The Fake Zone: A Fake Dating Sports Romance (Oleander Springs Series Book 3)

“Greyson!” Mr. Potter, another booster, approaches me with his wife at his side. They own a jewelry store in Oleander Springs, and I whisper the fact to Mila to ensure she feels included. I want to whisper more things to her—brush my mouth against her ear, breathe in her perfume’s light scent, and study how she leans closer as though feeling the same damn pull that I do—but I straighten my shoulders and smile in greeting.

I kissed Mila.

I kissed her, and she kissed me back, and now all I can think about is how damn badly I want to do it again.

“So glad to see you,” Mr. Potter says, shaking my hand.

I nod. “You as well. This is my date, Mila Atwool.”

Mr. Potter smiles warmly at her. “It’s so nice to meet you. My name’s Al, and this is my lovely wife, Therese.”

Mila beams in response, taking his hand and then Mrs. Potter’s.

“What a final game,” Mrs. Potter says. “We weren’t able to make it down because we had a conference in Michigan, but we recorded it and have watched it twice. It was a great way to end an amazing season.”

“Thank you. I really appreciate your support. We all do,” I say, placing a hand on Mila’s back, feeling the curve of her spine, the gentle cadence of her breaths, and the warmth of her radiating through my palm.

“Were you able to watch the game?” Mr. Potter asks Mila.

She nods. “I went to Florida to watch.”

“Oh,” Mr. Potter says, exchanging a look with his wife and then me. “So, not just a date.”

I should probably clarify, but I probably shouldn’t have kissed her, either. There are no rules tonight, only exceptions, and I’m taking full advantage.

“Brenda, where’s Scott?” Mr. Potter says, greeting another couple. “Come. Let me introduce you to Greyson Meyers and his girlfriend, Mila Atwool. In a couple of years, we’ll be watching this guy on Sunday night football, telling our friends we met him.”

I pose for pictures and sign a couple of autographs before they continue, and another booster, Mr. Wheeler, a local architect, greets us, striking a pose that I think is supposed to be of me from our recent bowl game.

“You had a phenomenal season, son. Is this your girlfriend? What a handsome couple you make. What’s your name? Do you attend Camden?” He offers his hand to Mila.

She smiles, all grace as she fields his barrage of questions, every bit the affluent, cultured bombshell I was introduced to two and a half years ago at Hudson’s dorm.

I wait for her to make a cutting or sarcastic comment about me, point out my obsessive workouts or lack of a personal life, but instead, she has him eating out of the palm of her hand. He accepts each of her smiles like tokens at an arcade, which has him telling her more stories of his life and business. When she interrupts to tell him how ads with my face would help his business, he begins prospecting all the ways he can market the idea, planning an entire year of goals that include me and all the ways our new “partnership” will take off.

Twenty minutes later, he parts with us after exchanging contact information and plans to meet next week.

I turn to Mila. Since meeting her, I’ve known she was an enigma, but tonight confirms as much. “I appreciate what you did there, but you don’t have to do that. You don’t have to sell me.”

Those incredible blue-grey eyes flash to me. “You don’t talk yourself up at all.”

I don’t have a chance to say more before another booster greets us, and then another, each time Mila is flawless, orchestrating every conversation to the tune set by our audience.

“Let’s get something to drink,” I say, setting my hand on Mila’s back as a party of ten parts from us. They’re all smiling, dazzled by Mila’s charms, and we’ve set up a meeting with Mr. Barnhardt to play Topgolf with Mila next week.

“I don’t want to sound unappreciative because I am, but this isn’t why I asked you to come,” I say, trying to keep my voice quiet.

She turns, looking mildly offended. “All you’re doing is talking about Krueger and how great of a coach he is. You’re missing opportunities to promote yourself.”

“Because Krueger staying as our head coach is the priority.”

“We can achieve both.” Her voice is a hushed whisper.

“Greyson. You’re just the person I was looking for.” Linus Kemp’s eyes spark with recognition as he and Emma appear in front of us.

I place a hand on Mila’s back, hearing Hudson’s warning.

“Nice to see you, Mr. Kemp. Emma. Please, meet my girlfriend, Mila Atwool.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Mr. Kemps says, shaking her hand. “Have you two had a chance to try the food? Every time I look up, people are surrounding you.”

Mila’s chin notches up. “A lot of people are interested in Grey representing their businesses. He had a stellar season. Everyone knows and wants him.” Her gaze slides to Emma.

“Isn’t that the truth?” he says. “You’ve become quite the hot commodity. Oh, before I forget, I have to ask. Did I see you downtown this week at the arena for the fight between Stephens and Ford?” His gaze sparks with something as he looks at me.

The question comes out of left field. “I was only there as a spectator. I didn’t participate.” The guarded response makes me sound guilty as fuck, but besides having a difficult time getting employed, participating in other sports could get me kicked off of the team.

“Of course. But that was you, right? Down in Stephens’s corner. Down with his trainers.”

I nod. “We grew up together.”

“What a small world,” Linus says. “That was quite a loss.”

Abe held his own far longer than I expected. For a short while, I even thought he might win. “It was a tough loss.”

“Do you know how to fight? Did you train?” His eyes gleam. I’m sure he’s about to share a story about his days in college.

“I did train, but I don’t fight.” It’s a lie, but I have a feeling if I tell Mr. Kemp the entire truth, this conversation will become a scatter play.

“Of course.” He looks bereft. “And Stephens has a brother. Cole Stephens, is that correct?”

I nod, uncomfortable by the bridge he’s building between the two halves of my life with Mila here to pay witness.

Mr. Kemp nods. “I’ve heard he’s quite the fighter. That he has a left roundhouse that’s unstoppable.”

I nod. “He’s going places.”

Mr. Kemp nods. “I can’t wait to see it.” He grins and steps forward, placing a hand on my shoulder. “But back to business. Florida was great. Wasn’t it? I mean, that game couldn’t have gone better.”

“Coach Krueger was a huge asset. I was telling Mr. Potter how instrumental and effective he is as a coach.”

Mr. Kemp’s face is almost grim as he nods, forced to accept the reality.

“If they had made it to the final game, they would have won,” Mila says, letting the words hang in the space between us—allowing Mr. Kemp to draw conclusions about what prevented us from the opportunity. All of us know Peters benching two of our starting players caused us to lose a critical game.

We continue making small talk, Mila dazzling him and then acting impressed as he explains his company’s ventures and accomplishments. She recalls details that she peppers into the conversation to keep him talking, guiding him toward the topic of sponsorships. Once again, it’s as though she’s tricked him into thinking it’s his idea when she laid out the vision and details pertinent to the plan. She doesn’t stop at the blueprints, ensuring I’m on his calendar—at his office—to finalize the deal.

“I’ll be there,” Emma says, smiling.

Mila carries the conversation back to football and Camden, how amazing both are, how much Mr. Kemp benefits the school, and how excited we are for spring ball.

I realize the very worst place to be would to be on Mila’s bad side because she’s a mastermind.

Mr. Kemp parts, noting how late the hour is. He’s smiling wider than he had when greeting us as Emma follows him with a growing frown.

Mila turns to me, and I don’t recognize her expression, only that she’s nervous as she bites that spot low on the inside of her lip again. I’m about to launch into an apology, try to explain that I had been debating inviting her even before Emma because these events are unsettling and ruthless, and I’d wanted someone who’d join in making jokes and heckling the night that often felt like a cattle show.

“You lied to him. You know how to fight.” Her words take me by surprise. “You’re a terrible liar,” she adds as an explanation. “What kind of fighting?”

My attention focuses on her and her barely apparent nerves. “Why?”

“I just want to know are we talking like karate or street fighting?”

“Street fighting?” I wince. “No. It’s MMA.”

Her steel eyes flash. “Could you teach me?”

“To fight?” I shake my head. “No.” There’s no way in hell I’d consider training Mila to get into an MMA Octagon ring and fight.

“Why?” the single word is a demand that has adrenaline spiking my blood.

“Why do you want to learn to fight?”

“Not fight. I just want you to teach me how to hit someone, to punch someone hard enough to give pause.”

“Why? What happened?” I take a step closer to Mila. “Who do you want to punch?”

She rolls her eyes, attempting to deflect. “You, if you keep asking so many questions.”

I don’t respond with sarcasm or ignore the quip as she wants me to. “Why do you need to learn to hit someone?”

“It’s not a singular person or reason.” She crosses her arms over her chest.

I shake my head and turn toward the buffet, where half the team is gathered as things wind down. “I’m not training you.”

Mila moves with me, stopping me. “You owe me.”

“Hey!” Evelyn calls, closing the distance between us. Her smile wanes as she looks between us. “How did the night go?”

Mila’s brow smooths, and she manages a half-hearted smile. “It was fine. How was yours?”

“This was nothing like the other events I’ve been to,” Evelyn says, the apology thick in her tone. “The others all included a lot more downtime and speeches. I feel terrible that I told you we could hang back and stuff ourselves with cake, and then I didn’t see you at all.”

“I think it’s because Peters was out,” I tell them. I was never a big fan of the events that involved the mic being passed around for hours, with everyone feeling obliged to tell Peters how well he’d done. Tonight didn’t allow us to hang out, but I have a feeling Krueger architected it to be like this, knowing the pain points we face because he lived them as a college athlete less than a decade ago.

Evelyn raises a brow. “But everything was okay? We don’t need to grab the leftover mousse and find Emma?”

Hudson slides in behind Evelyn, a glass of water in hand as he loosens his tie, proof that tonight was exhausting.

Mila grins, a genuine smile no less stunning than the ones she flashed when impressing everyone but different all the same. This one is less rehearsed, her front teeth digging into her bottom lip rather than showing both rows of perfectly straight teeth. “I only saw her for a second,” Mila says.

“Silva caught up with us, though,” I say, directing my words to Hudson.

Hudson’s gaze roves to Mila, knowing his reputation. “What did he say? I told Krueger he needs to be dealt with.”

“He told me I’d be a ten if I were five inches shorter,” Evelyn says. “Hudson told him he should grow a foot.” She shakes her head, flashing an amused expression before taking a bite of a chocolate tart.

Mila laughs, the sound rich and full. “I hope you stared down at him.”

“That man’s a rattlesnake. He bites back,” Evelyn says. “We had to step outside for a moment to take a little breather after that conversation to ensure Hudson didn’t lose his place as captain.”

Hudson silently seethes, assuring me he was ready to sacrifice more than just his position as captain.

“His divorce has turned him into a bitter asshole,” I say.

“Hey,” Corey says, joining us with a redhead on his arm. Palmer and his date follow with Nolan and Hadley a few steps behind.

“What a night. I barely saw you assholes,” Nolan says, flashing a smile and wrapping an arm securely around Hadley. “I think Cathy got a little suspicious. I was playing Krueger up a little strong.”

“Like an espresso shot,” Hadley says.

Laughter spreads from those of us who know, which is everyone but Palmer’s and Corey’s dates.

“I might have been a little too blatant, too,” Hudson says.

“So was Grey,” Mila says.

“It was a good night,” Palmer says, and we collectively nod, hearing the words he can’t say in our mixed company. The last thing we need is rumors that we’re trying to overthrow our head coach—not that we can, just that we’re doing everything to influence those who could.

“We should get going so the staff can get this cleaned up,” I say, thinking of my mom and all the nights she got home late due to stragglers while working at the diner in Highgrove for over a decade.

The others move, though their actions are slow with silent protests, wanting to spend time together. We’ve seen less of each other than usual without school and regular practices.

“I’m going to need you guys to come over soon to try some recipes because that sweet onion tart was insanely good, and that bruschetta…” Hadley says. “I think if I kick the acidity up a little, the bruschetta could be even better, but those onion tarts were perfection. I might email the catering company and see if they’ll divulge their secrets.”

“That would be fun,” Evelyn says. “Text me and let me know what we can bring.”

We finally reach the doors leading us outside. The icy wind has everyone kicking it into gear, forgetting about plans or small talk as we exchange a quick round of goodbyes and part ways, heading for the warmth of our own vehicles.

Hudson and Evelyn are the only ones in our direction. The girls huddle together as we cross the parking lot. “Think it will snow?” Evelyn asks.

Mila glances at the sky as she shakes her head. “It’s too clear.”

“We have to stop at the dorm because I need to grab laundry,” Hudson says. “We’ll be at the apartment later.”

“And, I promise, we’ll gorge on cake this weekend,” Evelyn adds.

Mila smiles. “Don’t worry about the cake. Drive safely!” She waves as they veer off, heading for Hudson’s Jeep.

I unlock the passenger side of my truck and pull open the door for Mila, offering her my hand, which she eyes like a bear trap before gingerly taking it and climbing inside.

“Who do you want to hit?” I ask once settled in the driver’s seat, the engine running.

“Whoever deserves to be hit.”

“So you’re planning a vigilante movement? Have you figured out a name? A costume?”

“Don’t be an asshole. Regardless of what society says, it’s not a good look on anyone, even you.”

“But if I wasn’t a dick, you might learn to tolerate me.”

“Unlikely.”

“I didn’t invite you to impress everyone.”

“I don’t care why you invited me. You said you owed me, and I want you to teach me how to hit someone.”

I grip the steering wheel, waiting for the engine to warm. “Hitting someone isn’t as simple as forming a fist and punching. There are other things you need to consider.”

“Like what?”

“Like their height, your angle, how close they are. Nine times out of ten, you’re better off walking away.”

“I don’t need it to be perfect. I’m not looking to be scored.”

“Why in the hell do you want to learn to hit someone?”

Mila

I shake my head and debate dropping the subject of Grey teaching me how to throw a punch. “I just want to be able to feel safe. That’s all.”

I expect him to laugh, maybe even mock me, but Grey’s eyes seem to darken as we stare at one another for a silent moment.

“From whom?”

“Do you remember when I told you someone broke into my apartment?”

He nods.

“I was home when they broke in.”

He stops breathing.

“Why do you do that? I swear…” I poke him in the side. He doesn’t even flinch, but he catches my hand in his much warmer one, and memories from our kiss flood my mind—his hands on my skin, and his mouth devouring me. I convince myself the shock, the lack of food, and the fact I haven’t kissed anyone in months made that kiss seem different as I pull my hand away. “Are you part vampire or something? Why do you hold your breath and go completely still?”

“What happened?”

“Nothing,” is my automatic response.

“Mila…”

I pull in a breath and let it sit in my chest as I draw on the memories. “I was still awake. I hadn’t been able to sleep and had this weird gut feeling.” I shake my head. “I heard the lock click and hid in my closet, where I pulled a bunch of clothes over myself.”

I pinch my forefinger and thumb together, using the familiarity of the five-finger relaxation technique I was taught over a decade ago to calm my nerves. I don’t often think of what each finger is meant to represent as I subtly pinch each fingertip to my thumb. I’ve been doing it so long that the motion lends the comfort I’m seeking.

Grey stares at my hands but doesn’t say anything.

I clear my throat. “He turned on the lights and dug through my things. I thought he was there to rob me, but then he started talking to me, like he knew I was hiding, telling me he saw my car and wanted to talk to me.”

“Did you know who he was?”

“He was the maintenance guy of the apartment building.”

Grey’s eyes grow round, and I see the questions he wants to ask—is afraid to ask—as he stares at me.

I shake my head. “I texted the police, and they came and arrested him while he was still in my apartment.”

“Tell me he’s in jail.”

“His only crime was trespassing. He claimed he’d taken too many painkillers and was confused about the time, so he’d just come to check on the faucet he’d replaced the week before.”

Grey clenches his jaw so hard I’m unsure how his teeth remain intact. “Does he try and contact you? Have you seen him again?”

I shake my head. “No, but stupid things trigger me, like someone trying to open the connecting door at the hotel that leads me to do embarrassing things like beg my best friend’s teammate to sleep on their couch.” I try to lighten the mood with a smirk.

Grey doesn’t crack even the hint of a smile.

“I’m not looking for vengeance or a fight. I just don’t want to be afraid. I hate feeling helpless.” Blood drains from my face as I pinch my fingertips again, trying to calm my racing heart.

Grey’s eyes dance over me, and I can’t read his thoughts for what feels like the hundredth time tonight. The man is and always has been a giant question mark, which makes keeping him at arm’s length so much easier.

“We’ll meet tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

He nods. “We’ll need an hour.”

Relief is a warm breeze on my face, the first snowflakes falling, the crisp perfection of clean sheets.

“I’ll be by at seven.”

“Do I need anything?”

“Dress warmly.”

I stare at Grey and wait for more instruction, but he reaches for his tie, loosening the knot instead of saying anything. He raises his chin and releases the top couple of buttons with one hand, using a practiced grace that’s hard to look away from. He sighs, a deep rumbling noise that pulls too many questions to the forefront of my thoughts, recalling the way it felt to swallow a similar sound, the way his arm and hand had tightened, pulling me closer as he kissed me.

“That’s why you moved back home,” Grey says, popping my thoughts like soap bubbles as he shakes his head. “How did he not get charged?”

I turn my gaze to the windshield and take a steadying breath. “My parents tried to get something more done, and I think the police wanted to, but he didn’t do anything except come in uninvited and rummage through my stuff.”

Grey pulls in a breath, drumming his thumb against the steering wheel to a silent beat.

I consider admitting the sight of old white Ford trucks always has a sense of cold dread flushing through my veins. How my memories are unstable like hydrogen, easily bonding with other past nightmares and making my fears sometimes feel like a handicap. Instead, I try my best to assure us both. “I haven’t seen him since.”

Grey doesn’t appear even slightly appeased, but he drives me home without question or a single mention of our shared kiss.