Honkers Under the Holly (The Cocky Kingmans)

10. Faking It Was Not Making It

FAKING IT WAS NOT MAKING IT

“ I n here,” Tommy yanked us into what appeared to be a storage room, shutting out the chaos of reporters shouting questions about betrayal and scandal. His jersey was still damp with champagne and sweat, his eyes wild with the same adrenaline that had won them the game.

“Tommy, I’m so sorry, we didn’t mean—” I started, but he waved me off.

“Are you kidding? This is the most excitement we’ve had since Sir Honksalot crashed that Oktoberfest tent.” Wait. I thought he was passed out for that.

He peered out the small window. “Though the press corps are getting creative with their theories. Apparently, according to those yahoos, I’ve known about your affair for weeks and I’ve been drowning my sorrows in karaoke again.”

“This isn’t funny,” Mac said, his hand warm on my lower back. “They’re overshadowing your MVP moment. Everything you’ve worked for?—”

“Okay, options.” Tommy cut Mac off and started pacing. “We could say Sara Jayne and I already broke up because I’m leaving L.A.”

“What?” I looked at Mac, who suddenly found the floor fascinating.

“Miami’s interested,” he admitted. “Big money. Fresh start. We’ve been in talks, but...”

“But they’re super hush, hush. Violet doesn’t know yet,” Tommy finished. “And if this gets out before the deal’s done...”

“It’s dead.” Mac ran a hand through his hair. “Along with any chance of other teams offering either. Violet will know she can keep you for a song. Not to mention all the prospective clients I’ve got coming in ghosting me. They probably are already planning too anyway at this point.”

I knew what that felt like. Magda had been texting me constantly for the last hour with cancelled gigs. At least April and Crown of Curves weren’t giving up on me yet.

The weight of everything we could lose pressed against my chest. My entire career was about to be back to pre-Illustrated Sports days. Mac’s growing agency was shrinking by the second. Tommy’s carefully rebuilt image was possibly trashed.

All because people loved to gossip and loved a fall from grace even more.

“I could just tell them the truth.” Tommy stopped pacing. “That this was all fake because I’m?—”

“No.” Mac said. “I wish you could, Tom. I wish the league, the public, the world was ready. But it means the end of your career and you know it.”

I looked between the two of them. “Because you’re what?”

Tommy gave me one of those fake slugs on the arm. “Because I’m gay, babe. If I come out, no one will question that we were never together and that you being with Mac is fine by me.”

Oh. “But it’s the twenty-first century. It’s not like being gay is illegal.”

Tommy shrugged and Mac shook his head."Unfortunately, there’s a lot of bigoted people in sports. Honestly, in America. People who can’t see past their distorted values enough to understand that gay men are actual people... with feelings. The League isn’t ready. The sponsors aren’t ready. Tommy’s career would be over if he came out. No one has ever been openly gay in the League. And even at the top of his game, MV Fucking P of the Bowl, today is not the day they’ll all suddenly be okay with it."

Tommy clenched his fists and his expression went dark and angry. Something I’d never seen on him before. “Maybe it’s time someone changed that.”

“Not like this.” Mac’s voice was fierce. “Not because you’re trying to save us. We won’t let you sacrifice everything you’ve worked for.”

I took one of Tommy’s huge hands in mine. “I appreciate you trust me enough to share your true authentic self with me. And I want you to know that you’re always safe with me. But Tommy, I don’t want you to put your livelihood or even your actual safety in jeopardy.”

A sharp knock made us all jump.

“Frayzer!” a harried PR rep called through the door. “Press room. Now. Unless you want a riot on your hands.”

Tommy’s face shifted, that familiar mischievous glint returning to his eyes. “Actually, I know exactly what to do.”

“Tommy...” Mac’s warning tone made me nervous.

“Trust me.” He straightened his jersey. “Nobody’s losing anything today. Well, except maybe their dignity when they realize how wrong they got this entire story.”

“What are you going to say?” I asked, worried. I knew what it was like to be shamed and chastised just for being who I was.

He just grinned and opened the door. “The truth. Sort of. A better version of it.”

“Tommy!”

But he was already gone, leaving us staring at each other in the sudden quiet.

“Should we be worried?” I asked Mac.

“With Tommy? Always.”

Another knock, more insistent. “Mr. Frayzer’s fiancée? Comment on the photos?”

I slammed the door on the jackass misogynistic reporter.

Mac pulled me close. “I don’t know what the hell Tommy is about to do, but whatever happens, we face it together.”

“Together,” I agreed, and somehow it felt like a bigger promise than our fake engagement ever was.

Now we just had to hope Tommy’s “better version” of the truth didn’t make everything worse.

The press room was a mob scene. From our spot in the back, Mac and I watched Tommy take the podium, still in his grass-stained jersey, the MVP trophy gleaming beside him. Camera flashes erupted like lightning.

“Mr. Frayzer! Comment on the photos?—”

“Is it true that your fiancée?—”

“How long has the affair?—”

Tommy held up a hand, and somehow that cocky grin of his silenced the room. “First, let me say something about being MVP?—”

“What about the photos of your fiancée with your agent?”

“Actually,” Tommy’s grin widened, “that’s a funny story. See, Sara Jayne’s not my type.”

The room erupted again. Mac’s hand found mine in the chaos.

“And more importantly,” Tommy continued, “she’s exactly Mac’s type. Has been since the day he chased a goose through a beer tent at Oktoberfest for her.”

My heart stopped. Started. Stopped again.

“What are you saying?” someone called out.

“I’m saying my best friend and agent is an idiot who wouldn’t know how to tell a girl he’s in love with her if his life depended on it. So yeah, I might have orchestrated a little something to push him in the right direction.”

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. I felt Mac tense beside me.

“You’re claiming the engagement was fake?”

“I’m claiming,” Tommy leaned into the mic, “that you all need to pay better attention. Show me one photo—just one—of me and Sara Jayne together without Mac. Go ahead, I’ll wait.”

The furious tapping of phones filled the room.

“While you’re searching,” Tommy continued, “let me tell you about my best friend. The guy who, when he knew his own chances of getting into the League were over, became an agent to help the rest of us fulfill that dream. Who believed in me when I was nothing but a karaoke disaster with a bad reputation. Who fell in love with a girl and her rescue goose but was too scared to admit it.”

“But the proposal video—” someone started.

“Was me being a supportive friend. Which, by the way, is what you should all be focused on right now. Did you see that game-winning drive? That’s the actual story here. That, and the fact that sometimes it takes a village—or in this case, a very smart goose—to get two people to admit what everyone else already knows.”

The room had gone quiet, phones forgotten.

“So yeah,” Tommy’s voice softened, “those photos you’re all worked up about? That’s what love actually looks like. And if you’re done trying to manufacture scandal, I’d like to talk about how my team just won the mother fucking championship.”

Mac’s arm slid around my waist, pulling me closer. I looked up to find him watching me with that expression that still made my knees weak.

“Did he just...” I whispered.

“Save our careers by telling the truth in the most Tommy way possible?” Mac’s smile was soft. “Yeah, I think he did.”

From the podium, Tommy caught our eye and winked. “Now, who wants to talk about that amazeballs fourth quarter drive...”

The press corps erupted with football questions, scandal forgotten. In the back of the room, I turned into Mac’s arms, not caring who saw.

Sometimes the best love stories are the ones you don’t have to fake at all.

The so-called scandal was so forgotten, that by the time we got to the after party, no one even looked twice at us.

“Have you seen this one?” Mac held up his phone, showing a blurry photo from Oktoberfest. “Someone caught the exact moment I jumped the keg of beer to help you catch Sir Honksalot.”

We were curled up in a quiet-ish corner of the party, watching the internet absolutely lose it over Tommy’s press conference. #RealLoveStory and #GooseMatchmaker were trending, along with some creative edits of Sir Honksalot wearing a tiny Cupid outfit.

“Oh my god,” I laughed, taking the phone. “Look at your face! You’re already completely gone for me.”

“Obviously.” He pressed a kiss to my temple. “Though not as gone as Tommy looks in this one.”

The next photo showed Tommy at that same Oktoberfest, clearly playing matchmaker as he “accidentally” pushed Mac toward me. The caption read: The real MVP: Tommy Frayzer’s two-year plan to get his best friend the girl .

“Two years?” I raised an eyebrow. “We met three months ago.”

“Yeah, but it makes a better story this way. And you can’t expect the press to get all the deets right, can you?” Tommy dropped into the chair across from us, MVP trophy tucked under one arm. “The internet has decided I’m some kind of romantic genius who’s been plotting this since I signed with you.”

“Speaking of plotting...” Mac started.

“That was amazing,” I cut in, reaching for Tommy’s hand. “What you did in there. How you turned it around. Thank you.”

“Please.” Tommy grinned. “I just told the truth. With some creative timeline adjustment.”

My phone buzzed. “Magda says Sir Honksalot is getting interview requests. Apparently, he’s being called ‘The Goose Who Started It All.’”

“Well, he did.” Tommy stretched, looking satisfied. “Face it—none of us would be here if he hadn’t decided to go rogue at Oktoberfest.”

Mac’s arm tightened around me. “Best wild goose chase ever.”

The party swirled around us—players celebrating, media praising Tommy’s MVP performance, social media exploding with our unexpected love story. But in our quiet corner, it felt like everything had finally fallen into a perfect, chaotic place.

“You know,” Tommy said, a familiar glint in his eye, “Sir Honksalot’s going to need a formal outfit for the wedding.”

“The what now?” Mac choked on his champagne.

“Hey, according to the internet, you two have been secretly in love for years. Might want to catch up to your own love story.”

Mac took my hand in his and rubbed his fingers over the spot on my fourth finger where a ring would be. “I think it’s time we call it a night, don’t you, Liebling ?”

The Five Elements lobby was mercifully quiet when we finally made it back from the party. Even Sir Honksalot seemed ready to wind down, his Bandit’s jersey slightly askew from all the victory celebrations.

“Come on, chaos machine,” Mac said fondly, scooping up our goose and taking him to Tommy’s room. “Time for bed.”

In the suite, Sir Honksalot waddled straight to his heated bed by the window, arranged his collection of “borrowed” socks from Tommy into a perfect nest, and settled in with a contented honk.

“I think the excitement finally got to him,” I said, watching our feathered matchmaker drift off to sleep.

“Can’t blame him.” Mac pulled me into his arms. “It’s been a big day. Winning the Bowl, saving our careers, becoming a social media romantic icon...”

“Speaking of...” I showed him my phone, where #GooseLoveStory was still trending. “Apparently we’re now the greatest romance since “ The Princess Bride” . Though I’m pretty sure that movie didn’t involve any waterfowl.”

“Their loss.” His hands slid down to my hips, drawing me closer. “You know what the best part about all this is?”

“Hmm?”

“I get to do this whenever I want now.” He kissed me softly, then with growing heat. “No more hiding. No more pretending.”

“Just us,” I breathed against his lips. “Being real.”

His hands traced my curves with reverent familiarity, like he was memorizing me all over again. “Do you know how many times I wanted to kiss you like this in public? Show everyone that you’re mine?”

“Show me now,” I whispered, and his kiss deepened, filled with all the love we’d been hiding.

He walked me backward toward our bed, his touch setting fire to every inch of skin he found. When my legs hit the mattress, he followed me down, his weight deliciously solid against me.

“I love you,” he murmured, trailing kisses down my neck. “The genuine kind. The forever kind.”

“Show me that too.” I wriggled underneath Mac, loving the feel of his body covering mine. But something was poking me right in the left side of my belly. It wasn’t the Christmas tree in Mac’s pants either. This was too small for that.

“Mr. Jerry, is that a goose egg in you pocket or are you just happy to see me?”

Mac chuckled and slid off the end of the bed and onto one knee. He pulled a little black box out of his pocket. “It’s not a goose egg, Sara Jayne.”