.jpg)
Fake Boyfriend #2
Matt:
Want to know the fastest way to get screwed out of a football career? Get photographed in a compromising position in a gay bar. Yep, welcome to my life.
My agent says he can fix my image. He wants me to become the poster boy for gay football players. Me? I just want back on the field. I’ll do anything to play for the NFL again, even pretend to have a steady boyfriend. If only my fake boyfriend wasn’t Noah Huntington III—the most arrogant, entitled rich guy in the world.
Noah:
Pretend to be Matt Jackson’s boyfriend, my best friend said. It’ll be fun, he said. What Damon neglected to mention is Matt is surly and bitter. Being his boyfriend is a job in itself. From his paranoia over being constantly photographed to his aversion to PDA, being with Matt isn’t the care-free fake relationship I expected when I signed on to do this.
It’s supposed to be a win-win. I get to stick it to my politician dad who thinks no one is good enough for the Huntington name, and Matt’s reputation of being the bad boy of football dies.
What I don’t expect is to start caring for the guy. That’s not part of the plan. Then again, neither is fooling around with him.
Oops.
**Trick Play is a full-length MM novel with a HEA/HEA and no cliffhanger**
Chapter One
MATT
It was the punk-ass cocky smile on his face that did me in, but the five drinks on an empty stomach didn’t help. I was usually more careful. With the bass thrumming through me, a buzz in my veins, and a sea of available hookups dancing and grinding in front of me, I dropped my guard.
A loss always made me needy, even more so when it blew our chances to go to the Super Bowl. Our season was done, and this random guy, with his dark hair and bright eyes, made me forget all that. It wasn’t a common thing—hooking up in a club—but it wasn’t the first time I’d done it. Had no delusion it would be the last either.
I wasn’t the type of closet case to put on a show by parading women around. No, I was the type who kept to myself, put my head down, and stayed out of trouble. But on nights where I just … needed, I couldn’t stop myself. I needed an adrenaline fix—a high—even if it was in the form of meaningless sex. I needed a sense of accomplishment. It wasn’t like a win on the field, but it was the closest thing to it.
No words were spoken. There was no need for any. I lost myself in the random stranger and didn’t even flinch when he took my cap off—my safety net. Or when he kissed me. I was too far gone to notice the assholes with cell phones who’d recognized me. And even when the flashes went off, I was too distracted by a hot, wet mouth making me moan.
That was the last time I’d ever be known as Matt Jackson, tight end for the Bulldogs. From that moment, I was Matt Jackson, that gay football player who got caught with his pants down.
“Matt,” a deep voice says.
I’m brought out of the memory of that night and thrust into the seriousness of my present. My knee bounces as the two suits behind the desk explain how they’re going to fix me. No, not me, my image. Apparently the two things are separate, but I ain’t so sure. I’m as broken as my image is.
“The photos of you in the nightclub make you look sleazy and predatory,” the old dude says.
I glare at Damon, my actual agent, but because he’s a noob, the other guy is here to oversee everything and make sure Damon doesn’t screw it up. I’m his first official client. The gay ex-baseball player representing a recently outed football megastar? The media is going ape-shit over us.
I should count myself lucky. When my scandal hit, my previous representation dropped me. My endorsements left. My contract with the Pennsylvania Bulldogs was up, and surprise, surprise, they weren’t interested in renewing. My career was dead. If it wasn’t for my ex-roommate and regular hookup from college, Maddox, introducing me to his boyfriend, Damon, I never would’ve signed with OnTrack Sports.
“Predatory is the wrong word,” Damon says before I can put the old guy in his place. “But the pictures don’t work in your favor.”
“And how do you propose we fix it?” I ask. “Those photos are out there forever. There’s nothing we can do about that.”
“Instead of hiding, we throw you into the public more,” Damon says.
I groan. “No football team wants to invite the circus to town. I just want to play.”
“And to play football, you have to look like you’re not hoping a teammate drops the soap,” the old dude says. I should learn his name so I’ll know who to add to my ever-growing shit list.
Even Damon cringes at him this time, but he can’t say anything—the asshole is his boss.
“I’m not into straight guys, thanks,” I say.
“You need to appear taken and not interested,” Damon says, more diplomatically. “The photos were taken months ago, right? We address the issue by saying it’s a non-issue anymore. Since then, you’ve met someone, fallen in love, and are in a committed and serious relationship. You won’t be hooking up with randoms in bars, you won’t be getting arrested for DUIs, you won’t—”
“I ain’t ever been arrested for a DUI. I’ve never been arrested, period.”
“We know that, but you think the media cares?” Damon says. “They’ll pin anything they can on you. You’re in the spotlight now whether you like it or not, and it’s your job to appear employable by a team. Any team. Because right now, you’re in limbo. We’ve got two months before training camp to get you a contract.”
“So, I have to find a boyfriend. That’s what you’re sayin’?”
“We found you one already,” Damon says.
“What?”
“My friend Noah. You met him at his place where Maddox introduced us.”
I barely remember anything that’s happened since the photos were released, so I only have a vague memory of that night. I never understood the phrase “on autopilot” until my world fell into an unknown abyss. All conversations from the last few weeks are a blur.
“Noah’s cool,” Damon says. “Can be a dick at times, but it’s a front. I called in a favor and already got him to agree to this.”
“So, just like that, you’re pimpin’ me out, huh?” I’m not trying to be a surly asshole, but this is my life. I also hate that my accent, which I’ve trained myself to get rid of, seeps into my words the more agitated I get.
“This is a business arrangement,” Damon says. “We’re setting up some PR events for you two to attend together, and we’re going to announce your relationship after the cruise we’ve booked for you to get to know each other. Seven nights round trip to Bermuda. Maddy and I are coming too.”
“Shouldn’t you be here trying to find me a contract instead of going on a cruise? Shouldn’t I be doing something else? Somethin’ football related?”
“Matt.” Great, even Damon’s getting over my attitude. “Your main focus should be on fixing your image, because without doing that, you won’t see a contract.”
“Aren’t there rules in the league about anti-discrimination?”
“I have another meeting,” the old guy says and turns to Damon. “You can handle it from here.”
When he leaves, Damon sighs. “Look, if we could take the discrimination road, we would, but it won’t achieve what we want. If you were happy to retire from football with a nice lump sum payout, we could maybe fight this. But the truth is, we’ll probably lose.”
“Why? Contract negotiations were going fine until I was outed.”
“All sports contracts include a morality clause. Even if those photos had been of you with a woman, the Bulldogs would’ve had the right to dump your contract. Would they have if it’d been a woman? Probably not. But we can’t prove that. They can prove your morality is questionable after getting freaky in a club with a random guy. Again, if it’d been a woman, you might be facing the same scrutiny.”
“That’s bullshit, and you know it. There have been rape allegations around some players, and they never got fired.”
“Well, fuck, Matt.” Professional Damon is replaced with friend Damon. I reckon I like him better than the suit he hides behind. “What do you want to do about it? You can fight for your reputation and try to win back your spot in the NFL or ride the rainbow train into court and possibly lose everything. In a perfect world, this would all blow over, but we both know that’s not how our world works. When I played baseball and there were rumors of me being the number one draft pick, the pressure was doubled because I was an openly gay player. The media jumps on this shit because people think they have a right to know everything about everyone’s business—especially athletes and famous people—because it bumps up their ratings. With any luck, another football scandal will break before training camp and you’ll be pushed out of the spotlight. But until that happens, you’re it, and we need to do everything to make sure the rest of the articles posted about you are positive.”
“Nice pep talk,” I grumble. “When’s the cruise?”
“Two weeks.”
I fake a smile. “Can’t wait.”
The plan is to leave checking in to the last possible moment, but two hours before I’m set to leave the hotel Damon’s agency put me up in last night, there’s a knock on my door, and standing behind it is the guy hired to be my boyfriend for a few months.
Noah Huntington III. I had to Google him. As soon as his picture popped up on my screen, I recognized him from that night I met Damon. Of course, of all the people I met that night, Noah had to be the hottest one there. Only problem with that is he knew it too. His mansion didn’t impress me, but his piercing blue-green eyes that somehow held both arrogance and charm had me wishing Maddox hadn’t left me alone to do God knows what to Damon in the spare bedroom of Noah’s house.
And now I’m going to be stuck with him for months. Great.
His father is the former governor of New York and is now a democratic senator. He’s an old white dude, and his mother is African-American. Toss in a gay son, and they’re the picture-perfect family for a utopian world where it doesn’t matter what race, religion, or orientation you are.
I understand why Damon chose Noah to be my boyfriend, but I worry it’s too gimmicky—too let’s shove our point down people’s throats. It feels fake.
That’s because it is, dumbass.
Those annoyingly hypnotic blue-green eyes stare back at me, and a smirk plays on Noah’s lips. Dark skin and toned muscles, all wrapped up in the confidence of a rich trust-fund kid. I hate to admit it, but it makes me dislike him already because I envy him.
I also can’t call him a kid when he’s three years older than me.
The only time I’ve ever exuded Noah’s type of confidence is on the field. Football has been my escape from everything. It’s been my savior. My focus. Now I’m being forced to show off the side of me I’ve been hiding forever.
Hiding wasn’t by choice; it was a necessity. There have only been a handful of gay players in NFL history, but the ones who have come out publicly have all done so after retirement or got cut during preseason.
“Matt?” Noah brings me out of yet another inner freak out about my career falling apart. He reaches for my shoulder and squeezes. It’s supposed to be a reassuring gesture, but all it does is make me keenly aware that a hot guy is touching me. We won’t be crossing those lines—this is business and nothing else—so I flinch away from him.
His brow furrows. “You okay? You’re not stroking out on me, are you?”
“Sorry.” I step aside to let him in.
When he brushes past me, he meets my eyes and smiles. He has an athletic build like a basketball player—all arms and legs—and is almost my height, but he’s skinny. Then again, it’s probably unfair to compare him to my two-hundred-thirty-pound frame.
Noah wheels his suitcase in behind him.
“I thought we were meeting on the ship,” I say.
“Damon told me to get down here so we can arrive together. OTS either has a leak or maybe the cruise ship company has talkative staff. There’s paparazzi set up at the terminal. We’re supposed to act coy as if we don’t know they’re going to be at the docks.”
“Goddamn it. This is already turning into a shit show.” How much longer will this be a story? “Make yourself at home. I’ll pack.”
“You’re not packed?” Noah asks.
“I planned on going last minute.”
“Good idea. Keep them waiting.”
“Right.” Like I planned this.
All I need to do is shove my toothbrush and shaving kit in my bag, even though I didn’t end up using the razor this morning. I haven’t shaved in weeks. My beard is impressive, and I can’t be bothered getting rid of it.
It takes all of two minutes to pack my stuff, while Noah sits on my hotel bed, tapping away on his phone.
Trading my Bulldogs cap for an old Yankees one, I pull it on and a pair of aviators that cover half my face.
“You think changing your hat will make you more inconspicuous?” Noah asks, phone still in hand.
I hate those things. Never used to. Now when I see them, I’m paranoid someone’s taking a photo of me. And mine? It goes off every two minutes and has for the past several weeks. The off button is my only savior.
“Matt?” Noah asks.
“Are you always this spacey?” “Are you always this nosy?”
Noah throws his hands up in surrender. “No need to bite my head off. But seriously, don’t let Damon see you in that ball cap. He’ll probably drop you as a client.”
“Mets fan?”
“The biggest. Like psycho about it.”
“The other hat I have is my Bulldogs one.”
“Here, we’ll swap.” Noah throws his Mets cap at me.
“Won’t Damon be pissed at you for the Yankees hat?”
Noah grins. “It’ll be a good way to mess with him.”
“Sounds like a healthy friendship.” I slip his hat on and pull it down low.
I double-check I haven’t forgotten anything while Noah waits for me in the hallway.
When we head for the elevators to go down to the garage, I avoid eye contact and don’t bother saying anything either. Like Damon said, this is a business arrangement. Pure and simple. I don’t need to be friends with the guy to make it look like we’re together or whatever.
Personally, I don’t think this charade will work in getting me a contract or fixing my image. I don’t see how it could work. If I do get on another team, having a boyfriend won’t mean shit in the locker room. I’ll still get the stare downs, the slurs, the threats … The world may be more tolerant now, but we’re far from acceptance. Especially in the sporting world where closet doors have only recently started to creak open.
Noah taps away on his phone through the halls of the hotel and in the elevator. The tap, tap, tapping noise has me gritting my teeth. I want to throw his phone at the wall.
“You okay?” Noah asks, his eyes not even on me but on his screen.
“I’m fine.”
“Yeah, seems it.”
“How would you even know? Your eyes are glued to that thing.” I tip my head in the direction of his phone.
Noah shoves it in his pocket. “There. Gone. Now what’s up?”
“You mean apart from the obvious? My career’s in the toilet and my representation thinks I’m so desperate they have to find a boyfriend for me? Yeah, my life’s fucking grand right now.”
He averts his gaze as he mutters, “What did Damon sign me up for?”
Eden Finley is an Amazon bestselling author who writes steamy contemporary romances that are full of snark and light-hearted fluff.
She doesn't take anything too seriously and lives to create an escape from real life for her readers. The ideas always begin with a wackadoodle premise, and she does her best to turn them into romances with heart.
She's also an Australian girl and apologises for her Australianisms that sometimes don't make sense to anyone else.
Trick Play #2
Series
