Page 11 of The Player's Obsession

This whole scheme would be far simpler if I already knew someone who could convincingly play the part of a fake fiancée. There are plenty of women out there who would jump at the chance to spend a weekend in my company. I don’t need this woman thinking I’m the answer to her problems or her milestone of success in snagging one of the most eligible bachelors in the NFL.

“Will this work?”

“You’re not getting Melanie back, but you can hold your head high with a comparable woman on your arm and a huge rock on her finger,” he huffs. “A rock bigger than the sparkler you bought for her will make a statement.”

“You’re diabolical,” I chuckle.

“I know how to play the game.” I picture him grinning from ear to ear.

What am I thinking? I’m never at a loss for available women. But there is a difference between the women in my stable and Penelope.

“I’ll consider it.”

“Oh hell, Oliver. Rip the Band-Aid off and get on with your life. The past is the past.”

“You’re right,” I concede, my mind reeling over his outrageous suggestion.

“Did you see how depressed Mom was at Christmas?”

“Yeah, that’s a problem for another day.”

“Dad said she was so set on my wedding, and it was her motivation for recovering and working to get that hip moving.”

“Yeah, it’s not on you. Shit happens. Don’t take responsibility for Mom’s depression. I’m sure she’ll come out of it.”

I wish I were convinced of it. But I’m not. I know Mom is stubborn, and when you have your eye on the prize, and it evaporates as you reach the finish line, it’s devastating.

It’s what I imagine losing in the Super Bowl must feel like. It’s every sport. I still remember Marchand’s face on the bench after losing the playoffs against the worst team in hockey. He’s had a few years of losing before the finals, and it is enough to make a man cry. For a man who can be an asshole, that’s a picture.

My mind turns back to Penelope, the girl who caught my eye while dancing with my vacuum cleaner.

I like her spunk; her quick-witted comebacks give me a reason to smile. I like the fact she’s not swooning at my feet. Who doesn’t need money? She’s working two jobs. It’s obvious she could use more money. What could go wrong?

A voice over the speaker at the drive-thru gets my attention, and I order the chicken combo meal with iced tea. I pull up to the first window to pay and drive to the next to grab my bagged meal.

It starts to snow again. The drive home is quiet except for the rhythmic slap of the windshield wipers and the country music station playing on the speakers, which adds ambiance to the otherwise static drive home. As my mind drifts, I wonder what Penelope is doing.

I park in the garage and drop my food on the kitchen counter next to my laptop. I sit on a barstool chair, open the laptop to Google Penelope on the Genzdime company website, and search social media for her.

She’s single, it appears. Ah, I see one account she has a few pictures with Lucinda. So, they are good friends. This must be how she arrived at my house today. Lucinda said she was sick, and her good friend Penelope helped her out in a pinch. That tells me she has a good heart.

Or was she cleaning because she needed the cash? There’s good money in pharmaceuticals, so I can’t imagine she needs to work a second job. Her LinkedIn account shows she earned her degrees in New York, Columbia. Wow! Pricey. Living in the city is expensive, and college loans are no joking matter. I’ll save looking for her parents for later. I’m getting hungry, and the food smells good.

I sip some tea, open the BBQ chicken, and dig in. I’m famished. It came with sides of coleslaw, mashed potatoes, and cornbread. I need to cook more and eat out less. My trainer and chef are off this week. I have frozen meals for nights like this, but sometimes I can’t be bothered to defrost and heat them in the microwave. Plus, tonight, I was craving something different.

My phone pings, and my heart flutters. I check my phone without touching it because my fingers are covered with Memphis Sweet BBQ sauce. It’s my favorite because the honey mustard is on the tangy side. It makes the insides of my cheeks pucker.

Her text flashes on the phone screen. I see her address. I pick up a wet nap, clean my fingers, and search online for more information. I find her in the reverse lookup, and her family tree pops up. Bingo. Her parents are in New York working, and she has a brother, Carlo.

I wonder what he does. I click on his name and find he has multiple addresses everywhere. That’s not a sign of stability. I shelve my snooping for the night and quickly check my stock investments before I finish my dinner.

I toss my meal containers out and wipe the countertop with a soapy sponge. Fine. You got me, I’m a neat freak. It’s logical my home is perfect all the time. It’s also efficient. I’m gone half the time with football season. Besides, I’m a freaking billionaire.

I could live on the water in Portland, but it’s too far to commute. I have a 30-foot speed boat with five outboard motors. My brother and I love to take her out. I have a captain drive the boat so we can relax and not run a hundred-thousand-dollar boat aground on some sandbar. And if we want to drink, we don’t have to worry about getting pulled over by the marine patrol.

I reach for my phone, move into the massive living room with a huge TV screen on the wall, and turn on the stock news. Satisfied with my gains for the day, I turn on an old football series and kick back to relax, wondering where I’m to take her for dinner. It’s too cold and too far for a trip to an Oceanside place. Leon’s Steak House comes to mind. It’s on the Moose River, not far from the stadium, and the city streets are lined with upscale boutiques. I’ll reserve a table overlooking the river. Satisfied with my idea, I promptly call Penelope.

The phone rings. Will she pick it up? Why am I worried? Of course, she’ll pick up, I’m Oliver Rowe.

---