Page 1 of The Player's Obsession

CHAPTER1

Oliver

Last night, I was shouting into an answering machine. My house hasn’t been cleaned. I was pissed. I like a routine. Perhaps it’s why I’m a great football player. We have formations and plays I’ve run for years. It’s about precision, and there are statistics.

I wake up to my phone ringing.

“Hello?”

“We don’t normally clean holiday week, Mr. Rowe.”

A secretary answers? This isn’t good enough.

“Where is Lucinda? She takes my calls,” I bark as I plant my feet on the floor and stand. It seems wrong to talk to a woman I don’t know when I’m naked.

I walk to my massive closet, locate my joggers, and tug them on while I wait.

“I’ll see what I can do. She’s sick with the flu—it’s going around.”

“I’ll pay double the usual rare—it’s the holidays.” Money talks, especially to a small business or a maid who needs extra money for credit card bills used to float the holidays.

“Can you find someone?” I groan. “I’ll be away for a few days and want the place smelling of lavender ASAP.”

“It’s a huge holiday, Mr. Rowe.”

“Well, it needs to get done. Today.” I’m being an asshole to the woman who probably makes minimum wage and is probably a stay-at-home mom working from home. There has to be someone who will work this week.The world can’t shut down because of Santa Fucking Claus. Bah Humbug.

“I’ll do my best,” the secretary says. “I’ll inform Lucinda.”

I hang up without a cursorythank youorhappy holiday. Courtesy isn’t my strong suit.

I should consider myself fortunate someone bothered to return my phone call. Lucinda, the Maids R Us owner, runs a tight ship; her professionalism and reliability are why I keep coming back. It’s a shame she’s sick. She doesn’t know I appreciate her service because I’m not one to give out compliments. My expectations are unrealistic. I know this about myself, and it’s the reason I appreciate people when they exceed my expectations.

I have my house cleaned when I’m not here. I don’t want to talk to anyone. I like things the way I want them, with or without holidays. It’s like going to my favorite drive-thru for breakfast and finding out that I missed the timeframe by one minute. I’ve waited for fifteen minutes to be disappointed, and I’m stuck with lunch selections when my heart is set on the cinnamon French toast.

I glance around my palatial home in Springhill Estates. Many of my teammates live here. I have one of the largest homes in the neighborhood. I invested in robotics years ago. I happen to own many shares of the only research and development company making robots and robotic dogs for law enforcement and military personnel. I thought robotics was a practical solution to life’s larger problems in society, and it paid off. Various levels of government have tried our products and helped to fine-tune them. Now, there are saleable products. The word is that government contracts will come to fruition next year. The company's stock shot to the point that I’m a billionaire. It’s scary how a small decision that only requires a yes or no answer can stack up millions of dollars.

I look at my phone and check social media. The object of my desire posted tons of pictures over the past month. Who wants to get married on New Year's Day?

Me. It should have been my wedding. My mom was looking forward to the fact that I was making a long-term commitment. The thought of grandchildren kept her going earlier this year when she underwent a hip replacement. Her goal was to walk for our wedding.

She made it, and then her hopes and dreams were dashed. She’s fallen into a depression. The holiday dinner with Mom and Dad and my brother, Michael, was a nightmare. Mom is living in the past. Maybe I led her on with the promise I’d win my fiancée back, and everything would return to normal.

She resists medication for fear of weight gain—a concern I share, as I’m not one to pop pills either, no matter the pain. Blaming myself is easy, but the truth is, my life capsized when a new teammate arrived earlier this year.

The chemistry was instant between Nathan and my then-fiancée. Our gatherings soon devolved into heated arguments as she flirted with him—was it my jealousy, or was it real? Our relationship crumbled not long after.

Had he not joined the team, my life would have been less complicated, and my mother would have been her old self. Now I think finding a new girlfriend might lift her spirits. My parents supported my football dreams. I owe them, especially Mom. She held fast to the belief that I'd succeed, and I did. I owe her more than I can ever repay, and it isn’t money she needs—both my parents come from wealth.

If he hadn’t come to our team, my life would not be complicated, and Mom wouldn’t be depressed. I need to find a girlfriend. Maybe if I find a girlfriend, I think Mom will pop out of her depression.

However, a wife and the possibility of grandchildren before she’s too old to play with them would be a sacrifice I’d be willing to make. It’s not that I don’t want a wife— it’s the fact I’m single and stuck in the past. A fake fiancée makes perfect sense.

I wonder if there is a business for it, if not, it might be a good idea. God knows we are surrounded by women with fake boobs and a hefty pre-marital settlement when everything goes to shit. Of course, I’d want a pre-nup. Hell, even Kevin Costner had that, and his wife is still trying to fuck him. His first marriage ended with him giving away half of everything, and he was left without a place to come home to when the dust settled.

A fake fiancée or even a girlfriend might perk Mom up without pills.

I reminisce about Christmas spent with my family this past week. My brother, Michael, plays on a team out West, and then there’s Mom and Dad. Mom’s cooking is the best. She has a secret spice she rubs into the prime rib with butter, making it the best I’ve ever had. I can afford the best restaurants, and my personal chef would have a heart attack if he saw what I shoved in my mouth this week. I had to have some homemade pie, and there were enough sweets to give the tooth fairy a cavity.

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