend. Now, I have an imaginary one and I have to take her to an auction to raise money for cancer research. Just when I thought this shit show couldn’t get any worse. “Uh…I’ll have to ask if she’s free.”

“All the other wives and girlfriends are going,” Krista says, “but I need to know by the end of October to finalize the guest list.”

I’m supposed to find someone in three weeks?!

“Maren and Sawyer would love to meet her!” Jack says with a shit-eating grin on his face.

Asshole.

It only gets worse when Coach Barrett walks into the room, lips in a thin line. He’s always frightened me, but I also respect him. He keeps his personal life separate from his job.

“Adams!” He yells, and I peek my head behind the wall of muscle.

“Yes?” I ignore the way my voice cracks. If I don’t acknowledge it, it didn’t happen.

“You’ve got a girl?” I nod, not trusting myself to speak. “It’s about time. Can’t wait to meet her at the auction.”

He whisks past me, moving on to talk to another player and I turn to Krista. “I—I’ll let you know.”

Three weeks. I have three measly weeks to find someone to take to the auction who also has to act as my long-term girlfriend with the understanding it won’t lead to anything more.

That’s not going to be difficult at all.

Declan unhinges his jaw, scarfing down a stack of pancakes. The small 1950s-themed diner is empty, except for a few stragglers at the counter who glance back periodically.

I drop my head, hoping they recognize my silent plea to be left alone. If someone walks up to me right now, I might have a major freak-out. If one of the waitresses gives me googly eyes—which happens far too often for my liking—I will raze this place to the ground like Smaug and say good riddance to this horribly decorated diner.

“Now would be a good time to make a dating profile,” Declan says, mouth full of food.

“No. ”

“It’s not the worst idea.” Jack tilts his head in contemplation. “I’m sure you could find someone to take who would be willing to lie.”

“I’m not going on a dating app,” I say, shutting down that option. Those apps are horrifying and I refuse to participate in them. The small talk alone makes me want to hurl.

“Okay…” Henry draws out the word. “But, it doesn’t leave many options.”

“Does anybody have any long-lost sisters?”

It could work well. No strings. They would understand it’s all for show and I wouldn’t have to pretend. I’ve never been great at pretending.

“Only child,” Henry answers.

“Brother, sorry,” Jack responds.

I spin to Declan. He has a half-sister he’s reconnected with recently. He shakes his head, eyes downcast as he sips his water. Henry sighs.

“I thought you two were working things out,” Henry says softly.

Declan’s head droops, his shoulders sagging. “I—I thought so, too. She’s gone. East Coast, I think. She’s not coming back this time.”

Henry pats Declan’s shoulder and Declan shoves a heaping pile of eggs into his mouth. The silence is uncomfortable and I snag the bowl of coffee creamers to stack them into a tower.

“Don’t,” I bark as Jack’s finger inches across the table. He knocks it down every time and if he does it today, I will lose my shit.

He raises an eyebrow but retreats and leaves my tower perfectly intact.

“I’ve got it,” Declan mutters quietly, dropping his silverware. It bounces on the table and tumbles into my tower of creamers. Ugh. “It’s perfect.”

“What’s perfect?” Jack, Henry, and I ask in unison.

Declan’s bright blue eyes lock with mine as he cheerfully yells, “Ask Nathalie!” like it’s the answer to my problem.

“What?”

“Ask Nathalie,” he repeats, his smile growing wider as Henry and Jack nod in approval. “Logistically, it’s perfect. You already know her so you don’t have to lie about how you met. You can tell her the truth about everything and then we can all go to the auction together! Like I said, it’s perfect .”

I stare at him, stunned into silence.

Of all the people in the world he could have suggested, Nathalie Morales is the worst option. Since Henry and Sawyer’s joint wedding getaway to Michigan, I can barely function in the same room as her.

She applied sunscreen on my back and I had to hide in the bathroom like a high school boy because I had a boner, simply because she touched me. Granted, it was the first time in a long time anyone had touched me outside of the clinical touch offered by trainers and doctors, but the embarrassment still lingers. Then, she admitted she found me attractive and drunkenly asked me to marry her and I spent the trip in knots because the kernel of a crush began to form and it had to go away.

I know how she likes her coffee. 99% sugar and cream. 1% coffee. It’s disgusting and endearing and I loathe how I’ve held onto the sliver of knowledge as if it’s a piece of treasure.

Anyone but her.

I won’t survive this ordeal if it’s her.

The longer Declan’s suggestion hangs in the air, the stronger everyone else grabs onto the idea.

“It could work…” Jack mulls. “But, she could be dating someone.”

I play it cool instead of showing how much I dislike the idea.

Which is a shit ton.

This is why it won’t work. My overbearing emotions have assessed her as a potential crush and now I need to stay far, far away.

“She’s not,” Declan says with far too much confidence. “I think if you asked, she would say yes.”

“When did you and Nathalie become so close?” Henry asks, eyes narrowing. I’m itching for that information. For scientific purposes, of course, and not to assuage the jealousy clogged in my throat.

“After the trip to Michigan. Drunken proposals create an unbreakable bond.” He shrugs. “Plus, we are the only two single people left in Book Club.”

Nathalie also proposed to me and we don’t have an unbreakable bond…Why the hell is my chest tight at the thought?

What makes her and Declan’s proposal more important than ours?

Shit. No. This is exactly the problem. I shouldn’t care about our bond , but here I am, forcing away a frown at the idea she likes Declan more than me.

Jack shrugs. “I say go for it. Everyone in agreement?”

“It’s a good idea. It’s a lot easier to convince someone to lie and pretend to date you if you know the person,” Henry says.

“Do it. Do it. Do it,” Declan cheers. He bangs against the table, drawing the attention of other patrons. I slouch lower into the booth.

“No.”

I can’t. I won’t.

“The Seattle Super Spies have decided. You’ll ask Nathalie to be your fake girlfriend and date to the auction!” Jack cheers.

My brain screams to shut the idea down, but I have no better options and a tiny, irrational voice in my brain whispers that I should do it. The air whooshes from my lungs.

“His resistance is wavering,” Declan says.

“I have no other options,” I mumble.

“That’s the spirit!” Henry yells.

As I resign myself to this insane plan, I realize there is one small issue. “Uh…Can someone give me her number?”

I immediately deleted it after the trip so I wouldn’t be tempted to do something stupid like call her at night when she creeps into my thoughts.

There’s no way my heart isn’t pulverized by the end of this.

“Oh, dear,” Jack mutters, rubbing between his brows.

This is going to end so, so poorly.