I shake my head, stepping into her again and feeling her shiver against me as I move to her ear again. “This is going to wait until you’re begging for it, princess.”
Her whole body tenses before she moves back from me, her whole face wild and angry. “Well then you’re going to have a rough time,” she says icily.
I turn and head to the door, gritting my teeth at what a fucking moral high-ground idiot I’m being. I pause just outside her door, turning.
“Look-”
The door slams in my face.
Nice job, dick.
23
Natalie
Two frosty days of ignoring Austin later, duty calls.
It’s the first day of team practice, which is apparently a big deal if you’re into that sort of thing.
And I’m not.
But - as Austin so handily reminded two nights ago in my room, this is a job. This is a role, and so here I am, playing the part and dressing the part of the big sports star’s wife. I’m painted up, coifed, and dressed to the nines - Dior top, Chanel skirt, Louboutin heels, at ten o’clock in the morning standing on astroturf along the sidelines of the stadium where the team is running drills.
I might be out of place on a football field, but dressing a part and looking perfectly put together is something I was born doing.
Thanks, Mom.
I can clean up. I might roll my eyes at it, but my mother groomed me for this life and circumstances such as these where I’m here to smile and look pretty in order to support “my man.” And even if I never really wanted that, here I am anyways.
God, she’d be thrilled.
This is literally her dream - her darling daughter standing poised and put together, smiling at the right times, “engaged and yet unobtrusive, like a lady ought to be.”
Of course, my mother’s dream might involve a bit more horse racing or polo, but I’m sure she’d be pleased nonetheless.
The sidelines where I stand are crowded with managers and PR teams, media cameras and reporters, coaches, agents, and of course, other players’ wives looking about as interested in what’s going on on the field as I am. Being here hits every single pressure point in me for uncomfortable situations, though. People I don’t know, a place I don’t understand, and a thing I’m not familiar with.
One of the catering staff comes around with a tray full of champagne flutes, which I take despite the time of day. I take a calming swig from the glass, eyeing the other wives, clustered together like a high school clique simultaneously smiling and shooting daggers at each other.
They all look vaguely plastic. It’s really the only word I can think of, looking at the lot of them. Hell, they’re all dressed the same, in exactly the same yoga pants, stiletto heels, and Balmain jacket combo like it’s some sort of uniform I didn’t get the memo about. I’m almost suddenly self conscious about the far more formal outfit I’m wearing until I take another large swallow of champagne and decide I don’t care.
These women are all the same sort of girl as the lovely Tina - vapid, social climbers and party girls all looking for the next big fish to land.
I grimace as I realize that for all intents and purposes, I am that girl now.
Gross.
I quickly knock back the rest of the bubbly in my hands, smiling at the waiter who comes by with a tray as I replace it with a full one.
“So, Nat is it?”
I turn to see the flock of plastic-looking wives approaching me as a group, a woman with pink highlights, dagger-red nails, and a diamond nose stud at their helm as they collectively size me up with little sneers on their faces.
Except, same as with Tina, I’ve played this game before. I’ve had years of practice tactfully dealing with catty girls and cliquey bullshit like this. And besides, I’ve got a secret weapon here.
I don’t give a shit about any of this.
Judge away, you crows.
I smile plastically right back at pink highlights girl and her gaggle of gold-digger shrews. They can honestly make whatever judgments they want about who I am, what I’m wearing - any of it. Because in six months, I walk away from all this, and they’ll still be here harping on each other on the sidelines.
“Natalie, or Nat,” I say evenly, smiling thinly at the front girl.
“Virginity, hi.”
I almost choke on my champagne.
“Uh, hi.”
She taps the side of her glass with a long, sharp red nail as she raises a brow at me. “Wow, so, Austin Taylor huh?”
The plastic crew behind her all follow her lead, raising eyebrows and looking at me with a sort of appreciation.
What, are they impressed?
The answer is of course yes, with the whole group of them eyeing me with what now looks like envy and reverence, all because of the “big star” I’ve “managed to land.”
“How’d you manage that, sweetie?” Virginity lets her gaze drop to my apparently non-union Chanel skirt, her manicured brow arching dramatically.
I want to roll my eyes. Or puke. Or tell them to spend one night in that man’s house and realize what a ridiculous man-child he is. I want to tell them I don’t care about any of this and that I’m just here for the money, before I almost laugh, realizing that probably is exactly the situation of every other woman here.
And of course, I’m here to play the role I’m supposed to play, as much as I want to do all of the above.
I push all of it to the side as I calmly smile at them, batting my eyes and playing the part. “Oh, well, you know,” I brush a stray lock of hair behind my hair with a nail, “he’s a great guy, and I just fell in love with-”
Virginity starts to giggle, followed quickly by her whole crew, and I frown.
She quickly puts a hand on my arm, shaking her head. “Oh, honey, no offense meant.” She shakes her head sympathetically as the rest of the wives laugh behind her.
“You can drop the act though, the cameras are on the boys now, not us.”
I furrow my brow, quickly taking a sip of champagne. “Oh, I’m not-”
“Right, true love?” Virginity rolls her eyes as she grins at me. “You found true love with a man-child who hits other guys for a living and spends his nights banging as many skanks as possible, right? Just like every little girl’s dream?”
My jaw drops a little as her whole demeanor changes from frosty-cold alpha-chick to smiling and putting an arm around my shoulders.
“Welcome to the jaded wives club, sweetie,” she says with a laugh, nodding at the other women in our little cluster. “Population, us.”
She shrugs. “We all knew what we were getting into, it just goes with the territory.” She nods at a woman with perfect braids and long dark lashes. “Lana here is on her fourth.”
Lana shrugs. “I’ve only had to fuck Josh three times, and we’ve been married six months now.”
She says it like a brag, nodding to whoever Josh is out there on the field amongst the grunting, tackling men.
“Honey, it’s the life.” Virginity shrugs. “Get paid, girl. Work what you got, right?”
She looks me up and down again with a raised brow. “I didn’t think this was Austin’s type but, hey, if it works, right?”
I frown. “Type?”
“Oh, hoe, spelled capital S-L-U-T,” she says with a wry grin before smiling at me. “But you look classy - put together.”
I laugh as I take a large sip of champagne. “Thanks?”
And just like that, I’m in. And these women aren’t actually that bad, as I suddenly find myself in the middle of a bizarrely personal conversation about IUD’s. Jaded, obviously, and morally questionable, but hey, they have points.
“Game faces, ladies,” Lana murmurs suddenly, smiling and tossing her hair back as a camera crew starts to make it’s way over. Practice has apparently ended while I’ve been engrossed in intimate details of Virginity’s choice of birth control, and I look up to see the players pulling off helmets and slapping each other on the ba
ck as they walk off the field.
And there, on the side of the field, is Austin…surrounded by a gaggle of giggling, fawning cheerleaders. I narrow my eyes as I watch him sling an arm over one girl’s shoulders, laughing at something she says. Another one in a small little cheer skirt and a high ponytail moves into his other side and strokes his arm, batting her eyes at him. A camera guy moves in and starts snapping pictures of the clichéd big macho quarterback with the two giggling cheerleaders in his arms.
I’m scowling without even knowing how or why, quickly draining my God knows what number glass of champagne as I glare daggers at the two girls fawning all over my fake husband. I realize my hand is in a fist as my face goes dark.
“Oh, girl.”
I snap my head up to see Virginity, shaking her head at me.
“You’re gonna have to let that go.”
I quickly smile, pushing the emotion from my face and casually running a hand through my hair. “What?”
She cocks a brow at me. “Caring,” she says with a shrug. “This is about looking after you, not him. Smile, look pretty for him, and let him do him.” She shrugs and smiles at me again. “Like I said, get paid, and do you.”
I glance back at Austin, still smiling for the fucking cameras with the two girls. “That’s him ‘doing him’?”
“Yep.” She shrugs. “Of course, you can get smart with it too.” She nods back at the gaggle of wives behind us. “Lana’s only fucked Josh a couple times, but she’s got that shit locked down, you know?”
I frown. “Locked down?”
Virginity grins. “Get knocked up, honey.” She shrugs. “I don’t care what sort of prenup you sign, that’s a guaranteed cash-flow for at least another eighteen.”
I wrinkle my nose, shaking my head.
“Yeah, sad, but it’s the way it is, honey,” Virginity says, polishing off the last of her champagne. “Welcome to the game.”
* * *
I’m on yet another glass of champagne, standing there on the sidelines glaring at Austin, but I just don’t care.
Because I’m mad.
And it’s the bubbly that’s even making me admit that to myself, but it’s true anyways.
I’m mad, and I feel like I’m being mocked - like I’m being made a fool of while my “husband” flirts and gets handsy with a bunch of cheerleaders with me standing right here like some trophy wife cliché.
I know we’re not a “real” couple - I know what we are is set up. But it’s the principal of it. Because this might be a fake marriage, but that doesn’t mean I have to sit here and be real humiliated.
“Oh you are so bad, Austin!”
The sound of one of the giggly little cheerleaders’ high-pitched, flirty voice has me grinding my teeth, and I turn to see her laughing as she leans up to kiss Austin on the cheek.
I almost crush the champagne flute in my hand, glaring at Austin once more and feeling so stupid.
“We all knew what we were getting into, it just goes with the territory.”
And I did too. Okay, I might not have known who Austin was exactly when I said yes sitting at that picnic table - or hell, when I said it again to some preacher in a Vegas chapel when we were drunk. But I knew what the score was. I knew this was basically the same game I’d been born to play - the one where I follow in my mother’s footsteps of being a conversation piece for some man.
Elegant, demure, sidelined.
I’ve done “sidelined.” I did it for two years with Vince, and I’ll be damned if I jump from one situation like that to another.
The hell with this. The hell with “doing my job” or “playing the part,” because I sure as hell don’t need to stand here watching that. I pound back the rest of my glass before setting it on a passing tray.
Screw this.
I storm away, leaving Austin to his clichés.
24
Austin
“You left early.”
An hour after Natalie stormed off, I step into the player’s parking garage to see her leaning against my car, glaring at her phone. She looks up briefly, her eyes narrowing at me.
“Sure did,” she mumbles, glancing back at her phone.
I clear my throat. “Do I get indication of why?”
“Why what,” she say evenly, pointedly not looking up.
“Why you left.”
She does look up then, clearly trying to look emotionless, even if its written all over her face. “Not my scene.”
I frown. “I mean, you hang out, drink champagne, and chat with the other wives. Jesus, they’re not that bad,”
The door to the parking garage behind us bangs open, and the giggling sound of cheerleaders pours across the parking lot.
“Byyyee Austin! Call me!”
I cringe, ignoring them as I turn back.
To a furious looking Natalie.
I roll my eyes. “Oh, that.” I grin. “That’s why you stormed off?”
“Can you please open the car so we can go home now?”
“Nat, it’s all just part of the show, you know.”
“Yeah, well, it’s a show I don’t need to watch.”
Her face is heated, eyes furious and wild, and I grin. “So, jealous then?”
She shoots me a look. “No, I just have pride and respect and self-worth, ass.”
“You know, that is exactly why I married y-”
“Stop.” The word comes sharply out of her lips as she shakes her head. “Look, just stop, okay?”
I stop short as Natalie takes a deep breath, looking away before finally whirling back at me. “Look, this job is whatever it is, but I just don’t need to watch that, alright?”
My jaw tightens. “It’s not real, Nat.”
She shrugs. “Hey, you’re the one paying half a million dollars to clean up his image. I figured shamelessly flirting and making out with cheerleaders while your wife is twenty feet away might not go over so well with that whole thing.”
“Just looking out for me, huh?”
She rolls her eyes and turns away. “Sure, fine.”
I pull my keys out and unlock the car.
“I wasn’t making out-”
“Don’t split hairs.”
We get into the car, shutting the doors and letting the silence settle over us.
“Okay, look, I get it,” I say quietly after a second.
“Thank you.”
“You’re jealous, and feeling insecure, and-”
Natalie groans loudly, pushing her fingers through her hair and shaking her head. “God, are you arrogant.”
I frown. “Look, it’s the role, okay?”
“Spare me.”
I whirl at her, my temper flashing. “Okay, princess, you want to get real? Fine. It’s your job to stand there and wave at me at practice, okay? It is literally what I’m paying you to do. If it’s not your fucking scene, by all means, go back to your mother or your trust fund.”
The car goes silent.
“Fuck,” I mutter, running my hand through my hair, still damp from the showers. “Nat, I’m sor-”
“Just take me home.” She spits out before turning to press her cheek against the passenger side window. “I’ll stay at your fucking practice next time.”
I rev the car into gear and peel out of the lot.
We drive in silence through the LA traffic on the way home, Natalie pointedly ignoring me and staring out the window.
I glare at the back of her head. She’s acting ridiculous. None of the shit with those cheer girls back there means anything, and I’d have thought that’d be perfectly fucking clear by now. It’s all just part of the “star” status.
I mean I’m the starting quarterback for a fucking PRO team. I need to be the biggest swinging dick in the room every fucking time I walk onto that field. I need to own the respect of those guys out there, and if part of that is the image that I’m banging my way through the cheer squad, then that’s what it takes.
Except she’s also got a point, ev
en if I’m mostly sure she’s just jealous. I am going to fuck up this new image thing if I don’t change a single thing about my act. Getting a wife was part one, acting the part of the husband is the other, and on that note, I’m failing.
“David Beckham,” Derek had said the other day when I touched base with him. “Just try and channel Beckham”
“David Beckham married a Spice Girl.”
“And now he’s selling Fruit of the Loom to soccer moms.”
I frown into the LA traffic in front of me.
Well David Beckham never had to go toe-to-toe with Natalie fucking Ames, or he’d be whistling a different goddamn tune.
* * *
I sigh as I put the car into park in my driveway, turning to her. “Look, I’m sorry I was a dick,” I say, turning to her.
Natalie shrugs.
“I didn’t mean to sideline you like that, and I’m-”
“It’s fine.”
Natalie gets out the car and slams the door.
This fucking girl.
I’m muttering and gritting my teeth as I follow her into the house.
“Look I said I was sorry,” I growl, following her into the kitchen.
Natalie shrugs again as she opens the fridge and pulls out a bottle of water. “Great.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “What’s your problem?”
“Nothing,” she snaps, shooting me a look.
“Bullshit.”
She shrugs, bringing the bottle of water to her lips and taking a sip. And for a half-second, I forget everything. For a frozen second, as I watch her tongue slip across her bottom lip, and as she slips a finger through a tendril of her sable hair, I just get fucking caught in it all.
Goddamn is she beautiful.
Even petulantly mad like this, even testing me with this little attitude thing she’s doing, she’s like no other girl I’ve ever met. She’s defiant and good, and wild, and not trying to get something from me - well, aside from what we discussed.
She takes another sip from the bottle of water. “It’s-” Natalie sighs, and her big blue eyes suddenly dart up to mine. “I’m just trying to process this whole ‘keeping you interested’ part of the job I never thought about.”
Jock: A Secret Baby Sports Romance Page 67
