Fake Marriage to a Baller: A Wilder Brothers Romance

by Aria Scott

  I typed in ‘private country clubs Miami Florida’ into the search engine on my phone and waited until a list of clubs appeared. By the name alone, I narrowed the list down to two choices. When I pulled up their locations on a map, I immediately knew from Chase’s description which club was the one I wanted – the one on the ocean.

  It took me 30 minutes to reach the country club. There was a good chance that John Clarke was golfing at the club if he had an early tee time. I planned to hang around the parking lot and see if I could run into him.

  What I didn’t expect was the security hut at the entrance. This club was obviously super exclusive. I told the man that I was interested in a membership for my husband and I wanted to look around. After producing my driver’s license, the guard called ahead to the membership director to expect my arrival. Armed with a visitor’s badge, I drove into the parking area and parked my nondescript rental car between a Mercedes and a Jaguar.

  Since they were expecting me, I headed straight to the membership director’s office as instructed. The entire session took slightly longer than an hour. A chatty lady drove me around the grounds in a golf cart. We toured the restaurants, pools, tennis courts and fitness center. I kept an eagle eye out for John Clarke, especially when we visited the golf course, but I didn’t see him.

  I knew he was there; however, by a stroke of luck. I feigned interest and asked a lot of questions about how they scheduled their tee times. I claimed my husband was especially particular about when he got out on the course. When I asked, the lady giving me the tour pulled up the day’s tee times on a tablet computer. John Clarke’s name jumped out at me; his tee time was at 8:10 AM. If he took about 4 hours to play, I could expect him to be done in little over an hour.

  After I was ushered out of the clubhouse and back to the parking lot, presumably to leave, I waited. I found some shade under a tree, as it was too hot to sit in the car, and watched the parking lot careful to not draw any attention to myself. For two more hours, people came and went. My stomach growled with hunger even as I imagined John Clarke enjoying a fancy lunch at the country club.

  Finally, I saw him. He parted from two men and headed toward his car. I scrambled to my feet and brushed off my pants before I approached him.

  “Mr. Clarke?”

  He turned to me, a polite smile on his face, which quickly dissolved into a sneer as soon as he recognized me. “Mrs. Wilder. Or is it back to Ms. O’Malley already?”

  I had rehearsed in my head what I wanted to say to him at least hundred times, but now that we were face to face, my mind went blank. “Um…I’d like to talk to you for a moment if that’s okay?”

  He looked around the parking lot, making sure no one was listening, before he responded. “I don’t think there is any point in us talking, Ms. O’Malley.”

  “Please, this will only take a few minutes of your time. If you hear me out, I’ll go away and I promise you that I won’t bother you again.”

  He looked at his watch. “Alright, you have three minutes.”

  “I’ve come to ask you to consider giving Chase his job back-”

  John Clarke cut in. “This is going to be a wasted three minutes. After what Chase pulled, he’s got some nerve sending you here to beg for his job.”

  “Chase didn’t send me. In fact, he doesn’t even know I’m here.”

  “You came on your own?” He looked skeptical. “Riiiight. Sorry, but I don’t believe anything either of the two of you say.”

  I flinched at his harsh words. “The marriage contract was a big mistake. I realize that. But it wasn’t done with malicious intent. Chase was just trying to clean up his act. He never would have even thought up that crazy plan- let alone acted on it- if his agent hadn’t pushed it on him.”

  “Caifano? I should have known his grubby prints were all over this stunt. Too bad he bungled the whole thing and emailed me the wrong contract. You and Chase had me completely suckered until then.”

  “I don’t think he bungled anything. Caifano sent you the wrong contract on purpose. I don’t really understand why he did it, but for whatever reason, he fully intended to royally screw over Chase.”

  Clarke chuckled grimly. “Well, what do they say about playing with snakes? Prepare to be bitten. Caifano’s always been a snake.”

  I kept my voice even and calm as I tried to explain Chase’s position. “Chase was too trusting. He knew that Caifano had a sneaky reputation, but he assumed Caifano would always have his best interests at heart. So, he did whatever his agent told him to. He was scared that he was going to lose his job if he didn’t. Football is so much more than just a job to him, it’s his life. He’d do a lot to protect that.”

  Clarke snorted. “Including a fake marriage? And playing me for a fool?”

  I fought the urge to squirm and instead looked him directly in the eyes. “Our marriage wasn’t traditional, that’s true. The reason for getting married was so that Chase could prove that he’d cleaned up his act. Caifano told him that his off-field reputation was hurting him badly - that he wouldn’t be re-signed this year.”

  “I wasn’t happy about Chase’s off-field antics,” Clarke agreed. “But I’d hardly cut him from the team for it. I’m no fool, I know a good player when I’ve got him. Chase is one of the best wide receivers in the league. His personal life troubled me, but … never his football or his work ethic.”

  I was puzzled. “Then why wasn’t his contract signed for so long? If you weren’t planning on cutting him, what was the delay?”

  John Clarke ran a hand through his hair. “Chase’s contract was held up because Caifano was holding out for a ridiculous amount of money. He would have been the highest paid player in the team’s history. Caifano wouldn’t even budge on the numbers. It didn’t really make sense, but at the time, I just figured Caifano was playing hardball. I take it Chase didn’t know about any of this?”

  “No!” I gasped. Caifano had been playing everyone like a fiddle.

  “We were in intense contract negotiations, but Caifano wasn’t backing down. What he was asking for was impossible. In the end, Caifano knew we weren’t biting. He knew that he had aimed too high and when he had to retreat, he was left with a weaker hand.” John paused. “It’s all starting to make sense now.”

  I thought back to all those weeks of worry for Chase, waiting for his contract to be resigned. He had no idea that Caifano was manipulating things behind the scenes. Instead, Caifano preyed on Chase’s biggest fears telling him that he was ‘too old’ or ‘one injury away from permanent retirement’ or that the team owner was ready to cut him because Chase brought the team ‘bad publicity’.

  Still, why would Caifano undercut his own client? “I still don’t get it.”

  “When negotiations with Chase’s contract started breaking down, we got wind that Tillman, the next superstar rookie, was sniffing around. We’d been scouting him for years. There’s no doubt that he’s going to be a great player someday. Tillman was going to be our Plan B if Chase didn’t come around.”

  “So, Caifano wanted Chase to get cut in favor of Tillman?”

  Clarke shrugged. “It looks that way. As soon as I saw that phony wedding contract, well… let’s just say that Caifano swooped in with the rookie and proposed a great deal.”

  The truth of what happened left a bitter taste in my mouth. “And Chase lost everything.”

  Clarke looked equally disgusted by the whole entire matter. “It’s a shame. I really thought Chase was turning things around.”

  I quickly jumped to his defense. “He did! He changed a lot.”

  John studied my face quizzically. Even in the midday heat, I could feel my cheeks coloring with embarrassment with how adamantly I defended Chase.

  “I don’t mean to be rude, but if Chase didn’t send you, why are you here today? You fulfilled your end of the bargain. Why did you go through all this trouble to track me down?”

  “Chase was completely devastated to be dropped from the team; I just w
anted to help him. He’s done so much for me.” I took a deep breath. I had to stop hiding from the truth. “I know this is going to sound strange, Mr. Clarke, but I fell in love with Chase. And I have to find out if he loves me too or if it was all just my imagination.”

  He surprised me with friendly laughter. “Well, isn’t that ironic? I thought I sensed love between you two, but then I figured maybe you were just good actors.”

  I sensed his attitude softening a little, so I asked him directly, “Mr. Clarke, is there any way you’d consider giving Chase his job back?”

  He stared at me thoughtfully for a few seconds. “I’m surprised he hasn’t been snatched up already.” He rubbed his chin as he was thinking. “I’m already having doubts about the rookie, Tillman. He has a drug problem and I’ve seen it too many times before – throwing fame and money at these young kids usually leads to disaster. He needs a mentor and he needs to dump that agent of his.”

  I pressed the issue. “What about Chase? He dumped Caifano and has a new agent. I’m sure he’d be happy with a reasonable offer.”

  I didn’t breathe until John Clarke spoke again. “I’m inclined to give him another chance. It would be good for the team and probably good in the long run for that rookie too. I’ll have my secretary contact him for a meeting. If it feels right after I talk to him – well, I won’t make any promises.”

  Relief and happiness flooded through me until I felt I would burst. I wanted to hug him, but instead I just let the cheesy smile on my face speak for itself. “Thank you, Mr. Clarke, for giving Chase another shot. He won’t let you down.”

  Chapter 23

  Chase

  Everyone has bad moments in their lives. Lately, I’d been having a lot. In fact, I’d taken to measuring my days on a scale from ‘sucks’ to ‘fucking sucks.’ And while I’d thought my wedding night in jail had been pretty damned high on the ‘sucks’ scale, what came after ranked even higher than ‘fucking sucks.’

  A few weeks had gone by since the fateful night of our marriage. I couldn’t remember much about those weeks, other than having gone on one drinking binge after another. I supposed technically Aubrey and I were married, but I sure as shit knew that the divorce papers would be coming along any day now. After all, she’d already mailed me her ‘Dear John’ letter.

  When I’d received it, I’d stuffed it into my jeans but hadn’t had the courage to open it yet. I didn’t want to read those words that would confirm that it was really over between us, that I had lost her forever. Overall, I’d been avoiding anything related either to football or my former life with my redheaded wife. It just hurt too damned much.

  Yeah, I had fucked up royally. Not only had I gotten myself kicked off my pro football team, but also had destroyed the only love I would ever know. Funny, how losing someone made you suddenly see everything more clearly. I understood now that my relationship with Simone had been meaningless compared to what I’d shared with Aubrey.

  Bleary-eyed, I looked around at the Miami shithole of a bar I was sitting in: a ripped, padded faux-leather bar, a few bottles of cheap liquor stacked on a shelf behind it, the remnants of a TV stand affixed to the wall—without the TV. Next to me, old winos, bleached blondes past their prime, a specials chalkboard that said ‘none today’ and a picture of the actor who played ‘the most interesting man in the world,’ highlighted with a small spotlight. When I glanced at the blonde, her gaze quickly slid away, as if looking at me hurt her eyes.

  The place was called Deuce’s Tavern, and even though I didn’t know how I’d gotten there, I figured it was pretty appropriate: I looked, smelled and felt like a deuce some dog had left on the kitchen floor. I guess a shrink might call me depressed. And I guess in that case, the shrink would be right.

  “Give me another,” I groused to the bartender, an older woman who had a cigarette hanging out the corner of her mouth.

  “Haven’t you had enough?” she asked, her voice oozing pity.

  “Lady,” I snarled, “just do like I tell you.”

  “I don’t have to serve you.” Ash dropped from her cigarette onto the bar.

  “I’m not drunk.”

  She deliberately dropped her gaze to the hoagie she’d set in front of me an hour or so back. “Why don’t you eat the lunch you ordered? It’ll help sop up all of that booze.”

  “Do you know who I am?” I asked, insulted.

  She refocused her attention on my football jersey. Yeah, I might have been off the team, but I was still wearing the team colors.

  “Let me guess. You’re an armchair quarterback.”

  “No, I was a wide receiver.”

  “Oh, really.” She shook her head and smiled. “Yeah, you and every other bum who comes in here.”

  I sighed heavily. “Just give me another shot, will you?”

  “You’ve been drinking for three hours now.” She ducked her head to look at the clock, and then fixed a fish-eyed stare on me. “And it ain’t even dinner time. Eat your damned sandwich.”

  A couple of winos sitting nearby chuckled and ducked their liver-spotted heads together to talk, their gazes sliding toward me.

  Angrily I grabbed the hoagie and shoved it toward her. “Not eating it.”

  “Then get your ass outta here, before I call the cops.”

  “Christ.” I stood up and grabbed the bar top, to stop the swaying, then patted my jeans pocket to make sure the letter was still in there. It may have been a Dear John letter, but it was the only thing I had left of her. “You’re a bitch on wheels,” I told the bartender.

  “And you’re a drunk. Get lost.”

  I spun around in a huff, and staggered toward the door. “Never coming back here.”

  “Hey.”

  I paused.

  The bartender came around from behind the bar and walked toward me, my sandwich in her hand. “You forgot something.”

  “Don’t want it.” I stumbled away.

  She followed me. “Listen, you might want it later, when you’re sleeping on a park bench.”

  I drew myself up haughtily. “I...have a penthouse apartment on South Beach.”

  She yanked my jersey forward and shoved my sandwich down the front of my shirt. It got caught about half way down.

  Sneering, I lurched away. Her laughter echoed in my ears as I made it into the parking lot and the door shut behind me.

  The sun blinded me. As the bartender had insinuated, there was still several hours of daylight left. I held up my hand to shield my eyes, and glanced around the parking lot. Confused, I looked for my Porsche. Where the hell was it? Then I vaguely remembered...backing into a cement barrier in a parking garage and wisely deciding to call a cab. It was the only smart thing I’d done in weeks, but it left me high and dry right now.

  Fuck.

  I felt around in my pocket for my iPhone. Found nothing but a few bucks. Vaguely I recalled giving the bartender a fifty-dollar bill. At least I’d paid for my drinks. She couldn’t jeer at me for that, on top of everything else.

  But now I had nothing. Where the hell was my phone?

  Double fuck.

  In the distance, down the road, I saw a city bus pull up at a bus stop. I noticed another station about fifty feet away. I staggered toward it, passing a mom with her baby stroller on the sidewalk, I tried not to notice how she wrinkled her nose as I approached and steered a wide path around me.

  Groaning, I made it to the bus stop just as it rolled to a halt in front of me. Somehow, I managed to get on, even though everything was spinning around and around in a way that was making me seasick.

  I stopped in front of the driver, an elderly black man with glasses. “Does this bus go to South Beach?”

  “What?” the bus driver replied.

  “South Beach? Does it go to South Beach?”

  “I can’t understand you.”

  “South Beach...”

  A middle-aged woman near the front leaned toward the bus driver. “I think he’s asking if the bus goes to South Beac
h.”

  “It’s your lucky day, buddy,” the bus driver replied with a little frown in my direction.

  Thinking how far I’d fallen, to be stuck taking a bus, I nodded and shoved a few bucks toward him.

  His face drew up with disgust. He refused to take them.

  “Sit down!” someone toward the back yelled.

  I waved the bills at the driver.

  Sighing, the middle-aged woman took my bills, then stood to put change in the hopper for me.

  Slurring my thanks at her, I strolled down the length of the bus, swaying to the left and right, grabbing the guide rail and feeling the stares of the other bus riders on me.

  I sat down in a seat where I’d have no one next to me. The bus rolled down the street, and I saw that it was heading for the causeway to South Beach. Congratulating myself on getting the right bus, I glanced around.

  Everyone seemed to be staring my way. I sneered at one of them—a kid—and he quickly looked at the window. Sourly, I kept my focus on the kid for a while, then realized my stomach was growling.

  Maybe I was hungry.

  I pulled up my football jersey, dug around, and found the sandwich. I pulled it out and started eating it, aware that some salami was hanging out from between the bread slices. I paused in mid-bite when my brain registered that two old woman were watching me eat with disgusted expressions. When I caught their gazes, they got up and hurried to other seats further away from me.

  Scowling, I dug into the sandwich more ferociously. Yeah, I was hungry.

  By the time I finished the hoagie, the bus was trundling down toward Ocean Drive. I got off at a stop I thought was near my penthouse, but actually turned out to be a distance away. Cursing, I meandered down the sidewalk, pausing frequently when the sidewalk started pitching and heaving like the deck of a ship.

  At one point, I got tired of walking and sat down on a park bench. A bum next to me let me have a sip from the bottle he was hiding in a bag. Whatever it was, the stuff was potent, and made my stomach burn like a mother. We struck up a conversation, which I realized sounded more like a series of grunts than any human language. When a stray dog wandered our way and stopped to piss on my jeans, the bum laughed.