I smile. "I don't know about that."
"Oh, come on. Get over yourself. You're smoking. And I bet you have like ten percent body fat or something ridiculous like that."
"Actually, it's seven and a half in season, but I might get as high as nine percent now." I'm not saying it to be boastful. It's a lot of hard work that keeps me that way.
Ophelia groans. "I probably only have nine percent muscle, so I understand why guys don't like me."
I frown at her response. Why does she say such things? She looks well proportioned to me, with the exception of her chest, which looks big for her petite frame. I'm not being a perv, but I am a man with eyes. Long brown hair and bangs that frame her dark blue eyes. Sweet nose and a wide smile. She does smile a lot. It's a good thing. "I'm sure that's not the issue. You're lovely."
She rolls her eyes. "Oh come on. But we're not talking about me. We're talking about you. You're a smoke show. You are super hot. You're a professional freakin' athlete, so you're probably raking in the cash."
I hold up my hand. "Actually, that's a misconception. Only the top players make that kind of money and most of an athlete's income comes from endorsements."
"Are you a top player?" She raises her eyebrows.
"I'm toward the top, but I haven't had an endorsement since before … in years. My agent is supposed to be working on that, but then this bloody mess came up, and getting me on a team where I actually play is the priority."
Lucky for me, Ophelia doesn't notice my gaff, so she doesn't question me on it.
"Plus, I'm a professional athlete. That means, essentially, I'm owned by my team and my league. Work comes first. Above everything, even family. I've missed out on so much. But at the end of the day, if you ask me to pick football or a girl, the answer will always be football. That's not an easy pill for most women to swallow. They want the perks of being with an athlete, but really what they want is the lifestyle and the bragging rights without the sacrifice."
And there it is in a nutshell. Why I'm single. I'm sick of gold diggers and users. Alycia springs to mind. And I'm sick of having fight after fight about why football is more important thansheis. It's exhausting. And why, other than this blasted stunt, I have every intention of staying single.
"So what I need, really," I continue, "is someone who agrees to be my wife but without actually needing a husband."
"IT'S MY FAVORITE TROPE!" Ophelia jumps up, screaming. I'm fairly certain she knocks over her bottle of wine in the process.
"What? And did you just spill your wine?"
She looks down. "Nah, it's empty." She sits down on the edge of her striped couch. It's rather hideous, shades of blue and orange that were never meant to go together. "No, this is like my favorite trope. In romance novels. A marriage of convenience. It's where the main protagonists have to get married, even though they're not in a relationship. It's so romantic." There's a wistful edge to her voice and a dreamy look on her face.
"How is that romantic?" I don't understand how any of this is romantic.
"Because obviously, even though they enter the marriage for business reasons or whatever, they fall in love. Duh."
"In every book?"
"Yeah." She nods. "You don't read much romance, do you?"
"Can't say I do."
"What do you do when you're traveling?"
"Listen to podcasts. Usually true crime."
"Okay, well, I'm going to get you listening to romance novels. You'll be hooked."
I have to laugh. I can only imagine being on a plane and whipping out some beat-up grocery store novel with a bare-chested pirate on the cover.
"I'm not so sure about that, but thanks just the same. Plus, if I don't figure out a way to get myself traded to Boston, there won't be any more trips for me anyhow."
"Boston?"
"Yes, all of this is so I can be traded to the Boston Buzzards."
Ophelia jumps up again. "I live in Boston."
I laugh at her enthusiasm. "I know. I asked you to meet up with me last week when I was there, remember?"
