Writing the Rules: A Fake Dating Standalone

by Mariah Dietz

  He shrugs. “A charger, a coat…” He shrugs. “Just stuff that she’d left.”

  “And you decided that was a good time to tell her we were fake dating?”

  “No. I didn’t. I mean … I told her that was how it started but how it’s more than that now.”

  “You basically armed her with everything she needs to make me look like the biggest idiot on campus.”

  “It’s not like that, Poppy.”

  “Like what? Like you throwing me under the bus? Or is it not like you breaking the first rule? Or is it more like this isn’t real to you?”

  “Of course, it’s real.”

  “Then why are you going to see her tomorrow?”

  He shakes his head as he gets closer, his eyes intent, working on reading my emotions and the flat tone of my voice, no doubt. “I’m going to that team builder in the morning. The community outreach event that we’re doing alongside the Seahawks.”

  “So you’re not going to see her?”

  “She’ll be there, but I’m not going for the purpose of seeing her. Candace’s uncle arranged the opportunity for us.”

  “A favor,” I say the word like a revelation. She planned this for him, a gift of sorts.

  Pax pulls in a breath through his nose and slowly releases it through his mouth. “It’s not to spend time with her. It’s to help families in need, and it’s a great chance for me to meet and talk to their coaches and players and prove to them that I’m more than the rumors they’ve likely been hearing about me. Besides, Candace isn’t my enemy. If she’s doing something or saying shit to you, I want to know and make it stop, but I don’t want what my parents have. I’d like to be her friend.”

  Candace’s words replay in my head. “She doesn’t want to be your friend.” My words sound like an accusation.

  “She’s not a villain.”

  “She’s certainly not a saint.”

  Pax stares at me, his eyes dark and narrowed. “Why are we fighting about this?”

  “She wants you.”

  He shakes his head. “She’s seeing someone, and she’s happy.”

  “Are you calling me a liar?”

  “No. Of course not.” He drops his head back, looking exhausted by our exchange. “I just think that maybe you misinterpreted what she said.”

  “Yeah. Because it’s really hard to confuse ‘nice to see you’ with ‘you’re going down, bitch.’”

  His brow inches high on his forehead as a smirk hits his lips. “She didn’t say that.”

  Annoyance claws at my patience and what’s left of my dignity. “It’s what she meant.”

  “Who cares what she meant or what she thinks.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you saw her or that you’re going to see her tomorrow?”

  “It didn’t mean anything, and I didn’t want it to cause an issue between us.”

  “It meant something to her, she was sure to tell me that today.”

  Pax shakes his head. “She shouldn’t have talked to you.”

  “You should go.”

  “Poppy, stop. I don’t want to leave with things hanging like this between us. This isn’t us. Remember, we talk through stuff and discuss what’s bothering us.”

  “That was when we had the rules, but you broke them.”

  “No, it was when we realized that most relationships are based on a bunch of bullshit, and we didn’t want to follow that even if it was a ruse.”

  “Have you been talking to her this entire time?” The question is out before my thoughts have time to censor any potential allegation.

  He hesitates. “Not often, no.”

  His admission is a gut punch that has me taking two steps back.

  “It’s not like that,” he says.

  “What’s it like?”

  “We’re friends. We have a history.”

  “How much have you been talking?”

  “Are you asking if I’ve been sleeping with her behind your back?”

  “So, now you can read through the lines?” I ask, my tone verging on bitchy. I don’t care to soften or clarify my message, though, because I’m currently reeling.

  Paxton stops his blue gaze on me, revealing a fissure of pain as he looks at me like he doesn’t recognize who’s talking to him. “Now you’re being patronizing?”

  I’m not trying to be. I’m not this kind of a person, but my defenses feel like an electric fence, ready to keep everything at bay, especially my own feelings. “Secrecy doesn’t build trust.”

  “It wasn’t secrecy.” He places both hands on his head. “Dammit. I can’t have this conversation right now. I need to get to practice. I’m supposed to be meeting with Coach so we can discuss tape because the conference championship game is this weekend, and we have a lot of shit we need to go over.”

  I’ve often admired Paxton for his drive and dedication that has led him to be one of the most popular picks in college football, but right now, it feels like a prophecy. It feels like I will always take second place. It feels like Mike accepting Arkansas without so much as a conversation or suggesting that I apply there as well.

  “I have to go, too,” I say, though it’s a lie, and I feel childish for saying it. He doesn’t try to close the gap between us, and I don’t either.

  “I’ll see you tonight?” We confirmed plans for the bonfire last night, which makes me question if he’s asking again because he doesn’t want me to come.

  “I don’t know,” I tell him honestly. “I need to get some things done, and I don’t think I’m in the mood to go out tonight.”

  “It’s to celebrate the last game.”

  I nod. “It sounds like Candace is excited to go with you.”

  “Poppy.”

  “I don’t know what you want me to say,” I tell him. “I’ve respected the way you’ve remained amicable with Candace. I liked that you didn’t throw her under the bus or talk trash about her even after everything ended between you guys, and I feel like I’ve done a pretty damn good job of remaining neutral here. But I’m telling you she’s meddling and I’m not here to play games. Why don’t you think about what you really want because the fact you can’t even defend me when she’s not here speaks volumes to me.”

  He stares at me, jaw flexed, eyes sharp and intense, and then turns and leaves.

  30

  Paxton

  “Dammit,” I yell. “Kostas, you need to be there.”

  “Easy,” Lincoln says, patting my shoulder. “We’re three days away from the conference championship game. Nobody wants to get injured.”

  “We’re going to lose the fucking championship game if we can’t take this seriously.”

  Arlo cuts his gaze to me, hearing my words. His helmet shades his expression, but I can feel his glare.

  Coach Harris claps his hands from the sidelines. “Kostas, you’re going to catch that pass on Saturday, right, son?”

  Arlo looks toward him. “Yes, sir.”

  Anger is still coating my tongue, and I want to point out my concerns when he had a weak defense on him, and he still moved like his feet were buried in the damn sand.

  Coach nods. “Let’s head inside and finish with a couple of notes.”

  Our practices have changed this week. Rather than doing the morning outside and the afternoon in a classroom setting, we’ve been splitting and doing half of the morning on the field and half of the afternoon on the field. Aside from light conditioning, we’re preserving our energy and strength for this weekend which will ultimately decide if we play in the national championship game.

  Lincoln tries to catch pace with me, but I weave my way through the offensive line and into the locker room before he can. The last thing I need is more advice.

  I listen without hearing anything, my feelings in turmoil over how I left things with Poppy. We’ve barely had a disagreement, and all my fights with Candace always seemed like seconds away from bloodshed—usually on her part. We fought and argued and hung up on each other and made hurtful a
ccusations until one of us waved the white flag and called it quits. Thoughts of Poppy doing the same seem inevitable and foreign at the same time. I saw the same expressions—the doubt and question that had her eyes narrowed and anger that caused her clenched jaw—similar reactions.

  When practice is dismissed, I’m the first out of my seat. I set my gear on the bench and tear my bag out of my locker, shoving things inside, and shoving things in my locker, and shoving my thoughts to the back of my mind.

  A low whistle tickles my ears and has all of my muscles tightening. “Troubles in paradise?” Hoyt asks.

  Luis sets his hands-on Hoyt’s shoulders and steers him away. “That was his concussion he got last fall, talking,” Luis says.

  Arlo stops beside me, Ian next to him. Arlo doesn’t look at me or say a word, digging into his locker with the same level of aggression that’s burning through me right now. Seeing it, on the other hand, creates an opposing sense of guilt. Arlo is without a doubt our best running back, and more than that, he’s one of my closest friends and my roommate. I talked to him like a dick, and he deserves to be angry with me—he deserves an apology—an apology I’m not currently capable of delivering.

  Ian stares at me long enough that I turn to acknowledge him with a silent glare. I’m not in the mood or mindset currently for anything but to get out of here. “Ready to go celebrate?” he asks.

  “I don’t think I’m going.”

  This gains Lincoln’s attention, his gaze hard and critical as he looks at me, accusations clear without a single word.

  “The entire team is going,” Ian says, his voice quiet and far too reasonable. “It’s an important optic for the team.”

  I hate that he’s right even more than the fact he’s encouraging me to go.

  “I’m ready to get on that plane tomorrow and hit Vegas,” DeSantos, one of our defensive linebackers, says as he takes a seat on the bench. Everyone’s mood is calm with an edge of excitement. It’s not the same feeling as Christmas Eve, not yet, but it’s the loading of the family car before the big trip. Anticipation is feeding everyone a natural high, like our victory this weekend is an inevitable outcome. I on the other hand, am trying not to think about the game because then I realize the chances of us pulling this off in back to back years are slim, breaking that thin veil of invincibility that I’ve been clinging to this year.

  “You know you’re not actually going to hang out on the strip, right?” Cooke asks.

  “After we win, I will,” DeSantos says, oozing the same level of confidence that many of the guys are as he reclines from his seat on the bench. I am so damn jealous of where he’s at mentally that a familiar itch and anxiousness twists in my stomach, telling me that a single drink would silence all these thoughts and simplify shit—Poppy, Candace, the game, my future.

  “After we win, we’ll be heading home and studying tape until you’re inside of our opponent’s heads,” Ian says. “Every win leads to a more important game.” He pushes DeSantos’s foot with his, sliding it back so that it’s closer to the bench and widening the path to the lockers.

  DeSantos sits straighter, and for a second, I think he’s going to say something to challenge Ian, but instead, his cheeks balloon, and he blows out a long breath. “We’ve got this. We kicked ass last week. This is the best our team has ever played together.”

  Ian nods. “Because we’re focused. We’re playing smart—we’re acting smart.” His gaze travels to me, a silent reminder of the promise I made to him and the others.

  When I grab my bag to leave, Lincoln does as well. I shake my head. “I don’t need a chaperone,” I tell him.

  “What the fuck are you about to do?” he asks me.

  “Have you always been this paranoid?”

  Lincoln keeps pace with me. “What happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Bullshit,” he says the word like a door being slammed, silencing the rest of my excuses.

  I breathe out a sigh. It’s useless. He’ll learn from Rae in a matter of minutes, or I can tell him now. “Poppy’s pissed at me.”

  “What’d you do?”

  I scowl at him. “I need to talk to Candace and make sure she’s not making waves, and find out why in the hell she told Poppy I was going to hang out with her tomorrow.”

  Lincoln stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. “You didn’t tell Poppy?”

  “Candace isn’t a part of the equation for me. Tomorrow is about getting to meet the team I want to play for, my chance to show them the rumors from earlier this year don’t define me. It has nothing to do with seeing Candace.”

  “So tell Poppy that. And for fuck’s sake, be sure you tell Candace that. I told you she would go after Poppy. I warned you.”

  I growl out my frustration. “I’m trying to. That’s why I said I wasn’t going to the party. Poppy’s not going, and I need to go talk to her. We left shit in a bad place.”

  “She’ll be there,” Lincoln says.

  I shake my head. “She was pissed.”

  “Because you’re seeing Candace tomorrow? That doesn’t sound like Poppy...”

  “Because Candace told Poppy she was at the house this morning and made it sound like way more than it was.”

  Lincoln’s brows jump. “Why the fuck did you let her come over?”

  “I didn’t. She randomly showed up, saying she needed to get some shit she’d left. What was I supposed to do? Slam the door in her face?”

  “Yes.” He’s exasperated, exhausted by the conversation. “Why in the fuck are you wasting your energy and time and potentially your relationship on fucking Candace?”

  “She was there for thirty minutes. She got her shit, and then…” I look both ways to make sure no one’s around. “She saw the rules Poppy and I made, the ones for when it was fake.”

  “Oh shit.” Lincoln winces.

  “I told her it was a joke, and that it was real. That I’m with Poppy a hundred-and-ten percent. And then we started talking about how it was the anniversary of her dad passing away.”

  Lincoln shakes his head. “That’s not your role. Not anymore. She wants to talk, great, she has two roommates and fucking Paulson to talk to.”

  “Why do I have to hate her now? Why can’t we just be friends? It would be so much simpler if my parents would fucking talk and at least be able to be in a room together. Think about it—wouldn’t you rather spend the holidays with both sets of your parents?”

  “Sure, but our parents have kids, which is their motivation to remain friends—you and Candace don’t. You don’t have to be enemies, but having her over to the house and hanging out with her?” He shakes his head. “That’s asking for Poppy to be pissed off.”

  “I told her about Poppy,” I argue. “I told her that it’s real.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Do you think Rae would be cool with me hanging out with a chick while she wasn’t around? Much less a chick I dated? Hell, fucking no.”

  I groan. “I fucked up. I get that, but there was no malicious intent. No lines were crossed. I told her I’m with Poppy and happy.”

  “Why do you want to remain friends with Candace?” he asks, point-blank.

  I shake my head. “I don’t know. I just feel…” I let out a sigh and shake my head again. “I don’t know, obligated or something, which is stupid because if it’s going to drive a wedge between Poppy and me, then fuck it. I’m not going to risk my relationship to hold onto a friendship with Candace.”

  “You need to flush her out of your life. Cut all ties. Get rid of her shit, delete her number, and make it perfectly clear that you’re done because otherwise this is going to be your new carousel, and I have little faith that Poppy is going to hang on to this ride.”

  Poppy

  Smiling faces surround me, making me feel more isolated than I did alone at the apartment. I didn't know how to tell Rae about the fight when she got home, so instead, I pasted a smile on my face and followed along with the plans we’d made to come out tonigh
t.

  “Why are you frowning?” Sophie asks, appearing out of nowhere with her hands on her hips, or maybe she was here the entire time, and I just missed it because I’ve zoned out. I haven’t seen her since the Halloween party when her words sparked something that made me look at Pax a little closer than I’d previously allowed myself. “I’ve heard the rumors. You’re dating Paxton freaking Lawson.” Her eyes light up. “There’s literally nothing that should make you frown because whether it’s a failed class, a flat tire, or an eviction notice, your consolation prize is still Paxton.”

  I grin. “How are you doing?”

  She hugs me close. “I’m well. How are you?”

  I nod. “I’m okay. It’s just been a long week.”

  “I hear you. I’m already ready for summer.” We both laugh at this since it’s the beginning of December.

  “Are you going to Vegas this weekend to watch the game?”

  I nod, though I’m second-guessing the decision. “We’re not leaving until Friday night, though.”

  “I’m jealous. I considered buying a ticket because football plus Vegas sounds like the excuse I need to have fun, but then my professor made my decision for me by assigning a colossal project.” She expels a wistful sigh. “I look forward to hearing about your wedding in a Vegas chapel.”

  I scoff. “Negative.”

  She grins, but before she can respond, my phone rings, and my mom’s picture appears on the screen.

  “I have to get this really fast,” I tell her, taking a few steps back away from the crowds as I answer.

  “Oh, thank goodness,” Mom says. “I need your help.”

  “What’s going on?”