The Mascot's Fake Fiancé

Chapter 3

Maya spent the next six hours in a daze.

She'd left Derek's penthouse with her heart pounding and her hands shaking, the death threat still burning a hole in her phone. Part of her wanted to run—to disappear, to delete the blog, to pretend none of this had ever happened.

But the agency was drowning. Her father was counting on her. And Derek Cross, infuriating as he was, had just offered her a lifeline.

So she packed.

Two suitcases. Her laptop. Her cat, a grumpy orange tabby named Mango who protested the entire journey to the penthouse. And a notebook full of rules she'd scribbled in a caffeine-fueled frenzy.

Now, standing in Derek's ridiculously large living room at nine o'clock at night, she felt like she was walking into a trap.

"Nice place," she said flatly, dropping her suitcases by the door. "Very... cold."

Derek emerged from the kitchen, holding a glass of wine. He'd changed into a navy sweater that somehow made him look even more annoyingly attractive. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"It wasn't."

He smiled—that infuriating, knowing smile—and handed her a glass. "You look like you need this."

She took it, mostly because her hands were still shaking. "I need a lot of things. Alcohol is one of them."

"Then drink up. We have a long night ahead."

She narrowed her eyes. "What do you mean?"

"Publicity photos. Contract details. Cover story." He ticked them off on his fingers. "We need to get our story straight before we go public tomorrow."

Maya set down the wine without drinking. "Fine. But first, we need to establish some ground rules."

Derek raised an eyebrow. "Ground rules?"

She pulled out her notebook and flipped to the first page. "Rule number one: No public appearances without my approval. I need to control the narrative."

"Fine."

"Rule number two: No touching outside of what's necessary for appearances. Hand on my back for photos? Fine. Hand on my waist in private? Absolutely not."

Derek smirked. "What if you fall and I catch you?"

"Then let me fall."

"Charming."

"Rule number three." She paused, meeting his eyes. "You call me by my real name. Not Mascot. Not Coach's Daughter. Maya."

Something flickered in his expression—surprise, maybe, or guilt. He nodded slowly. "Done."

She flipped the page. "Rule number four: No asking about my personal life. Who I date, who I see, where I go—that's none of your business."

"Except you won't be dating anyone for the next year," he pointed out. "That's part of the deal."

She scowled. "Fine. But you don't need to know about my friends."

"Fair enough."

"Rule number five: We keep separate sleeping arrangements. I'm not sharing a room with you."

Derek held up his hands. "Guest room is already set up. Down the hall. Lock on the door."

She blinked, caught off guard. "You prepared for this."

"I'm a quarterback. I prepare for everything."

She hated how confident he sounded. "Fine. And finally, rule number six—" She paused, her voice dropping. "You don't fall in love with me. And I don't fall in love with you."

The room went silent.

Derek stared at her, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"That's a pretty specific rule," he said. "Are you worried you're going to fall for me?"

"Absolutely not. I'm worried you're going to get confused."

"Trust me." He stepped closer, his voice dropping. "I know the difference between pretend and real."

She refused to back down. "Good. Then we understand each other."

"Not quite." He pulled out his phone and started typing. "I have a few rules of my own."

She blinked. "What?"

"Turnabout is fair play." He handed her the phone, screen up. "Read them. Out loud."

She glared at him, then read:

"Rule number one: You show up on time."

"Basic," she muttered. "Fine."

"Rule number two: You laugh at my stupid jokes in public. It makes me look charming."

"That's going to be hard."

"And yet, I have faith." He was smirking again. "Rule number three: You don't fall in love with me."

She looked up, startled. "I already said that."

"I know." His voice was softer now. "But I want to make sure you mean it. Because I've seen what happens when people get attached. It's messy. Complicated. And I don't do complicated."

Something in his tone made her pause. There was pain there, buried deep beneath the arrogance. She wondered what had happened to him—what had made him so careful, so closed off.

She wondered if she was making a mistake.

"Fine," she said, handing back his phone. "We're on the same page. We both keep our distance. We both remember this is just business."

"Exactly." He pocketed the phone. "Now, about your other job."

She froze. "What other job?"

"The blog." He said it casually, like he was asking about the weather. "I know you're the Sideline Scribe."

Her blood ran cold. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Maya." He sighed. "I've known for months. The writing style. The insider details. You're the only one who knows the agency that well." He paused. "I've been reading your posts. All of them."

She couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe.

"And I'm not angry," he continued. "I'm actually impressed. You're a good writer. Brutal, but good."

"Why didn't you say anything?" she whispered.

"Because I wanted to see how long it would take you to tell me yourself." He met her eyes. "And now, I want to know: is that why you really said yes? To destroy me from the inside?"

"No." The word came out before she could stop it. "I said yes because my father's agency is dying. Because I have nothing left to lose." She took a breath. "But I won't write about you. I'll stop. I'll delete the whole thing."

Derek was quiet for a long moment.

"Don't delete it," he said finally. "Keep writing. But write the truth—not the tabloid version. Write about what you actually see."

She stared at him. "You want me to keep exposing you?"

"I want you to show people who I really am. Not the playboy. Not the washed-up quarterback. Me." He stepped closer. "And maybe, while you're at it, you'll learn to see me differently too."

She opened her mouth to respond, but no words came.

"Deal?" he asked softly.

She should have said no. She should have walked away.

Instead, she heard herself say: "Deal."

Mango, sensing the tension, leaped onto the couch and started kneading the expensive leather.

Derek laughed—a real laugh, warm and genuine—and Maya felt something in her chest loosen.

Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all.

Or maybe she was just lying to herself.