Mother Faker

Across the table, my father scowls at one article after another as they pop up on his phone.

“You screamed, ‘I hate kids’?”

Pressing my tongue to the roof of my mouth, I pull in a breath and force myself to remain cool. “I said I don’t hate kids; he said I hate kids.”

“The seven-year-old you then tackled to the ground?” he snaps.

“He kicked me⁠—”

“So you tackled him?” My father glares at me over his phone screen. “What the hell? He’s a child, Beckett!”

“Dad, I⁠—”

He doesn’t let me get a word in, though. With a shake of his head, he stands, slips his phone into his pocket, and points at me. “Fix this. The grumbles about your dislike of children were bad enough. Now we’ve got season ticket holders boycotting and sponsors threatening to pull their accounts.”

Disappointment radiates off him as he glowers down at me. I don’t dare argue that it’s all fucking bullshit. That I never said a word about disliking kids. That I didn’t tackle the seven-year-old brat. I actually do like kids… when they aren’t assholes, at least. And for the record, I’m pretty sure that one was.

Sighing, I accept my father’s anger. “I’ll fix it.” Even at forty-two, I hate disappointing the man. What I hate more, though, is that he still has so much control over my life. Every time I turn around, he’s dangling the baseball team over my head like a damn carrot I’ll never actually get to eat.

Baseball has been my life for as long as I can remember. As the firstborn, I had my pick of sports since our family dabbles in almost all of them, but my mother swears I came out of her womb swinging a bat.

“Call that matchmaker, Grace Kensington. She’s the one your brother used, isn’t she? Have her set you up with a couple of single mothers. Show the media that you don’t mind them. Maybe get engaged to one and really prove them wrong.”

Stomach dropping, I gape at my father. “Get engaged?” He must be joking.

Of course my father doesn’t actually want me to go and live out a damn happily ever after. His only concern is our family image. Fuck.

“Boston Children’s Hospital has already called. They’re threatening to cancel our partnership. If we’re not careful, the Hansons will pull their whiskey from the stadiums and cancel their advertising. That’s millions of dollars, Beckett. If you have to date a fucking mother to fix this, you’ll do it.”

“Fine,” I grumble.

“Call Grace Kensington. She’ll help you fix this. And get Liv on it. She’ll know what to do.”

Rubbing my head to ease the headache this entire situation has created, I resign myself to his ridiculous plan.

Hours later, I groan as I study my hand. “Fold.” I slam my cards onto the poker table.

My brother Gavin smirks and tosses in four black chips. Our younger brother, Brooks, inspects his cards for another minute before he matches Gavin’s bet. Aiden, the youngest of us boys, throws his cards down too, and after one more round, Gavin is scooping up his winnings with a big smile on his face.

“The only one who ever stands a chance is Sienna.” Gavin grins, referring to our sister. “Although Beckett normally gives me a run for my money.”

Hiding the scowl that wants to creep onto my face, I bring my whiskey to my lips. After a long sip and a deep breath, I pick up a cigar.

When Aiden reaches for one, Gavin growls, “My star center is not going to fucking smoke during the season.”

Brooks chuckles in the way only a goalie can. He’s double the size of the rest of us. I’m not actually sure where his size comes from. Hours in the gym? Protein shakes? Figure skating? Who the fuck knows.

I slice the head off the cigar and stick it in my mouth. Then I grab the lighter and finally relax as my finger coasts against the switch.

“Those things will kill you,” Gavin grumbles as I suck in a breath.

Blatantly ignoring him, I tip my head back and blow out the smoke.

“You’re in an even worse mood than normal.” Gavin’s goading me. He knows precisely why I’m in a fucking mood. “Your dick still sore?” he teases.

Across the table, Brooks snickers and Aiden chokes on his drink. “I thought the kid kicked you in the shin.”

I grit my teeth and glare at Gavin. “He did.”

“Then what’s wrong with your dick?”

Gavin smirks. “Liv headbutted him there.”

“Olivia Maxwell,” Aiden croons. “She is one hot mom.”

Annoyance bubbling up inside me, I glower at him. Fuck, if my brothers are good at one thing, it’s pushing buttons.

“Liv really headbutted you in the dick?” Brooks asks, his eyes dancing with amusement.

“That’s not why his dick hurts, though,” Gavin continues. “His problem is that Liv finally got close to his dick, and now he has blue balls.”

I grind my molars and shoot figurative daggers at my asshole brother. “Don’t you have anything better to do with your life than worry about my dick?”

Gavin unleashes his signature easy smile. It’s annoying as hell. He’s a happy guy, always has been. Me? Not so much.

“Someone’s gotta worry about it. Little guy isn’t getting the action he wants.”

Brooks smacks the poker table, sending the cards and chips flying as he chortles. Fucking chortles.

Aiden laughs so hard he snorts.

Pushing my chair back with a screech that’s barely audible over the ruckus my brothers are making, I stand. “Well, this has been fun.”

Gavin reaches for me, gasping for breath between fits of laughter. “No, don’t go—I’m sorry.” He cups a hand over his mouth like he’s trying to rein himself in. It doesn’t help. “I won’t refer to your dick as ‘little guy’ again.”

“You think I give a fuck what you say?” I run my hand through my hair, then slump back in my chair, my gut churning with not only anger at the circle of idiots around the table, but with genuine fear. “I’m stressed,” I grit out. “Dad is threatening to take the team from me if I don’t fix this PR disaster.”

Gavin tosses his hands up like it’s no big deal. “Liv will fix it.”

“I don’t think she can this time. He wants me to talk to the woman who set up those dates for you.”

“Grace James?”

“Ah, I forgot she married Cash,” I mutter.

Cash James owns a whiskey company, and his sister married our best friend, Jay Hanson.

Shaking his head, Gavin waves a hand. “Grace is great at what she does, sure. But what does dating have to do with the ‘Beckett Langfield hates kids’ shit?”

“He doesn’t want me to just date.” My chest tightens at the thought, and I hang my head. “He wants me to date a woman with kids. Show the world how much I like them. He wants me to get fucking married.”

Brooks bellows this time, and Aiden giggles like a fucking schoolgirl. Gavin is oddly silent as he studies me. It makes me nervous. He’s never quiet; I’m the quiet one—the moody one, the one people have to wait on to make a comment.

“Well, say something,” I demand.

Gavin lets out a low chuckle as he rubs his thumb across his whiskey glass. “I think Dad just might be onto something.”

My chest constricts, making it hard to breathe. “Not you too. I don’t hate kids. I don’t need to change my image. This will all blow over soon.”

Humming, Gavin drops his elbows to the table. “Suit yourself. I just figured if you could find a way to help Liv out and also wind up dating her, you’d be game.”

My heart lurches at his suggestion. “Liv’s married.”

“Liv’s recently divorced,” he replies evenly, his fingers steepled in front of him.

“She’s what?” My jaw falls slack, and I gape like a goddamn fish.

How come he knows that? And why?

“I never liked that guy,” Brooks grumbles.

“How do you even know her husband?” I cock one brow and huff.

All three of my brothers stare me down in response.

“Ex-husband. She’s been working for us for over ten years, Beck,” Gavin replies.

Waving a hand between Aiden and Brooks, I retort, “These two don’t even work in the office.”

Brooks arches an unimpressed brow. “For now. But you keep fucking up, and Dad’ll hand me your job when I’m ready to retire.”

I roll my eyes even as my gut twists. He’s not entirely off. If I don’t fix this PR nightmare, my father won’t hesitate to hand the baseball team over to one of my brothers. The boys can only play hockey for so long. Eventually they’ll be ready for desk jobs too.

Aiden holds up his arms. “Don’t look at me. I don’t want your job. They’ll be burying me in my skates.”

Gavin holds out a fist for a bump, and Brooks laughs. It’s always been like this. We all grew up wearing skates, but baseball was my first love. Though it made me the odd man out with my brothers, it meant one-on-one time with my father, who loves the game as much as I do. So I’ve always assumed the team would be mine someday. If only he’d let go of the reins. Though with my string of screw-ups lately, that’s looking less and less likely.

“Liv’s really divorced?” I’m still dumbstruck over this information. The woman spends nearly 70 percent of her time in the office next to mine. We share meals and we travel together. We make one hell of a team when it comes to recruiting players, yet I had no fucking idea her marriage had fallen apart.

Gavin nods. “Yeah, and the ex isn’t making it easy. He fought her on the house and won. Last time I spoke with Liv, she was worried about child support and custody. I bet she’d agree to fake date you if you’d connect her with a good family law attorney and help her piss off her ex.” He cocks a brow in challenge.

I don’t give it a moment’s thought. Snuffing my cigar out, I stand and shoot each of my brothers a pointed glare. “I’ll get her the best damn attorney money can buy. Her ex-husband will wish he never met her.”

Brooks smiles. “That mean you’re going to ask her to be your fake girlfriend?”

I don’t even hesitate. “No.”