Page 1 of Playing the Player

PROLOGUE

Sasha

I stare at Olivia’s name on my phone for the hundredth time. Three missed calls. Seven unread texts. Each one of them asking the same question. Are you okay?

The answer to that is no, I’m most definitely not okay, but I can’t bring myself to tell her why.

Instead, I snapped at the one person who’s spent her entire life trying to protect me. The one person who is always there for me.

Nice one, Sash.

Olivia deserved a hell of a lot better than the version of me she got tonight. She was only trying to help, and I threw her concern back in her face like it was something to be ashamed of.

And the worst part? She still has no idea what happened. She doesn’t know that Max cheated on me. She doesn’t know that the relationship I thought would last forever ended with a single confession. She doesn’t know that I’ve spent the last few weeks pretending that I’m fine, because saying the words out loud would make them real.

Olivia is my best friend, my sister. She’s the first person I go to with everything. Every embarrassing story, every terrible decision, every tiny inconvenience I somehow manage to turn into a crisis.

But this? I’ve kept it from her, and I don’t even know why.

Maybe because admitting that the man I have loved for nearly fifteen years cheating on me is almost as humiliating as the betrayal itself.

I need to call her. I also need to apologize for being a dick. But it’s just, watching her and her boyfriend, Josh, together hurts more than I want to admit. They’re still in that ‘new love’ phase where they can’t keep their eyes or hands off each other and it makes me nauseous when I’m around them.

But underneath all the sarcasm and fake gags is envy. Not because they have each other, but because they have that. The kind of love that consumes you. The kind that keeps you awake every night, replaying moments and conversations. The kind that makes your heart race when their name lights up your phone.

Max and I never had that.

Our parents were best friends, so naturally we were too. We were inseparable since we could walk. We did everything together. We played house and had pretend weddings with innocent kisses. But somewhere along the way, those kisses turned a little less pretend. So, we became a couple.

There was no huge romantic gesture, no dating, no butterflies, no texting my friends for half the night, swooning. It was just… easy. Comfortable. Familiar.

Don't get me wrong, we did love each other. It just wasn't that epic love that you read about or see on TV.

But knowing our relationship wasn’t some epic love story, didn't make it hurt any less when I found out he had cheated on me. We’re engaged for God’s sake.

I look down at the engagement ring still wrapped around my finger and my stomach twists.

Why would he do this to me? Is there something wrong with me? Am I not good enough?

These thoughts have become background noise in my head for weeks now, playing on an endless loop every time I’m alone. They creep in when I wake up in the mornings, they haunt me when I try to fall asleep at night. And somehow, these questions and thoughts have convinced me that the affair was my fault.

Maybe I wasn’t exciting enough. Did I get too comfortable? Maybe loving someone for fifteen years made me forget that love isn’t always enough to make them stay.

Over these past few weeks, I have cried enough tears to fill a lake or two and felt enough guilt to last a lifetime.

And now, I can add another thing onto my list to feel guilty about.

Conor Matthews.

The memory of kissing him flashes through my mind and I groan, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes. What the hell was I thinking?

I have spent weeks hating Max for betraying me, only to turn around and kiss another man. I’m just as bad as he is.

Okay, maybe comparing the two isn’t exactly fair. I’m drunk. Devastated. And I only kissed him for like, two seconds.

Max was sober and happily engaged, or so I thought. And apparently perfectly capable of looking me in the eye while sleeping with someone else behind my back.

Still though, it doesn’t change the fact that I kissed Conor. It doesn’t change the guilt clawing at my chest, desperate to break free.