Third and Long: A Sports Romance (9 page)

So that leaves me with two options: stick around in Rome where my picture will be the epicenter of celebrity gossip or take off to a fabulously expensive mansion for a few days.

As Gwen told me: The Party Girls are going to be too hungover to work on a Sunday, and you’ll be back by Monday.

She also told me: I’ll chop your balls off if you don’t go.

My best friend seems a bit confused about female anatomy.

For the record I told him no at least ten times. Logan always gets what he wants.

The Oliver family mansion lies somewhere between Rome and Houston. Closer to Houston really. Logan picked me up in a limousine some time after the game against Ole Miss. Ever since waving goodbye to me, Gwen’s been texting me furiously to see how it’s going. From the back of the Oliver family limousine, I text her a status update.

Dirt road. Wide open countryside. He’s looking at me.

I text the scene quickly to Gwen and drop my phone into my lap. It’s well after 10 p.m. The game between the Lions and the Rebels started fairly late, and Logan had typical press conference stuff afterward. We left for his parents mansion as soon as possible. The Oliver family’s personal driver picked us up.

I felt quite ridiculous leaving my apartment in the same skinny jeans and red Lions shirt that I wore to the game, but Gwen assured me I’d be fine. She also assured me that I’d be sucking his cock by the time we got to the mansion. It took a bit of explaining that friends don’t go down on each other. She called me an amateur. No matter how many times I tell her that I’m only doing this guy a favor, she reaffirms her conviction that my drought might soon be over.

Logan Oliver III sits on the opposite side of the limousine’s cabin. He didn’t explain his reasons, but asked me to sit away from him. Out on the track and on the football field, he was only Logan, the cute boy who took me on a date. In the back of his parents’ limousine on the long winding drive out to the middle of nowhere? He is definitely “The Third” as his teammates call him.

Don’t fuck this up Tam. He’s a chill guy. Enjoy the weekend. I’m peanut butter.

What?

Way out in the distance over the wide open countryside, lightning strikes. Even though the storm looks to be coming this way, it’s always hard to tell in Texas. I’m grateful for anything that’ll help me make embarrassing small talk with Logan’s parents.

It was in the middle of the game against Ole Miss that Gwen finally convinced me to take a vacation. She texted Logan after the game and made him promise again that he wasn’t trying to get me into bed like I was some cheerleader.

He swore up and down that he would be a perfect gentlemen. I suppose sitting on the other side of the limo is symbolic of the fact that he isn’t going to try and take advantage of me. While he’s a nice guy and a good kisser, we’d never work together. He’s a handsome, sexy, successful guy that I have absolutely nothing in common with. Besides I don’t need the drama that comes with his lifestyle.

And jelly
.

I cringe at Gwen’s joke, but she’s right. This is the trip of a lifetime. The mansion of a billionaire playboy athlete. I’m like one of those girls who grows up in a small town only to find out they’re a Russian princess or some shit. Without the princess part. Meanwhile my prince sits on the other side of the cabin, not in a three piece suit, but in a pair of basketball shorts and a sweat stained white tank top. A real sign of romance if you ask me.

Gwen’s jealous because she’d be on top of him already. I’m not wired that way. For all the protestations I make against dating in general, I am an old-school romantic. I’ll allow love in on my own terms when the time is right. I’d like to be swept off my feet by a real Romeo some day. While Logan is Mr. Charismatic Hot Body, today is not that day.

At first he didn’t want to tell me the name of the girl his parents were trying to marry him off to. I told him before getting into the limo that I wouldn’t be going anywhere unless he told me. Since then I’ve been thinking: why go for the reserved chocolate-haired nerd when your parents want to set you up with the rich, blonde, sun-kissed goddess?

Not that this is anything more than a favor. Don’t confuse my motives here. Logan promised me a getaway, a make up for that awful shit the
South Texas Dirty
wrote about me.

I’m still not over that. It may not be his fault technically, but I haven’t forgiven him. At the same time that’s a big part of the reason that I decided to get out of town. Both Logan and Gwen agreed that the paparazzi are going to be looking for the girl in the blurry picture.

The major question on every Texas photographer’s mind right now is: “who’s that girl?” There’s no footage on me. No pulse. No heartbeat. If they had any sense at all, they’d go to the university’s library and find out all they need to know. Logan’s usual girls are open books online. I’m not one to post everything I eat for breakfast on Instagram.

Gwen is more than happy to deal with the paparazzi for a few days. My roommate has every intention of basking in the attention. I expect to see her on the front page of the
Dirty,
cranberry vodka in hand, looking a hot mess.

In the end Logan will probably have to marry Katerina. Our little game is only going to buy him some time. His parents aren’t dumb. They’ll see through our fake engagement. When he pitched this insane plan to me this morning, Logan kept mentioning the draft. If he gets into the pros, then he feels like he can dictate life on his own terms. Not his father’s. What family would disown a superstar athlete pulling in millions upon millions of dollars?

I’ve not met Logan’s father obviously, yet given what I’ve heard of him, he already intimidates me. It’s so strange. My parents are essentially absent. I’ve been on my own for years. Meanwhile, Logan can hardly get a cold without his parents asking why.

For the entire ride out from Rome, my fake fiancé has been supremely quiet. At times he’s looked at me, at times he’s stared blankly out the window.

“Hey behind you,” he says suddenly.

I look over my shoulder to see his parents mansion rising in the distance. The damn place is huge. The open countryside I texted Gwen about starts to fall away to pastures for cattle or horses. Eventually the dirt turns to brick. Curved, ornate street lights dot the pathway up the mansion.

That’s when I start to panic. There’s no way I can pretend to be Logan’s fiancée! I barely know anything about him. There’s no way his parents are going to be dumb enough to fall for this idiotic idea for even a second. The one time I allow myself to relax, and I get roped up in the idiotic ploy of a big dumbass like Logan.

“Shouldn’t you have been asking me questions and stuff this whole time?” I ask him.

Logan’s vibrant blue eyes pop even in the dark of the limo. He smirks.

“So I can fool my parents?” he asks.

“Sure.”

“Why are you such a workaholic?”

“Because I came from nothing and I’ve worked for everything.”

Logan rolls his eyes.

“Dude, you’re a billionaire. I’m from Eden.”

“What the hell’s in Eden?”

“A prison.”

“Let me guess your dad’s in prison?”

“No!” I say with all the conviction of a child caught stealing. “Okay. Yes. He is in prison.”

“What did he do?” Logan ask.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“What do you mean?”

“You want to know why I’m a workaholic? I’m not going to end up working a dead end job in a shitty town where going to jail actually seems preferable.”

“Fair enough,” he says.

It’s not the whole story of my parents, but my fake fiancée hardly needs to know everything.

The moon hangs behind some clouds, so spotlights light up the front brick facade of the mansion. There’s a circular driveway that pulls up to a great oaken door in the center of the house.

I’m practically drooling when I turn around to look at the size of the place. It stretches on for longer than I can see in the dark. I must look like every thirsty girl angling to get a piece of the Oliver fortune. Except for the part about how I don’t want one cent of his money. I’m here purely as a favor. Not that I’m a big fan of leisure either.

It’s only two days. I can survive two days. A favor for a friend and then I can get back to work.

“What about you? Tell me something about yourself,” I say.

“I have two parents and two sisters,” Logan says.

“Names?”

“Well you might be surprised to hear this but my dad is also named Logan,” he says, reminding me that he’s the Third. “My mom is Jessica and my sisters are Carolyn and Jillian.”

“Are your sisters anything like you?”

“No they don’t play football.”

“I mean—”

He smiles, “No they aren’t at all. And you won’t meet them. They’re attending university in Paris.”

“Oh right I forgot. You’re a billionaire,” I say as if I needed a reminder, pulling around in front of the biggest house I’ve ever seen.

I told The Party Girls that they better have a product idea by the time Monday rolls around. Gwen made me promise not to even think about them while I’m away. I told her that wasn’t likely, but when the limo arrives at the front of the Oliver mansion, I realize that it’s actually going to be quite easy to forget those useless idiots for a few days.

His parents are waiting for us by that great oaken door. Logan II is wearing a suit and Jessica, his mother, is wearing a modest dress. Either way we are both vastly under dressed for the occasion. I’m regretting my decision to stay in my Lions red.

Gwen packed a weekend bag for me. She wouldn’t tell me what was in it. I made her promise to throw in some jeans and t-shirts. Everything else I left up to her. It was the only way I could get past the anxiety of planning for a trip the likes of which I’ve never taken. A good solid dose of anxiety runs through me again as the limo comes to a complete stop.

Game face Tamber. Do Logan a favor, pretend to be his fiancée. I start to wonder what I’m getting out of all of this. A weekend getaway may not be worth the trouble.

Before the limo driver lets us out, Logan bounds across the cabin and comes to a rest on his knee. He fishes something out of his pocket.

“Tamber Long?” he asks. “I know we’re just friends, but will you fake marry me?”

I blush. Even though it’s a complete joke, I blush.

“Yes, Logan Oliver.”

“The Third,” he reminds me.

In a velvet box he shows me the biggest diamond that I’ve ever seen. He slides it slowly onto my finger, and for a brief moment, I catch myself wishing that this were real. To my complete and utter shock, the ring fits perfectly.

“Good guess,” he says.

CHAPTER TEN

Logan

As expected Mom and Dad looked pissed as all hell. They’re all dressed up this late at night for a reason: to make an impression, to make a point. Mom called me frantically after I broke the news to dad. She couldn’t understand and didn’t believe me. I recited some fortune cookie shit at her about true love laying where you least expect it.

I’m shocked that she believe me. They follow all the shit the paparazzi write about me. Granted I did basically tell them the truth about how I met Tamber. The only part I embellished on is how our first date went. Whether they truly believe me doesn’t matter as much as whether they are willing to drop this whole Katerina Prescott business.

Make it to draft day. Get into the pros as a single man. No father is going to disown a son who plays football professionally. It would look terrible for him, and all his business partners would hate to miss out on the access I could give. Sometimes I think the reason that my dad doesn’t want me to play in the pros is that he doesn’t want me to have any leverage on him.

Fake engagement aside, Tamber is so fucking hot. Somehow she doesn’t even have a clue that she’s hotter than a volcano. I sat on the other side of the limo the entire way from Rome to my parents house because I had the world’s hardest erection. From the moment Tamber got in until the moment we got to my parents, my damn cock wouldn’t cooperate.

I promised that I wouldn’t make a move on her, so I had to separate myself. I wanted to kiss her, touch her, fuck her. The adrenaline from the game still courses through my body. I feel uncontrollable, like a wild animal. Put me in a room alone with Tamber right now, and we would make hot, nasty love.

Gregory, the limo driver, parks as close to the front door as he can, yet my parents make it clear that we will be coming to them. They don’t move from the front door, so as soon as Gregory lets us out, I take Tamber by the hand with as much confidence as I can muster. Fortunately, the ring looks great on her hand. I hold her close to me, hoping that it doesn’t bother her. She’s a good sport and plays along.

Our fingers interlock. I can feel her pulse, her trepidation. It’s adorable. She’s actually afraid. My dad might be a dick, but he doesn’t bite. Much.

“Son,” dad says as we walk up the brick steps toward my childhood home.

Mom doesn’t say a word. She gives Tamber the stare of death. I feel bad for her. At least it’s all pretend right?