“No one got hurt, the place was closed.”
He gives me a look.
“Derek, it’s fine, she was eighteen.”
I can literally see the temperature of Derek’s face rising.
“She’s the junior commissioner’s daughter, dip-shit.”
I grin as I take a big pull of my whiskey, thinking about that night and that hot little mouth. “Well she should learn to keep her hands to herself in moving vehicles, Derek.” I shake my head. “I really don’t see how it’s suddenly my fault-”
“I know you’re not really that fucking stupid, Taylor.” Derek’s glasses are back off as he rubs the bridge of his nose again. “Junior. Commissioner’s. Daughter,” he says, annunciating each word.
“Well, what the hell is he doing letting his daughter hang around NFL players then?”
“For fuck’s sake, Austin,” he shakes his head. “You’re not hearing me. Clean your shit up, or you’re going to get shut down faster than you can say minor leagues.”
I snort. “Please, with this arm?”
“People have been blackballed for less.” Derek puts his glasses back on and gives me a stern look. “Don’t fuck with these people, Austin. This isn’t college ball where everyone’s going to hold your hand, and jerk you off, and let you get away with murder. These people hold your paychecks, and your future. You gotta learn to play ball with them. Besides,” he pulls his phone out of his pocket. “As much a nightmare as that one is, we’ve got bigger problems.”
He slides the phone my way, but it only takes one glance down at the tabloid site headline for my face to sour.
“Derek, you know that’s bullshit.”
He glares at me. “Is it?”
I frown as I glare down at the article, at that condescending, knowing grin on the blonde girl’s face.
“I never touched her, Derek, so unless she’s claiming immaculate conception-”
“Austin, she could say the father is an alien, or Elvis fucking Presley, and it wouldn’t matter. People are listening to her, and bullshit or not, that stink is going to rub off on you.”
I swear into my glass.
“Look, we can deal with shit like this, but only if you clean up your fucking act, man. If you’re strutting around like you’re the Mick Jagger of pro football, you’re never going to get away from shit like this.”
I frown as Derek’s serious face finally gets to me, and the weight of what he’s saying finally starts to sink in.
“Fine,” I grumble. “Fine, I yield. Teach me your ways, wise one.”
“Atta boy.”
I sigh as I down the last of my whiskey. “So what the hell do I do?”
Derek’s frown slowly turns into a small smile. “You’re not gonna like it.”
“Try me.”
He grins. He’s enjoying this. “The media team and I came up with something that might - uh, soften your image a little. Make you more family-friendly and more viable to product endorsements.”
I no longer like where this is going.
“Derek-”
He shrugs, that shrug that says he knows I’m going to hate what he’s about to say, but he’s going to say it anyways.
“You need to settle down.”
I groan. “Yeah, dude, we’ve established that I need some image work, so what’s the fucking plan-”
“No, Austin, you need to settle down.”
I frown, not really getting what he’s trying to say. “Derek, what are you-”
“You need to get married, pal.”
I laugh as I turn and raise my empty glass at the bartender for another one. “Yeah, definitely.”
“Research shows it’s amazing for public image, Austin, and the endorsements are going to fall into your lap.”
I slowly turn to him, my face falling. “Jesus Christ, you’re actually serious aren’t you?”
“It doesn’t even have to be real, Austin.”
The bartender slides the whiskey in front of me, but I’m barely aware of it as I stare dumbfounded at my manager.
“What?”
He shrugs. “This happens all the time with big name players. Look it’s just for image, I’m not saying you have to actually get married. But you do need the appearance of it.”
“A fake marriage.” It feels ridiculous to even say it out loud, like I’m some sort of English lord negotiating a land dispute or securing my lineage.
“Yep.”
I swear. “What fucking century is this?”
“The one where you make a shitload of money by listening to me.”
I slug back a hefty swig of the booze, feeling like the walls of the bar are starting to close in a little. “So I fake-marry some gold-digger.”