It had been relatively easy on game day to keep busy. Even with the loss, I had a lot of reporters to field. But when I made it through the circus and dragged myself back to my office, I expected him to be gone already, or at the very least, back in the locker room.

But of course, he was right there, staring at me from the other side of the hall as if it was me who’d broken him.

I wanted to run to him as much as I wanted to curse him out and spit in his eye.

I was a mess.

And what hurt me more than anything wasn’t what he did, but rather that I knew there was more to it than he was telling me. It was like having the first three-hundred pages of a thriller, only to have the end ripped out, to never know what secrets the main character was keeping from you all this time.

Even though I knew he was hurting as badly as I was, he wouldn’t let me in.

What more could I do?

“This wouldn’t have anything to do with the nice young man you were so excited to introduce me to today, would it? The one who suddenly came down with the flu?”

I didn’t answer.

Dad reached over, grabbing my wrist and waiting until I dropped the fork before he pulled my hands into his. “I can’t help if you don’t talk to me, little mouse.”

I shook my head. “I just… I don’t even know where to start.”

“The beginning usually works out nicely.”

I tried to mirror his smile, but it fell flat.

“You have to forget I’m your daughter for, like, the next ten minutes.”

Dad lifted a brow. “Okay, now you’re not leaving until you tell me everything.”

And so I did.

I didn’t realize how badly I needed to confide in someone about what happened between me and Clay until the words were spilling from me like an avalanche, faster and faster until the dust was so thick I couldn’t speak through it. I told him about Shawn, about the deal, about how Clay wanted Maliyah back. I left out the gritty details of exactly how we played our little game, but I didn’t hold back on how close we’d become, on how much I knew he cared about me.

How much I cared about him.

When I finished, Dad let out a low whistle, tapping my hand in his. “Well, I can’t say I don’t want to kill the kid for hurting my baby girl.”

“Dad.”

“I also can’t say that I understand why you would ever agree to fake date someone,” he added. “Although, some of your book titles make more sense now. My Fake Bodyguard.”

I smiled a little at that.