PLAYING FOR KEEPS: My Fake All American QB BOYFRIEND

Ready to fool them?

This is the most ludicrous thing I've ever done in my entire 27 years of life.

I am standing in the middle of Émile Laurent’s private showroom, staring at the array of limited-edition gowns like they are a defensive line ready to crush me.

The designer himself—a flamboyant man with a sharp eye for style and an even sharper tongue—is slumped lazily over a velvet couch, sipping what looks like a green smoothie but, knowing Laurent, is probably some overpriced detox elixir designed to make mere mortals feel inadequate.

“I always thought choosing women’s clothes was easy,” I mutter under my breath, running a hand through my hair.

I’d rather ditch this for a suited-up practice during summer in the open field.

Across from me, Émile Laurent—fashion’s golden boy and the designer responsible for tonight’s exclusive collection—grins like a devil in silk. He’s already draped in one of his own creations, a sleek black tux with gold embroidery that somehow doesn’t look ridiculous on him.

“You, my friend, are hopeless.” He smirks, tapping a dress hanging on the rack.

“You know your ass could be of more help here than on that couch.” I spit out gesturing to the Dresses that looked all the same.

Giving his drink one last slurp, he walks to me. “Darling, fashion is a battlefield, and tonight, you’re introducing your ‘girlfriend’ to the world. She has to be breathtaking. Impeccable. Statement making. Unforgettable. And since you refuse to be the face of my upcoming line—”

“Not this again—this is the least you can do.” I grunt, eyeing the lineup of limited-edition gowns. None of them have hit the market yet, but Émile, being f*****g Émile, is letting me get first dibs.

Not for free, of course. He’s been nudging me to be the official face of his menswear line for months. I still haven’t given him an answer.

I pick up a deep emerald green dress with a slit that screams elegance and danger. The other is an off-shoulder olive green design dripping in intricate beadwork, subtle but mesmerizing under the showroom lights. Both are sleek, elegant, and probably worth more than what most people make in a month.

“Screw it,” I exhale, shoving both at the cashier. “I’ll take both.”

Émile claps his hands. “Excellent choice! That’ll be sixteen grand.”

I don’t even flinch as I hand over my black AMEX card. It’s not the money that’s bothering me—it’s the fact that I care this much about picking the right dress for a woman I’m supposed to be pretending with.

But then again, I convince myself it's for my image.

I shift impatiently on Sienna’s doorstep, balancing the two sleek designer boxes in one hand and jabbing at the doorbell with the other. The tuxedo feels suffocating, like a noose around my throat. I hate these "suit up" things. The stiffness. The formality. The expectation to behave.

I roll my shoulders, swallowing an unfamiliar unease crawling under my skin. It isn’t the event. It isn’t the press.

So what the hell is it? Why the hell am I nervous?

I press the doorbell again. Then twice. Then five more times because she’s taking too damn long.

Just as I am about to hit it again, the door swings open.

My breath catches.

Sienna stands in the doorway, damp hair clinging to her shoulders, skin glistening with moisture, and nothing but a white towel wrapped around her frame.

For a second, neither of us moves. We just stare. My fingers tighten around the boxes, my brain short-circuiting.

“What the hell, Sienna?” I finally snap, breaking the trance. “Why aren’t you ready?”

She blinks, then lifts an unimpressed brow. “You’re early.”

I scowl, checking my wristwatch. "I was supposed to pick you up at..."

Instead of arguing, she shrugs and turns back inside, leaving the door wide open. I don’t even hesitate before stepping in after her.

I thrust the boxes at her. “Here. They’re yours.”

She eyes them warily. “What is this?”

“Dresses.”

She frowns. “I already have a dress.”

"Well, now you have options."

She steps closer, peering at the sleek boxes. Her eyes flick to me, questioning. “Why?”

I shake my head. “You’re not walking into that gala in just anything that isn’t designer. If I’m introducing my girlfriend to the world, she’s not going to look nothing less than stunning.”

She crosses her arms. “It’s fake.”

I smirk. “No one knows that but us.”

She huffs but takes the boxes. “Fine. But if they’re ugly, I’m not wearing them.”

I roll my eyes. “Just go get dressed.”

Sienna hesitates. I notice it—the momentary flicker of something in her eyes. Maybe gratitude. Maybe something else entirely.

She huffs, swiping the boxes off the couch and disappearing into her room.

A minute later, a sharp gasp echoes from behind the door. Then—“Jaxon!”

I smirk. “Figured you’d see the price tags.”

She yanks the door open, glaring at me. “Sixteen thousand dollars on a dress, Jax? Are you insane?”

“They looked good.”

“They aren’t even released yet!”

“A thank you would suffice.”

She mutters something I’m certain isn’t a thank you before slamming the door again.

I chuckle, my hand resting on the bow tie before loosening it. Preferably, I would have gone with my infamous jeans and tees, but this was a formal event. I didn't want to stand out, let alone fall short of the image I was so hard trying to create.

Fifteen minutes later, I am leaning against the couch, checking the time on my watch, when her bedroom door finally opens.

I look up—

And forget how to breathe.

Sienna stands there in the emerald green dress, the fabric hugging her in all the right places, the off-shoulder cut showing just the right amount of skin. Her dark hair is styled in soft waves, the ends brushing her collarbone. She’s done her makeup subtly—golden shimmer on her lids, mascara darkening her lashes, lips painted a soft, nude pink.

The dress matches her eyes.

And damn, those eyes are dangerous.

I crane my neck to either side. Why the f**k is this tie so tight?

Working my throat, I say, “Not bad.”

She rolls her eyes, but I don’t miss the small smile that tugs at her lips. “Coming from you, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

I hold out my arm. “Shall we?”

She hesitates for half a second before looping her arm through mine. We step outside, heading toward my Rolls Royce Cullinan.

As we settle in, I turn to her with a smirk, starting the engine.

“Ready to fool them?”