Page 1 of The Player

Chapter One

If Liza had to attend one more freaking party, she’d go insane.

Her curves resisted the constriction of the shape wear, her feet pinched from the requisite stilettos, and her face ached from the perpetual fake smile.

The joys of being a WAG.

Technically, ex-WAG, and loving the ex bit.

The reported glamorous lives of sportsmen’s Wives And Girlfriends were grossly exaggerated. She should know. She’d lived the lie for longer than she cared to admit.

‘One more photo, Liza?’ A photographer yelled and she inwardly groaned.

That’s what they all said. Not that she had anything against the paparazzi per se, but their idea of one last photo op usually conflicted with hers.

Assuming her game face, the one she’d used to great effect over the years, she glanced over her shoulder and smiled.

A plethora of flashes blinded her but her smile didn’t slip. She turned slowly, giving them time to snap her side profile before she cocked a hip, placed a hand on it, and revealed an expanse of leg guaranteed to land her in the gossip columns tomorrow.

Hopefully for the last time. Being a WAG had suited her purposes but she was done. Let some other poor sap take her place, primping for the cameras, grinning inanely, starving herself so she wouldn’t be labelled pregnant by the media.

With a final wave at the photographers she strutted into the function room, pausing to grab a champagne from a passing waiter, before making a beeline for her usual spot at any function: front and centre.

If this was her last hurrah, she was determined to go out in style.

She waited for the A-listers and hangers-on to flock, steeling her nerve to face the inevitable inquisition: who was she dating, where was she vacationing, when would she grant the tell-all the publishers had been hounding her for?

Her answer to the last question hadn’t changed in twelve months: ‘When hell freezes over.’

It had been a year since international soccer sensation Henri Jaillet had dumped her in spectacular orchestrated fashion, and three years since basketball superstar Jimmy Ro had broken her heart.

Reportedly.

The truth? She’d known Jimmy since high school and they were the quintessential golden couple: king and queen of the graduation dance who morphed into media darlings once he hit the big time. He’d launched her as a WAG and she’d lapped it up, happy to accept endorsements of clothes, shoes, and jewellery.

For Cindy.

Always for Cindy.

Everything she did was for her younger sister, which was why a tell-all was not on the cards.

She’d grown apart from Jimmy and when reports of his philandering continued to dog her, she’d quit the relationship because he wanted out.

The media had a field day, making her out to be a saint, a very patient saint, and the jobs had flooded in. From modelling gigs to hosting charity events, she became Melbourne’s latest ‘it’ girl. And when her star had waned, she’d agreed to be Henri’s arm candy for a specified time in exchange for a cash sum that had paid Cindy’s carer bills for a year.

Being tagged a serial WAG had stung, as people who didn’t know her labelled her money-hungry and a camera-whore.

She tried not to care. The only people that mattered—her and Cindy—knew the truth, and it would stay that way, despite the ludicrous sums of money being dangled in front of her for a juicy autobiography.

The truth was, her life was far from juicy. She’d faked it for the cameras and readers would be distinctly disappointed to learn of her penchant for flannel PJs, hot chocolate, and a tatty patchwork quilt.

As opposed to the rumoured lack of sleepwear, martinis before bed, and thousand-thread sheets she slept on.

She had no idea why the paparazzi made up stuff like that but people lapped it up, and judged her because of it.

What would they think if they knew the truth?

That she loved spending a Saturday night curled up on the couch with Cindy under the old patchwork quilt their mum had made—and one of the few things Louisa had left behind when she’d abandoned them—watching the teen flicks her sister adored.

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