The Mascot's Fake Fiancé

Chapter 2

Maya arrived at Derek Cross's penthouse at exactly seven fifty-eight. She'd spent the entire night awake, oscillating between anxiety and anger, rehearsing a dozen different pitches. None of them had prepared her for this.

The building was absurd—all glass and steel, with a doorman who looked like a bouncer and an elevator that required a fingerprint. She'd felt like a fraud the moment she stepped through the revolving doors.

Now, standing outside his door, she felt none of that preparation mattered.

He knew her.

What kind of twisted game was he playing?

She pressed the buzzer. The door swung open almost immediately, revealing a man who looked like he'd stepped straight off a magazine cover. Derek Cross in person was somehow more infuriating than Derek Cross on television—taller, broader, with the kind of confidence that came from a lifetime of being told he was special.

He was wearing a simple gray t-shirt and joggers, his dark hair still slightly damp. No pretension. No designer suit. Just... him.

And he was smiling.

That same smug, infuriating smile that had haunted her high school years.

"Maya Chen," he said, stepping back to let her in. "I was starting to think you'd chicken out."

She stepped inside, determined not to let him see her sweat. "You called me here. That's not the same as me chasing you."

He laughed—a warm, genuine sound that caught her off guard. "Fair enough. Come in. Coffee?"

He offers me coffee like we're old friends.

"I'm fine," she said, her voice tight.

He raised an eyebrow. "Still holding grudges, I see."

The penthouse was ridiculous—floor-to-ceiling windows, marble counters, a view that probably cost more than her childhood home. The Manhattan skyline stretched before her, glittering in the morning light. But what struck her most was the living room: no framed photos, no personal touches, no evidence anyone actually lived here.

Cold. Sterile. Lonely.

Derek gestured for her to sit. She perched on the edge of the white leather couch, clutching her portfolio like a shield.

"So," he said, settling into the armchair across from her, "your father. How is he?"

Maya blinked. "What?"

"Your dad. Coach Chen. He was a good guy. Never treated me like a star. Just... coached. Made me run extra laps when I got cocky."

She stared at him, searching for mockery. But his expression was calm. Earnest, even.

"He's doing better," she said carefully. "Recovering. Slowly."

"Glad to hear it." Derek leaned forward. "Look, I'll be honest. Your agency isn't my first choice. But I need someone who's not afraid to tell me the truth, and your dad was the only coach who ever did that. So I figure you might have inherited some of that."

"I'm not my father."

"No," he agreed, a ghost of that smile returning. "You're much more defensive."

She bristled. "You're the one who bullied me. You don't get to call me defensive."

Derek's smile vanished. For the first time, she saw something flicker in his eyes—something that looked almost like guilt.

"I was an i***t," he said flatly. "I know that. But I'm not that guy anymore."

She opened her mouth to argue, but he held up a hand.

"Let me explain why I asked you here. My reputation is in the toilet. Every tabloid is calling me a washed-up playboy. My sponsors are nervous. My teammates are angry. I need a new image." He paused. "I need to be seen as a family man. Stable. Grounded."

Maya's heart started pounding.

"And you think I can help with that?"

"I think you can be my fiancée," he said bluntly.

She choked. "Excuse me?"

"One year. You pretend to be my fiancée. You move into the penthouse—separate rooms, obviously—and you play the part. I get the contract, your agency gets the lifeline. We both win."

The room was spinning.

"You're insane," she breathed.

"Probably." He shrugged. "But you need a client, and I need a miracle. We can help each other."

Maya stood abruptly. "I came here to pitch you, not to—this is crazy."

Derek stood too. "Think about it, Maya. Your father's agency is drowning. I've done my research. You have nothing left to lose."

She hated that he was right.

He stepped closer—close enough that she could smell his cologne, warm and expensive. Her resolve wavered.

"I know what you're thinking," he said quietly. "That this is some elaborate prank. And maybe you're right to think that. But I'm not that kid anymore."

"Then why me?" The question escaped before she could stop it. "There are a thousand women who'd kill to be your fake fiancée. Why the coach's daughter? Why the girl you made fun of?"

Derek was quiet for a moment.

"Because you were the only one who didn't want anything from me," he said finally. "You saw me as a bully, not a star. And you didn't let me get away with it." He met her eyes. "You still don't. That's rare."

She opened her mouth, but no words came.

"One year," he repeated. "You pretend to be my fiancée. I pretend to be a decent guy. We both win."

She stared at his outstretched hand.

And then she heard her father's voice in her head, from the hospital bed: "Keep the agency alive, Maya. It's all I've got left."

She took a breath.

"One year. But you have to do everything I say."

Derek's smile returned—slower this time, almost wary.

"Deal."

She shook his hand and immediately regretted it. The moment their palms touched, something crackled in the air between them.

"Now," he said, releasing her hand, "you need to move in. Tonight."

Her eyes widened. "Tonight?"

"The engagement will be announced tomorrow morning. Photos of you arriving with luggage will sell the story."

"You planned all of this."

"I was confident." He shrugged. "Call it quarterback's intuition."

Her phone buzzed. She glanced down. Unknown number. She answered.

"Maya! It's Tasha. Someone on the blog just posted a death threat. To you. I'm forwarding it now."

Her blood ran cold. She checked her email:

"Sideline Scribe, keep writing about Derek Cross and you'll regret it. I know who you are. Watch your back."

Her hands were shaking.

"Maya?" Derek's voice cut through her panic. "What's wrong?"

She looked up at him—the man whose reputation she'd been destroying, whose fans were apparently so loyal they'd resort to threats—and realized the irony was almost too much to bear.

"Nothing," she said hollowly. "I'll be ready at eight."

She walked out without another word, the threat burning in her pocket, wondering if she'd just made the most dangerous deal of her life—or if she was already in danger, and Derek Cross was somehow both the cause and the only person who could protect her.