Page 34 of The Player's Obsession

Penelope

The way Oliver filled my doorframe, I’m surprised he didn’t hit his head on the way in. I have to confess–he’s so hot it’s hard not to stare at him. His soulful eyes have a way of drawing me in and might be the end of me. I don’t want to fall for him, but there’s no denying the heat between us. He pretends indifference, but occasionally, I catch glimpses of vulnerability. He keeps me on my toes. I defend myself with sassy retorts, and he’s amused by it! I should swallow my words and not challenge him, maybe then he wouldn’t continue to ask me questions. He’s my boss now. I need the money. I can’t piss him off.

I lock the door and text Oliver my email address for the first payment he owes me. I have an app for payments on my phone, which is not linked to my compromised bank account. For all I know, Carlo could be in bed with hackers. It’s a shame I have to think like a criminal, but if it comes down to me or him, I will do whatever it takes to survive. My first mistake was to keep him in my life. This time, his actions can’t be forgiven, and he knows this.

I need to think about moving to a more secure community when my lease is up. I don’t know who Carlo runs with, and I don’t want to know. I want to remove myself from the situation and do what it takes to make sure he can’t steal from me again. My apartment is vulnerable and surrounded at night by thugs selling drugs. It’s scary.

I need to vent. I call Lucinda.

“The nerve of that man.” I’m too worked up for pleasantries.

“Carlo? Nothing he does surprises me.” I hear a vacuum humming in the background. She’s working.

“No, I’m talking about Oliver.”

“Oh. In that case, tell me what happened and leave nothing out.” I swear she’s living vicariously through me, and I picture her with that bucket of popcorn again.

“He’s insufferable. Can you believe he’s giving me an allowance for clothing? He’s treating me like a charity case. The nerve.”

“Perish the thought of owning anything with a designer label,” she says in defense of her worship of all things Hermes. It started when an elderly client gifted her a slightly used Birkin bag before she passed. Lucinda could have sold it and pocketed the proceeds, but I think she likes the bag more than the money. She keeps it in a box of tissue paper and only brings it out for special occasions.

I cannot justify spending thousands of dollars on a handbag. In my opinion, it’s an invitation for a bump on the head.

If I had that kinda money, I’d go on vacation in Italy and stay at La Sirenuse. When I return home, if that is, I’d buy a really nice house. I’m way too practical to blow it all on name-brand stuff.

“I happen to love that Birkin and the little old lady who gave it to me.”

“I know you do. I didn’t mean to sound critical.”

It’s been so long since I had a good time. My fun muscles have atrophied along with my vagina. It’s as if I was in a coma and needed to learn how to walk again or, in my case, learn how to laugh again. Sadly, the dinner with Oliver has been the highlight of my year.

Now there’s a man who spares no expense when it comes to stuff. Nothing could have prepared me for the size and beauty of his house. His bathroom alone is the size of my apartment. It’s the first time I’ve seen a floating vanity with the lighting under the cabinet. According to Lucinda, it’s the latest trend in upscale homes. Her staff cleans a lot of Airbnbs, so she sees it all.

Oliver is also a man who loves his fashion. He drives a top-of-the-line BMW and spares no expense when it comes to food and wine. He can afford anything his heart desires.

I did look him up. I know, curiosity killed the cat and all that. Let’s hope I have nine lives. At this point, I’m convinced the universe is conspiring against me. With no self-esteem or sex life, I am pathetic.

“I know you didn’t,” she reassures me. “I want to meet this tight end. I can’t believe you’re dating a professional football player.”

“It’s pretend,” I remind her, “and you can’t tell anyone. I have to sign some stupid contract swearing I won’t tell anyone our secrets.”

“I’m looking at his photos online. He’s gorgeous. I’d do him.”

“Lucinda.” I feign shock, knowing she’s teasing. We both love tall men, but we’d never break girl code and go after the same guy.

“So, tell me what happened today.”

“I asked him if the deal was still on the table, and he assured me it was. He seemed happy when I accepted.”

“Mm. I’m convinced he likes you, and he’s using this to get in your pants,” she replies. The noise in the background turns to silence.

“No, there’s no way. I’m not a Victoria Secret model. I have nothing in common with the other football wives and girlfriends. I’ve seen their social media feeds. There’s no way I’m fitting into that group.” I have large hips and boobs. It’s hard to find clothes that fit, and I’m sure I’m bigger-boned than most of the women I’ll meet this weekend.

“Stop being so negative about yourself. Football players date and marry all types of women.”

“True.” Am I really that depressing? Yikes. The past few months have thrown me for a loop. Getting out and socializing has always helped to pull me out of a funk. “By the way, he dropped off his jersey for me to wear to the game.”

“Oh, goodie, I can’t wait to see you in it. I’m taking pictures.”

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