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“Maybe I should hire you as our sports psychologist. I believe every word you just said.”
“Good.” I poke his chest, and his muscles flex under my touch. “It’s the truth.”
“I brought you something.” He reaches into his pocket and jostles my shoulders. He pulls out a magnet, and I grin. “It’s a California burrito.”
“What is a California burrito?” I ask. I take the gift from him and run my fingers over the grooved edges. “It looks massive.”
“It has fries in it instead of beans and rice,” Shawn says. “It’s a San Diego staple, and a total artery clogger. L.A. has them too, but they’re not nearly as good.”
“Fuck my health. I want one now.”
“We’ll go and get one. I know a place in the city that does a decent replica. I’ll take you.”
“I’d like that,” I whisper.
We settle into quiet. A symphony of violins and cellos works its way through the living room, and I don’t dare speak again. Not when Shawn’s breathing levels out and his hold on me loosens ever so slightly. I think he fell asleep, exhausted from the day and six hours of travel, until he sighs in my ear.
“Thank you,” he whispers. “Thank you for being my friend. Thank you for… for being a safe place for me. Thank you for letting me be here. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”
It’s vulnerable and earnest, such a juxtaposition from the coach who threw a headset at the wall after the game and nearly told a reporter to fuck off.Thisis who the real Shawn Holmes is—a man with the kindest soul and the gentlest heart.
He pulls me close—closer to him, so we’re almost fused as one. I smile and close my eyes.
Our relationship might be fake, but I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else either.
Here with him is magic.
NINETEEN
SHAWN
“What are you doing tonight?”I ask Lacey. I prop my phone between my shoulder and ear and uncap a dry erase marker with my teeth. “Are you busy?”
“No plans,” she says. I hear a sink turn on, and the rip of a paper towel. She must be in her office. “Why? Did you have something in mind?”
“I rented out an ice rink so the team can decompress after the loss the other day. They’re all bringing their families, too. Maggie, Aiden and Maven are coming. I wanted to invite you.”
“You rented out arink?” she asks. “How rich are you?”
“I didn’t just rent out the rink. I rented out a whole farm.” I chuckle. “But to answer your question, I’m rich.”
“Like, how many millions?”
“Turning into a gold digger, Daniels?”
“No,” she huffs, and I swear she’s rolling her eyes. “It’s something your fake girlfriend would know, right?”
“You’ve never looked up how much I make?” I ask, genuinely curious.
All the information about my contracts—both when I was a player and now as a coach—are online and out in the world for anyone to find. I always assume more people know my net worth than my middle name; it’s a common occurrence for athletes to talk in contract numbers rather than personal information.
“No. Why would I?” she says. “If you wanted to tell me, you would. I don’t really care how much you make, but since you’re out here renting out entire farms, I think I underestimated you. Are we talking about Louis Vuitton or Kate Spade level of money?”
“Sweetheart, I could buy you all the Louis Vuitton you want and have plenty of money left over.”
“Oh, Christ,” she mumbles, and she blows out a breath. “Is it uncomfortable for you to tell me?”
“Not at all. Does it make you uncomfortable to hear it?”
