Caught on Camera: A Spicy Fake Dating Romance (Love through a Lens Book 2)

WE SNEAK out of the stadium through a side door in the tunnel and climb into my Range Rover before anyone from the media can realize I’m gone.

I had a quick huddle with the guys before I left, and I let them know I’d see them on Tuesday. They pulled me into a group hug and murmured words of understanding. Support and encouragement. Affirmations I still feel in my chest.

I’ve always loved the camaraderie of a team, but this is different.

This is a support system, my brothers who stand with me when the going gets tough. I’m not letting them down; they’re lifting me up. It’s a collective effort—sometimes I’m going to carry them, and other times, like today, they’re going to carry me.

A ball of emotion sits in my throat as we head toward Lacey’s apartment, a spool of thread that slowly unravels the further we get from the stadium. It’s hard to describe how much it means to me to know I have dozens of men who have my back and love me.

The woman holding my hand and drawing circles on the inside of my wrist doesn’t hurt either.

We don’t talk on the drive, settling into the notes of a random classical music playlist I find on the internet instead of mindless conversation.

I like it, though.

Even the quiet with Lacey is nice.

Fifteen minutes later, she lets us into her apartment and locks the door. For the first time since the coin toss, I let out a breath and relax.

“Do you think there will be articles about you?” she asks, the one to break the silence. “The Titans ended up winning, so who cares why you left?”

“Everyone will care.” I kick off my sneakers and nudge them against the foyer wall. I line them up next to the row of Lacey’s shoes, and I like how our things look beside each other. “I’m sure it will be a top headline on ESPN tomorrow.”

“That’s bullshit.”

She unzips her jacket and hangs it on the hook by the door. She puts her hands on her hips and glares at me. There’s fire in her eyes, and I can’t wait to hear what she says next.

“What’s bullshit?” I ask.

“Why do people care? You dipped out early—big deal. What if there was a family emergency or something happened in your life you didn’t want to share with America?”

“We don’t have that luxury, unfortunately. I’m not saying it’s fair, just that I’m used to it.” I walk to her living room and get comfortable on her sofa. I almost melt into the plush leather, and it takes all of my energy to not close my eyes and fall asleep right away. “Sometimes I wish all the people in the comment sections on social media who tell me it must be so easy to be an athlete could be really rich for a day. They’d see money isn’t everything. Even the greatest athletes can be unhappy.”

“I know your bodies take a pounding and what you do is physically grueling, so please don’t take this the wrong way,” Lacey says, and she sits next to me. “I don’t understand why people hold athletes to unobtainable high standards. You all get sick. You all get hurt. You all have bad brain days when the world feels like it’s caving in, just like Joe Schmo who works in accounting or architecture does. Sure, it’s broadcast to billions of people, but why does it mean you’re failing when it happens to you?”

“I wish I had an answer for you.” I stretch out my legs and rest my feet in her lap. Her hand wraps around my calf and she presses her thumb into my muscles. I groan as the tension I’ve been holding onto leaves my body. “The public knows I’ve had a panic attack before. Maybe I should come clean. I can tell the world on my terms so I can control the narrative.”

“You should. You have a big following, Shawn. I’m not saying you don’t use your platform for good, because you do. I know that. But maybe being more outspoken about these things you experience might encourage other athletes to talk about them too.”

“I think you might be right,” I say. I fold my hands over my stomach and close my eyes. “You’re wise beyond your years, Daniels.”

“It’s because I have to keep up with your geriatric ass,” she answers, and I burst out laughing.

I feel instantly lighter with her joke, like I’m levitating high above the shit swarming around in my brain. Lacey has that effect on me; she always knows exactly the right thing to say. Sometimes I think she’s in my head and reading my thoughts, because there’s no way someone can be so in tune with my emotions.

“I’m weak right now. You aren’t allowed to make fun of me. Not in my vulnerable state.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, and I open one eye to find her watching me. “I hope you know I’d never make fun of you, and I’m sorry if it came across that way.”

“Sweetheart, you making fun of me is what I look forward to every day. You know why? Because you treat me like you would anyone else. You give me shit. You hold me accountable. You make me laugh. For the first time in my life, I don’t feel like I have to act a certain way around someone. I’m myself, and that’s enough,” I admit, and her lips pull up into a soft smile.

It’s a beautiful thing when Lacey grins. If she were mine, I’d make sure she smiled every day. A hundred times a day, because the world is a better place when she’s happy.

“You’re allowed to rest when you’re with me, Shawn,” she says, and like everything else she tells me, I know it’s true. “You’re more than enough.”

There’s never a spot where I feel safer than with her two feet away from me. My body knows it, too, because my limbs go pliant. My heart stops racing, and the breath I take doesn’t feel like a thousand knives are stabbing my lungs.

Progress.

“You can rest with me too, Lacey girl,” I say, and her smile stretches wider. “You don’t have to go so fast.”

“I know I can. I have been for a while now. Since you first kissed me, I think,” she says. “It’s been nice to slow down.”

We look at each other at the same time. It’s like we’re sneaking glances, stolen moments no one else can see. There’s the urge to tell her she can rest with me forever, if she wants. Long after New Year’s comes and goes, we could still do this.

Whatever the hell this is.

“Are you hungry?” she asks. “We could order pizza and watch a movie.”

“Sounds like a plan to me.”

I pull my wallet out of my pocket and toss it her way.

This woman saved me tonight, and I’m starting to wonder if she wasn’t put in my life by accident but for a very specific reason.

To be mine until the end of time.

AN HOUR and a half and six slices of pizza later, we’re sprawled across her couch. Her legs are over my thigh and my foot presses against her ribs. A movie is playing on the television in the corner, but I’m not paying attention to it.

I’m too busy listening to Lacey tell me about her childhood. Too busy watching her use her hands to gesture wildly about the dog she had growing up, the golden retriever her parents said went to a farm and never came home. Too busy smiling at her stories about her imaginary friend Kevin when she was six years old.

I could listen to her talk for hours.

“What?” she asks. She rests her head in her palm and looks at me from across the couch. It’s almost pitch black in the room except for the lamp bathing her face in colors of yellow and gold. She looks like a pretty angel. “You’re staring at me.”

“Just…” I take a breath, and there’s a pull in my gut. A twist in my chest the longer she looks at me. It’s warm and pleasant. Dizzyingly so. I want her to keep looking at me and to never stop. “You,” I say, and I gesture up and down her body. “You,” I repeat, and it sounds more important the second time.

Lacey swallows, and I track the bob of her throat. Her eyes soften and she reaches out for me. Her fingertips graze my palm, a gentle touch that has me wanting to beg for more. “Can I hold you?” she whispers, and my soul nearly splits in two.

“Yeah,” I say, and my voice dips with the single syllable. “Yes. Please. I’d like that.”

The pizza box gets pushed to the side. I pull off my hoodie and she adjusts the pillows. We maneuver around the couch until she’s stretched out longways and I’m settled between her thighs. My back rests against her chest, and her arms drape over my shoulders. I’m locked in place, but I’m not planning on running anywhere.

I hum, content and comfortable. I can feel Lacey’s heartbeat, a staccato rhythm that starts to slow when I settle in her arms. Mine starts to slow too, like I reached the top of a mountain and I’m finally going down the other side.

That’s exactly what Lacey does for me; she reminds me life isn’t always an uphill climb. Eventually the hard things get easy, a steady descent I can take at my own pace.

“This is nice,” she says, her voice low in my ear. She kisses my cheek, and I move my head so I can kiss her lips. “Kissing you is nice.”

“It’s not supposed to be nice,” I say against her mouth. I reach up and hook my arm around her neck to bring her closer to me. “It’s supposed to be better than nice.”

“You just want me to compliment you.”

“Flirting with me, Daniels?”

“In your dreams, Holmes,” she says, but she kisses me again.

This feels an awful lot like heaven.

I don’t need anything else.

Her tongue swipes across my mouth and my lips part to welcome her in. She sighs, a sound I want to hear her make again. I run my thumb down the curve of her jaw and over the slope of her cheek. She’s warm under my touch, all soft skin and soft lines.

I haven’t just made out with anyone in years, and I like doing it with her. My teeth sink into her bottom lip and I smile when she whimpers. When she pulls on the tufts of my hair to tell me she wants more.

I untangle our limbs and flip over so I’m hovering above her. My knees rest on either side of her hips, and she looks up at me with wonder painted on her face.

“You’re beautiful,” I whisper, and it’s an admission—a fact—I won’t be allowed to say soon. “You’re the most beautiful woman in the world, Lacey.”

Her fingers dance up my arms and to my neck. Tenderness glimmers in her eyes, and it seems like there’s something on the tip of her tongue. Something hangs between us, a realization that this is different than the other times we’ve kissed.

Those moments were hurried and frenzied, a desperate need to touch and lick and taste. Slick slides of skin and my hands under her dress. My fingers buried deep inside her. Down her shirt.

But not right now.

She lifts off the couch and meets me halfway. Her hands cup my cheeks and her nose brushes against mine.

“Maybe I am flirting with you,” she says, and it sounds like she’s telling me a secret. “Just a little, because I’ve never felt more beautiful than I do when I’m with you.”

I should ask her about the end date we set for ourselves. Maybe we can push it to Valentine’s Day or stretch it out to Memorial Day. Fuck, maybe we can make it a year and celebrate Christmas together next year, too.

When she lifts her hips and pins them against mine, I want to ask her to marry me.

When she kisses me with fire behind her mouth, I want to tell her I’ll give her anything she asks.

When she rubs the back of my neck and holds me close, whispering I’m so glad you’re here with me into my ear, I realize that I was wrong.

I’ve massively fucked up, a mistake I can’t undo.

I didn’t make other men not good enough for her.

She made other women not good enough for me.

Lacey ruined me, all while I was trying not to ruin her.