Page 21 of The Player's Obsession

Ever since I came up with the fake engagement plan, I’ve been walking with an extra bounce in my step. I can’t go to the weekend wedding alone. A fake engagement will solve my lack of a date for the wedding, and I can show Melanie that I’ve moved on, too. My mother will be happy again. Two issues will be fixed with one fake fiancée.

“That’s a funny combination, pizza, and gyros.”

“Tell me about it,” I chuckle, “but it’s the truth.”

Penelope is very pretty in a natural way. Her hair isn’t bleached out, and her nails are not acrylic. She’s barely wearing any makeup. She might have some blush or bronzer on her cheeks because she has a warm glow similar to the candlelight used as a centerpiece. I bet she only uses lip gloss when her lips are dry.

The only issue with the fake fiancée idea is that I’m not being honest with those closest to me, even if it is for the right reasons. I have an attractive woman in front of me who, I suspect, could benefit from a financial arrangement. Her apartment seems modest for a woman who works for a large company. She’s smart and hard-working, what’s not to like? I doubt anyone in my life will have met her, so when our arrangement ends, we can return to our lives as if nothing has happened. It’s that simple. I can do this.

CHAPTER10

Penelope

Dinner is going better than expected. I’m enjoying the food and find Oliver isn’t as demanding or grumpy as the rumors. Everything I read from old videos to social media, implied he used to be jovial, but lately, he has not been himself. I remember seeing a news story about him being dumped by his fiancée. This was months ago, but I don’t remember her name or the specifics.

Oliver’s voice is deep, and I love listening to him. The soothing sound is like a melody in a song that’s so catchy I want to play it repeatedly. He carries the conversation and smoothly transitions between topics. After talking about music, I am reminded there are a few years between us. Some of his favorite songs are from the Black Eyed Peas and Shaggy, who were popular before I was old enough to discover pop music.

I expected him to be all about himself since he’s built like a Greek god. I can only imagine his rock-hard body and bulging muscles extending to the part of his anatomy known to give me, I mean, women, hours of pleasure. I let myself entertain that thought for a moment and take another sip of wine to cool the fire in my panties.

What is wrong with me?

It’s been months since I’ve had a date and even longer since I had sex. While I was online shopping for a new vibrator, I realized Lucinda was right. I'll never get married if I don’t put myself on the market. I don’t know why I turned Oliver down the first time he asked me to dinner. Maybe I was suspicious his offer was out of pity because I was working during the holiday. Or maybe he has some weird fuck-the-maid fantasy. You can never be too careful. I know the jocks in high school had steady girlfriends, but college was more of a free for all.

Pro players tend to be older and wise enough to be choosier about who they date. They have money to sample the best of everything and money to buy it. We’ve all seen the photos on social media showcasing their over-the-top weddings and extravagant vacations. They go to restaurants I can’t afford and are seen with gorgeous models who have learned how to turn their fledgling careers into millions of dollars. I heard that airport and hotel vending machines now carry expensive lip gloss and mascara. I remember them having ibuprofen, sleeping aids, cold medications, and tampons.

The last woman I would picture with Oliver is—me. I never see athletes with women who have naturally large boobs and hips like mine. Most are with those bleached-bobblehead-Barbie types.

I’m smart, but my education hasn’t translated into large bonuses and promotions at Genzdime.

Oliver’s shoulders are squared, and his broad chest is neatly packaged in a snug but not tight dress shirt. I admit curiosity got the best of me while I was in his bedroom yesterday. I snooped and discovered everything had a name or logo stamped on it, some of which were new to me. I ran my fingers over his shirts and suits and was surprised at how soft and pliable the fabric felt. I assume all the players on the team can afford the best clothes and tailors that money can buy.

His wardrobe is arranged by shirt style and color, as are his pants and suits. These people have stylists, trainers, and dietitians to help them maintain what I call star power. I’m sure Oliver has someone to knock the chocolate mint ice cream pint out of his hand after a breakup.

When I spotted his shoe collection, I was both envious and appalled. The fact that he owns so many shoes and sneakers is a red flag. I can’t keep up with a man who can afford all this. It’s a crime he has more shoes than most women.

I’d love to be frivolous and throw a thousand dollars at a pair of red-bottom high heels. I loved the showCover Affairswith Piper Perabo. I swear her outfit and shoes had me tuning in weekly.

However, my life doesn’t come with any designer labels. My monthly clothing allowance is probably equivalent to what Oliver spends on takeout coffee. After my bills, I barely have enough to make it to my next paycheck. It’s true what investors say— we’re all three bad decisions away from living on the street. I need to be careful, I’ve already been sucked into one bad decision, and it depleted my savings account.

Tonight’s dinner continues with the standard game of twenty-one questions. It’s obvious we’re both on our best behavior. He tells me he has a younger brother, close in age, who also plays in the pros. His name is Michael, and he’s a defenseman.

“How did that happen? I mean, not many families can brag they have one professional athlete, let alone two. It’s rare, isn’t it?”

“Not as rare as you think. Hockey tends to have the most siblings playing on NHL teams. In the history of the NFL, there have been approximately ten families in which fathers, uncles, and sons played pro football. I have no idea if either were successful or had long careers.”

“Interesting,” I respond as a server comes by with our dinner and refills our wine glasses.

“This looks fantastic,” he says, lifting his knife and fork.

“Cow first?”

“Yes. If the steak isn’t cooked correctly, the meal is ruined. I check it first.”

Maybe I overshot my mark on him being grumpy?

I lift my utensils and cut into my steak, and it’s cooked medium rare, just the way I love it.

“How is yours?”

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