Blind Side: A Fake Dating Sports Romance (Red Zone Rivals)

“You’re just going to love him, Clay,” Mom said through the phone, the sound of dishes clattering in the background telling me she was working on dinner.

I was on my way across campus after a grueling day of camp to meet with Giana for our little PR refresher, and I was not in the mood to hear about Mom’s latest boyfriend.

But I didn’t have a choice.

“He’s a real gentleman. And he’s serious about business.” She paused. “And about me, which is refreshing.”

I tried my best to harness a smile even though she couldn’t see me, mostly so it would help me sound like I believed her. “He seems great, Mom.”

“You’ll see. When you come home for Christmas.” There was a pause, and then, “So, tell me about you. How’s football?”

I sighed before answering the question, which I really was grateful for. I knew Mom was in a good place because she asked, because she didn’t spend the whole call wailing about herself and her problems. Not that I minded when she did that, either. I was there for her no matter what.

Still, after so many times repeating the same narrative, I had a hard time believing this man would be any different from the rest.

My poor mother was stuck on a spinning Ferris wheel of heartbreak she couldn’t get off of ever since my dad left when I was eight.

The cycle went like this:

Mom would meet a new guy, usually at Le Basier, the ridiculously overpriced restaurant where she waited tables in Los Angeles. Mom was a looker — I got my sharp green eyes from her, and my naturally tanned olive skin — and she’d always bring home the kind of guys who were enamored by her beauty. She was charming on top of it, which usually meant the men slipped willingly into her web and were content to be consumed by her energy.

The problem was that once the relationship started getting real, once the shine wore off and they realized my mom could be a lot to handle, they left.

And they always left her with even more scars than she had before.

Dad leaving Mom messed her up. It messed both of us up — especially when he quickly moved on to another woman, had two kids with said woman, and built a completely new life that didn’t include us. Add that to her already traumatic dating life before Dad, and you could say Mom had her reasons for acting a little… much at times.

Most men couldn’t take it. They couldn’t sit with her in the hard times, couldn’t hold her hand through the panic attacks or give her words of affirmation when she so desperately needed them. When her jealousy and paranoia swept through her like a hurricane, they didn’t batten down the hatches and ride out the storm alongside her.

They took the fastest escape route out of town, leaving her to manage the damage.

And in their parting words, they made sure to make her feel like the crazy one, the nag, the jealous bitch, the psychotic, untrusting woman. Never mind the fact that they gave her plenty of reasons to feel those emotions.

But in the end, it was always me there picking up the pieces.

And that was when I braced for the other side of my mom.

When she was happy, when things were good, Mom was the brightest light of sunshine. She was enigmatic and fun to be around, motivated and driven, passionate about everything. She’d be invested in my life, in keeping our home clean and put together, and most of all, in her relationship with whoever the guy was.

But when they left?

She was a disaster.

Mom had always been a drinker, ever since I could remember. The difference was that when I was younger, when it was her and dad, that drinking was usually a bottle of wine between them — one that led to them laughing and dancing in the kitchen.

But Mom drinking A.D. — after Dad — looked a little different.

It was entire cases of beer consumed on her own. It was crying and screaming and clinging to the toilet as I held her hair or pressed a cool washcloth to the back of her neck.

And that was another part of the cycle that repeated itself — happy drunk when she was with someone, and a drunken mess when they left her.

Sometimes, in the worst of the breakups, she’d turn to drugs. Sometimes, she’d let depression take her under. Sometimes she’d get so close to being fired that I wondered how she’d stayed with the same place all this time. She’d blow through her savings, get into so much trouble that she needed to ask her only son for money, and then make me feel guilty if I didn’t give it to her.

And I would — every time.

It didn’t matter if I had to clear out my savings, work a summer job, or sell my PlayStation.

I would never turn my back on my mom.

That was a given, something I’d felt strongly ever since she didn’t turn her back on me when my father did. She wasn’t perfect, but she’d always been there, and for that alone I’d give her the last penny in my bank and the shirt off my back, too.

But it didn’t mean it didn’t sting, that I didn’t realize especially as I got older how much her cycle had fucked me up, too.

“Chart Day is just around the corner,” I finished after filling her in on how camp had been going so far. “So, we’ll see.”

“You’ll make the team, baby,” she said without hesitation. “And you’ll start, and before you know it, you’ll be signing a multi-million-dollar NFL deal and buying your mom a big mansion on the beach.”

I smiled, the vision she’d had for me one I’d heard a thousand times. It was born when I was young, from the time we realized I actually had some pretty decent talent in football. I could still remember her sitting me down after a game when I was twelve, still wearing my dirty uniform and cleats. She made me look in the mirror and she stood behind me, her hands on my shoulders and eyes locked on mine in the reflection as she said, “You’re never going to have the struggles I’ve had, Clay. You’re going to be rich.”

“Speaking of football, did I tell you Brandon used to play?” Mom asked, jolting me from the memory. “He was the starting quarterback of his high school team.”

My smile was flat, the sign for the coffee shop coming into view as I rounded the university courtyard where students were spread out on blankets, smoking vapes, laughing, and enjoying the evening.

I wondered what that felt like, to actually have time as a college student instead of having every waking moment consumed by a sport.

“I’m sure we’ll talk all about it at Christmas,” I said. “I gotta run, Mom. Another meeting.”

“At this time of night? They keep you busy, don’t they?” She chuckled. “Well, I love you, baby. Call me later this week to catch up.” She paused. “Are you… have you seen Maliyah?”

Ice thickened in my veins at the sound of her name. “No.”

It was salt in the wound, the reminder that it wasn’t just me hurting from our breakup — but our families, too. We had been together so long, through so much, that I knew my mom viewed Maliyah like a daughter.

They were closer than we were sometimes, bonding over things I knew I’d never be able to because I wasn’t a woman.

“Well,” Mom started, but then she thought better of it, letting a long pause linger before she said. “Just stay focused on football. Everything else will work itself out.”

“Love you, Mom,” I managed.

“Love you. Oh, and—”

Before she could ask anything else, I ended the call, pausing for a brief moment of silence and relief outside the front door of the coffee shop. The evening breeze was warm and pleasant, the last bit of summer clinging to the still-green trees.

I took a deep breath, hating how anything more than a sip of oxygen anymore made my chest burn. It had ever since Maliyah walked away from me, after I’d realized that this was my new reality.

It had already been a long day. The absolute last thing I wanted to do was get an ass chewing for not being Mr. Sunshine on camera.

But if it was ordered by Coach Sanders? I didn’t have the option to bail — not without endangering my starting position.

So, with a final sigh, I pushed through the glass door, a small bell above it chiming my entry.

Rum & Roasters was one of the only bars on campus, likely because it was civil and low key in comparison to the bars off campus. It was never crawling with wasted, underage college students toting their ridiculous fake IDs, but rather comfortably full of upperclassmen who were old enough to drink and preferred to have a quiet evening of conversation or live music rather than grind on the dance floor.

Their loss.

Still, there was something comforting about it as I pushed inside the dark space, the smell of old books and candles and coffee overpowering any alcohol being served. It was a lot more pleasant than the stench of the bars I preferred to frequent, and I had to admit it had a vibe.

Some guy played acoustic guitar on a small stage in the corner, singing softly along with the sound, but he kept the volume low enough that everyone seated at the dark booths and candle-lit tables could have conversation around it.

I stopped at the bar, scanning the tables in search of Giana. Something in my gut churned at the sight of a couple making out in one of the corner booths, but I skimmed past them quickly, eyes darting around until I found the person I was looking for.

Candlelight and shadows battled for territory on Giana’s serene face, her eyes wide and soft, lips turned up into a crescent smile. She had a comically large mug of some sort of foamy coffee drink cupped between her small hands, and she sipped it from time to time as she listened to the music.

And she was really listening.

Her legs were crossed, still swathed in those modestly sexy tights she had on earlier, and her little foot bounced along with the tune. It wasn’t one I recognized, but she quietly mouthed along with the lyrics, her eyes fixed on the musician.

And when he looked up from his guitar and caught her stare, she flushed so fiercely I could see the crimson even in the dim light of the bar. She quickly tore her gaze away, looking down at her coffee and biting back a smile. By the time she glanced back up at the guy on stage, he had moved on, winking at a couple girls seated close to the stage.

Curiosity had me smiling, and I strolled over to her table, not stopping until I was directly between her and the guy with the guitar.

She blinked when I interrupted her view, like she was surprised to see me, like she’d forgotten she’d even invited — no, demanded — me to come. She startled, nearly spilling her coffee as she sat it down on the table, adjusted her glasses, and stood.

“You’re here.”

I cocked a brow. “Wasn’t I supposed to be?”

“Well, yes, but I—” She covered her surprise with a smile, waving her hand before she gestured to the chair opposite her. “Do you want a beer or something?”

The look I gave her was answer enough, and she tipped a finger up to the waitress walking through the crowd.

The waitress wasted no time in asking me for my ID, and fortunately, I had a pretty stellar fake — thanks to Kyle Robbins. That was about all he was good for outside of being too good of a tight end for me to hate him more than the amount you might hate an annoying little brother.

Once I had my IPA in hand, Giana propped her elbows on the table, steepling her fingertips together and facing me.

“Thank you for coming.”

I nodded.

“Look, I don’t want to be a nag, and I certainly don’t want to be here, working after sunset, any more than you do.” She paused to swipe a curl out of her face, and I realized then that she’d loosened the bun it had been tied up in all day, letting the wild gold and brown and blond strands frame her face like a halo. Her cheeks were peppered in freckles, her lips plump as she pursed them. “Can we just agree to go over this quickly, figure out the solution to our problem, and get some much-needed sleep?”

“What problem do we have, exactly?”

“Oh, other than you nearly biting the head off of an ESPN reporter?” She shrugged, pulling her laptop out of her bag and propping it on the table between us. “Not much.”

“She was a nuisance. They all are.”

“You didn’t seem to care last season when they were running all your tape and talking about how you’re the next Ronnie Lott.”

“Yeah, well, a lot has changed since last season.”

“Like your relationship status?”

The words were like a slap to the face, and I actually jerked my head back at them, surprised to hear the quick reply from the girl I’d always seen as a wallflower.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” she amended quickly, and just like that, the softness slipped over her again. Her voice was quieter, hesitant. “I know… well, I can imagine how difficult a breakup is, especially with your high school sweetheart.”

“How do you know so much about it?”

She leveled me with a look. “It’s my job to know. And it’s also my job to make sure you’re okay.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel all warm and fuzzy, Kitten?”

She deflated, sitting back in her chair. “Quick and painless, remember? We can be out of here after you finish that beer if you cooperate.”

I grumbled out an exhale, waving at her laptop and taking a long pull of my IPA while I waited for her to get out whatever she needed to.

“Ms. Banks has invited the reporter you refused to speak with back for Chart Day. She wants to give her an exclusive.” Giana’s eyes flicked to mine then. “I can leave you alone until then, if you promise to take these next couple of weeks to get your mind right and give a proper interview when she returns.”

“Leave me alone… as in?”

“As in, I won’t schedule any other media obligations. No interviews, no podcasts, not even a photo op until Chart Day.” She typed something on her computer. “And I know you don’t need coaching on how to act on camera. You’re one of the easiest for me to rely on when it comes to this.” She paused, fingers hovering over the keys as she glanced back at me, the white light of her screen reflecting on her face. “But I can tell you’re not okay. And I don’t want to add anything to your plate. So… does this sound like a fair deal?”

There was something about how she said it, that I’m not okay, that made my ribs tighten around my lungs.

I managed a nod.

“Good,” she said, but before she could go back to typing, she glanced over my shoulder at where the musician had started playing again.

And right on cue, she blushed.

I narrowed my gaze, watching her tear her eyes away and back to her computer before I slung my arm over the back of my chair and twisted so I could get a good look at this guy.

“This is a special one I wrote for a pretty girl,” he said softly into the microphone, smiling again at a different table of girls seated at his feet. They brightened at his attention, and then he started strumming and singing, his dark brown Chelsea boots tapping away on the bottom rung of the barstool he sat on.

He had dark, shaggy hair, an unkempt stubble on his chin, and dark bags under his eyes. He looked like he was hungover, but maybe it added to the whole tortured artist bit. He also wore a shirt smaller than the one Giana was wearing, if I were to wager, and skinny black jeans with holes ripped over the knees.

The sign above the tip jar next to him said Shawn Stetson Music, along with his Instagram and Venmo handle.

I had to fight not to scoff as I angled back toward Giana, crossing my arms over my chest and sinking back into my chair.

“What’s up with you and the guitar dude?”

Giana had her coffee cup halfway to her lips when I said it, and the mug wavered dangerously in her hands afterward, a little bit spilling out and onto her laptop as she cursed and sat it back down. She quickly wiped where the foamy liquid had splashed her keys, shaking her head with another furious blush on her cheeks.

“What? What are you talking about? There’s nothing up with me and Shawn Stetson.”

A nervous laugh bubbled out of her, one that resulted in a weird snort thing that made my lowered eyebrow bounce up to join the one lifted.

Did she just refer to him by his first and last name?

“Convincing,” was all I murmured in response.

She pursed her lips, sitting up straighter and pulling her shoulders back. “I don’t know what you’re getting at, but let’s turn the conversation back to—”

“You like him.”

She gaped, clamping her mouth shut once she realized it was hanging open. “I certainly do no—”

“You’re crushing on him so bad you can’t even stand to hold eye contact with him across a crowded bar.”

I’d never seen Giana so frazzled, and she hastily snapped her laptop shut and tucked it into her messenger bag. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But I just smiled and leaned over the table, elbows on the cool wood as my chest squeezed with an entirely different kind of emotion than the one that had been occupying the space for weeks now. It was excitement, albeit muted, but that part of me that loved to help others thawed like a frozen tree shaking off the last icicles of the winter.

And underneath that thawing ice was a flutter of hope as fresh as spring, an idea sprouting in my mind like a flower.

Or perhaps a weed.

“I can help you.”

“Help me?”

A curl fell over her left eye before she brushed it away, and when I leaned in even closer, she looked down at my chest, pulling her hands into her lap like she was afraid they’d brush mine if she left them on the table.

“Go out with me.”

Her eyes snapped wide at that, locking on mine before that snort-laugh thing bubbled out of her again.

“Or at least, pretend to go out with me.”

That made her laugh even harder. But when I didn’t laugh with her, she paled, one hand holding onto the edge of the table as the other came to her forehead. “I think I’m going to pass out.”

“Please don’t. It would be an even rougher start to our journey of making Shawn Stetson your boyfriend.”

And of me getting Maliyah back.