“See.” Chase caught her, swept her off her feet and swung her around. “We can’t confess now.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“YOU’RE LATE.” ELLIOT leaned away from the makeup artist and glanced at Chase, the layer of amusement in his tone thicker than the lotion the woman smoothed across his forehead. “Didn’t want to leave your new wife, did you?”
“Something like that.” Chase hadn’t really wanted to leave Nichole at the cathedral.
Him in a tailored suit, Nichole in pure white from head to toe... The sheer brightness should’ve blinded him. But all he’d seen was her, bringing a wedding dress to life. That’d been his first thought. What magic had she used and how could he be a part of the occasion? Then she had set her hand on his chest and his arms had wrapped around her waist—as natural as the bouquet she’d clutched. He’d almost believed in the fantasy. Believed she was his and their new life was about to begin.
Fortunately, Nichole had grasped his hand, the strength of her voice tethering him to the present. They weren’t starting a future together. They were working together to secure their individual futures. At least for now.
Chase dropped into the empty salon-style chair beside his friend and another makeup artist appeared. Only one path remained: finalize both contracts quickly before Nichole got cold feet and became his fake runaway bride. “How long before we start?”
“Few minutes,” Elliot replied. “Photographer promised a quick session if we follow her directions precisely.”
“That must mean action shots are out today.” Last year for the same award photo shoot, Chase and his teammates had tried to convince the photographer that action shots portrayed them better. It might’ve worked, too, if the guys hadn’t moved from light passes to tackles that had toppled the backdrop and one startled assistant.
Elliot laughed. “Definitely out.”
The makeup artist unrolled a leather case of brushes and opened a drawer in a plastic bin. Chase eased back in the chair, preparing to sit quietly and not disrupt the woman. He needed a fast session. He had to pick up his grandmother’s favorite takeout and get to her apartment. He would’ve preferred to cook for her, but he feared he was already too late to reveal his wedding news himself. Takeout would, he hoped, at least help neutralize her annoyance.
“My best client gets married and I don’t get an invite.” Travis Shaw, Chase’s longtime agent and the only person who could negotiate Chase’s new football contract, walked toward Chase, his steps sure, his expression reserved.
Panic rolled through Chase. He spun the chair away from the makeup artist and toward Travis. Had the Pioneers decided not to re-sign him already? Had his plan failed before it had even started? “Travis, you never come to these things.”
“I wanted to see if my wedding invite got lost in the mail.” Travis rested his hands on his hips and scowled at Chase.
“His friend and former teammate never got an invitation either.” Elliot lifted partway out of his salon-style chair and shook Travis’s hand. Elliot added, “Not even a heads-up.”
Travis scrubbed his hands over his face and exhaled loud and deep. “Chase, please tell me that this is not another publicity stunt.”
Chase lifted his chin, trying to stretch the annoyance from his stiff neck. He could be serious about things other than football. He simply chose not to be. “It’s not a publicity stunt.”
At least it was never meant to be public. It was however a desperate attempt to repair his reputation. And a stunt that benefited Travis and the contract negotiations. Chase had known there could be repercussions like this. He stammered, unable to scramble fast enough away from the blitz and the impending sack. “You’re really here because I got married?”
“Why else?” Travis speared his arms out to either side as if preparing to make that sack. “There are things we need to do to influence the media and maximize the positive PR traction.”
Maximize. Chase flinched. Nichole would dislike anything that maximized the PR reach. How could he say no to reaching more fans if it helped his cause?
Travis gave an exaggerated count on his fingers. “Things like a professional photo shoot. Formal press release. A joint statement.”
No. Not happening. Chase had promised Nichole no media blitz. “She wants to preserve her privacy for herself and her child.”
“Single mom.” Elliot nodded his approval and high-fived Chase. “Does she have a son or daughter?”
“Eleven-year-old son.” A son Chase would meet in a few hours. He’d been less anxious for his first ever pro football game. If Wesley disliked Chase, Nichole would end their agreement.
“Pioneers Camp.” Travis snapped his fingers and pointed at Chase. His eyebrows boomeranged up his forehead, amplifying his battleship-gray eyes. “You can make your public family debut there. It’s the perfect reveal.”
Pioneers Camp had appeal, although not for the PR. Rather, to help Chase win over Wesley. Nichole had mentioned Wesley was a Pioneers’ fan, hadn’t she? His nerves unraveled. “If I bring them to Pioneers Camp, it’ll be for her son.”
“Right.” Travis paced behind the twin salon chairs. His fingers combed through his cropped hair as if testing different hairstyles.
Or running through every possible angle.
Travis always worked through problems and situations the same way: hands in his hair, measured, succinct steps—the same number in each direction. His agent had never broken his stride on the day Chase had entered the pro football draft. Chase wanted to give Travis time, but extra minutes were scarce.
Chase kept himself immobile in the chair for the makeup artist. He had to get to his grandmother.
“Good PR is the bonus,” Travis muttered. “We need all the bonuses we can get.”
“I’m thinking a formal reception
