“Austin, she could say the father is an alien, or Elvis fucking Presley, and it wouldn’t matter. People are listening to her, and bullshit or not, that stink is going to rub off on you.”

I swear into my glass.

“Look, we can deal with shit like this, but only if you clean up your fucking act, man. If you’re strutting around like you’re the Mick Jagger of pro football, you’re never going to get away from shit like this.”

I frown as Derek’s serious face finally gets to me, and the weight of what he’s saying finally starts to sink in.

“Fine,” I grumble. “Fine, I yield. Teach me your ways, wise one.”

“Atta boy.”

I sigh as I down the last of my whiskey. “So what the hell do I do?”

Derek’s frown slowly turns into a small smile. “You’re not gonna like it.”

“Try me.”

He grins. He’s enjoying this. “The media team and I came up with something that might - uh, soften your image a little. Make you more family-friendly and more viable to product endorsements.”

I no longer like where this is going.

“Derek-”

He shrugs, that shrug that says he knows I’m going to hate what he’s about to say, but he’s going to say it anyways.

“You need to settle down.”

I groan. “Yeah, dude, we’ve established that I need some image work, so what’s the fucking plan-”

“No, Austin, you need to settle down.”

I frown, not really getting what he’s trying to say. “Derek, what are you-”

“You need to get married, pal.”

I laugh as I turn and raise my empty glass at the bartender for another one. “Yeah, definitely.”

“Research shows it’s amazing for public image, Austin, and the endorsements are going to fall into your lap.”

I slowly turn to him, my face falling. “Jesus Christ, you’re actually serious aren’t you?”

“It doesn’t even have to be real, Austin.”

The bartender slides the whiskey in front of me, but I’m barely aware of it as I stare dumbfounded at my manager.

“What?”

He shrugs. “This happens all the time with big name players. Look it’s just for image, I’m not saying you have to actually get married. But you do need the appearance of it.”

“A fake marriage.” It feels ridiculous to even say it out loud, like I’m some sort of English lord negotiating a land dispute or securing my lineage.

“Yep.”

I swear. “What fucking century is this?”

“The one where you make a shitload of money by listening to me.”

I slug back a hefty swig of the booze, feeling like the walls of the bar are starting to close in a little. “So I fake-marry some gold-digger.”

Derek quickly shakes his head. “Oh, no, nothing like that. We’ve already put together some eligible candidates.”

“Eligible candidates?” I swallow another third of my glass, feeling like I’m going to be sick. “Do these women have fucking resumes for this shit or something?”

Derek looks at me plainly. “Of course they do.”

“Jesus fucking Ch-”

“You need someone who fits the part,” Derek rattles on. “Someone classy, someone with poise - nothing fake or plastic, like your usual.”

I groan, shaking my head and reaching for my glass as I look past Derek, when the door to the bar opens, and she walks in.