The Player's Obsession A Fake Fiance Accidental Pregnancy Romance: Maine Megalodons, page 1
THE PLAYER’S OBSESSION
MAINE MEGALODONS FOOTBALL SERIES
ZOE BETH GELLER
KINKY INK PUBISHING
Copyright © 2023 by Zoe Beth Geller
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Also By Zoe Beth Geller
About the Author
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Also By Zoe Beth Geller
About the Author
CHAPTER 1
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 cursory thank you or happy 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.
The only person missing was my other half—the woman who said yes to marrying me.
Memories of her are as vivid as yesterday's sunrise. Her smile, that squeal of pure delight when a jewelry box came into view—it's all etched in my mind. I cherished our long weekends in Kennebunkport, the quiet respite at my parents' place during the holidays, surrounded by luxury that only the finest hotels could offer. The spas, the gourmet meals, and the allure of far-flung places were an escape from the relentless buzz of social media and the grind of football.
But now, the holiday spirit has fizzled out. I didn't even put up a tree. I'm rarely home, keeping the ghosts at bay with workouts at the gym, laps in the neighborhood pool,
At the country club, I keep to the shadows. I avoid the probing eyes of fans-turned-neighbors who might glimpse my morose state and inquire why I’m no longer with Melanie.
Our secret getaways used to be the perfect ruse, a hideaway so clever it often went unnoticed. And yet, there were times when a familiar face would appear, and together we'd watch the games unfold on massive screens, immersed in the camaraderie I now find elusive.
I used to attend parties at teammates' homes, and we would toss around investment ideas. At times we might loosely discuss the current women in our lives. Some of the guys have wives and kids. I thought I would have that soon, but I’m back to square one. I’ve been set up on dates since the breakup, but I never discovered a woman I found to be noteworthy. I thought it was too soon to date. Now, I’m not sure there is anyone for me.
I glance around the kitchen, grabbing the keys to my large SUV, phone, and wallet before I walk out the kitchen door. I grab my coat in the mud room and continue to walk through a wing that leads to the three-car garage.
I open the garage door and let the truck run as the heat blasts. I rub my hands together as I sit in the driver's seat. This isn’t the way I envisioned the New Year. I back out of my long driveway and make the drive to the training center for practice.
I park, and it's quiet out here. It’s unnerving. The only sound I hear is the crunching of the snow under my shoes. It’s the type of day where I’d probably stay inside as it’s endless gray skies, and I’d rather be home lounging around because it looks like snow is imminent.
I usually run into teammates before I make it inside the building. But not today. I assume the team is jazzed and here earlier than normal. We had a few days over Christmas to recover for the season's last weeks. We have one game before the playoffs, but it’s meaningless. We’re locked into the playoffs.
The frost of New England may bite, but the chill of Maine gnaws to the bone. As I step into the locker room, the familiar chill of another sort grips me when I swipe through my phone. There she is, the woman who haunts my idle moments—her social media ablaze with the glow of her pre-wedding escapades. Laced with blonde highlights, her amber hair seems to catch the Alpine sun. She's all about the après-ski life, cozied up by firelight in luxurious saunas and chateaus. Ironic, considering her aversion to the slopes.
It's maddening, this fixation I have on her when my energy should be channeled into seeking someone new.
The locker room pulsates with energy, a mélange of half-dressed athletes gearing up for the day. My gaze cuts through the room, landing on Nathan Cole. There he stands, cleat propped on the bench, arm akimbo—a living sculpture of athletic prowess. The whispers of his bachelor revelries reached me. I was conspicuously absent from the festivities. Yet, I find an invitation to his wedding in my locker—an event where I should be the groom.
A wedding that should have been a chapter in my story is now a page in someone else's book. It's not just that he claimed my fiancée—fate didn't grant me the luxury of a clean break. Now, I'm entwined in their narrative, unable to sever the ties.
He upended my world, yet I maintain the façade of indifference. I've withdrawn into myself, no longer the spirited soul of the offensive line. His arrival as a defenseman—a boon for the team—was my personal downfall, propelling us to the apex of the Eastern Conference yet leaving my private life in shambles.
Nathan's stature is as immense as our former camaraderie. Should a woman cleave such a bond? It seems she has. My loyalty to the team remains, but the friendship? It's benched. A Super Bowl victory might mandate forgiveness, the weight of the ring compelling a truce. But today is not that day.
I sidestep Travis, freshly minted in matrimonial bliss—quietly, unceremoniously. Why couldn't Nathan have followed suit?
"Hey, Oliver, how's it going?" Travis's voice breaks through my reverie.
"Great," I lie, my smile as forced as the enthusiasm in my voice. "Excitement's in the air with the playoffs looming."
He claps a hand on my shoulder, his easy grin a stark contrast to my strained one. "Stay sharp, man. We need your A-game," he says.
I can’t help but smile at the milestone of our achievement. We’re a young team, and it’s noteworthy that we’ve come this far. We’ve made a name for the team and won’t be taken lightly next year.
“You got that right.” He slaps my shoulder as I pause. “Get open for me, man. I’m in my zone,” he quips again. He’s a charismatic man, the type of man whose infectious voice and vigor can turn the tide of a grueling match.
The games that are in the scorching Florida sun, or the ones that are so cold I’m afraid my nuts will freeze off, are the ones you remember. Then we have the games where we knew in the first quarter that we were going to have our asses handed to us, but we have to play like we can still win. Those are the toughest for me. I hate losing. It’s a bitter pill I’ve never learned to swallow with grace. What athlete does?
Maybe that’s why the breakup earlier this year makes me so miserable. I’ve been groomed to know that football and life are about winning. Dad loves a winner. I have no clue about enjoying the journey along the way—those moments can’t be put in a column. There’s no way to quantify them. Life for me is a series of objectives and a relentless drive forward because, in my world, winners never rest, and they certainly never quit.
I’m envious of Travis. He has his professional and personal life figured out. I have no clue how to do that. I have no idea how to achieve it.
“The new year is coming. Let’s make it ours,” he exclaims as we high-five each other, and various members of the team chime in with it.
“Let’s go,” Nathan yells. Nathan looks like he just tumbled out of bed—the epitome of casual confidence, his disheveled look adding to his allure. He has a perfect beard, and his hair is a tad longer than I would like for myself. But hey, who am I to judge?
He's jubilant, riding the high of impending nuptials with the woman who was once mine.
On days like this, I'm acutely aware of the solitude that accompanies my success.
CHAPTER 2
Penelope
As I munch on my lunch, the sports channel replays familiar scenes. The infamous clip of Oliver Rowe hurling his helmet in frustration after a botched catch is now just background noise. It wasn't until weeks later that the plot thickened—his fiancée popping up in a teammate's social media feed. I bet that locker room is awkward.
I can’t imagine what that’s like, but With the kind of money he has, consolation is just a shopping spree away.
My life was going great when I got here. My bills were manageable. I took this job mainly to distance myself from my family. My parents live their lives in denial about the obvious dysfunction in the family. I’m the only one with common sense, and I began to see how I was being used. Tired of the dramatic roller coaster, I couldn’t wait to move away. I hate being the only adult in the family and being used by people. Leaving New York was like shedding a second skin woven from drama and disillusion. Maine is my fortress of solitude, where the past is a closed chapter. I closed the door on all the drama and bullshit.
