All In_ Paying to Play(3)

"No to the former, and it's entirely possible on the latter."

"Okay, out with it already," I say, with a huff of annoyance at him giving me the runaround.

"Right. Well, just be open-minded and hear me out. Think how far a hundred grand would go in setting up your own private practice."

Oh jeez, he went straight in for the kill. He knows I've been dying to get out of my tiny, cramped office filled with pretentious, know-it-all geezers, so I can open up my own place. The doctors here refuse to advertise our practice on the Internet to generate new clients from the younger generation, and two of them don't even own computers for chrissakes!

"So what exactly do I have to do to get this small fortune?" It's probably less than what my dad makes in a month, but it's a huge amount of money to me. I've refused to accept a dime from him since I finished my doctorate. I'd hitched a free ride on that gravy train for way too long.

"You just need to be seen on the arm of one of the Wildcats' players for say five or six weeks at various publicity opportunities."

I don't know all the ins and outs of football, but I do know that the Wildcats have some seriously hot players. At the top of that list would have to be their absolutely gorgeous quarterback.

"Is it Zack Bradford?" I ask excitedly, aware that I sound like a teenage fangirl, and not caring. He’s so freaking hot.

"I can't tell you who it is unless you agree, and only after you sign a non-disclosure agreement."

Damn.

"So I basically have to agree to date this man and be his arm candy for a few photo ops? That's it?"

"Well...you'll also need to move in with him. Just to keep an eye on him to make sure he doesn't break his end of the bargain."

"Move in with him?" I ask appalled. “It sounds like you want me to be a full-time babysitter for a grown man.”

"You'd have your own room and there would be no physical contact allowed whatsoever."

Double damn. What if I want physical contact? I'm a twenty-seven-year-old single woman, not a nun.

"So are you up for this or not? We're on a tight deadline," my dad says. He's always on a deadline.

A hundred grand would be enough to secure me a great little suite in one of the downtown buildings for probably a year and pay for advertising. I'd be an idiot to turn that down for a couple of dates and a new roomie for a few short weeks. How bad could it be?

"Okay, I'm in."

"Great. Why don't you come on by the office to get everything signed? We should have your name on the paperwork and ready to go in half an hour."

"That'll work. When do I start?" I ask.

"Immediately," he replies. "You'll need to pack your things and head over to his place tonight."

"Fine," I agree. It's not like I have plans, and I’m excited to meet this mysterious professional football player. "See you then."

...

An hour later my hand is cramping and there are still more forms to read and sign. The player I’ll be living with and pretending to be in a relationship with is Jake Young, a wide receiver I'm not familiar with. When I asked my dad's sole legal assistant working on a Saturday afternoon if she knew what the man looks like she fanned her face, which I take as a good sign.

Apparently Mr. Young and I have to make this "relationship" look real whenever we're in the public or in the presence of other people. I can't tell anyone that it's not legitimate or I lose my payment that I'll be provided at the end of six weeks. Mr. Young is not allowed to lay a finger on me or I can void the agreement and he still has to pay me. I’m sure that was my dad’s language. If the contract gets voided, Mr. Young loses his multi-million dollar contract with the Wildcats. If I catch him associating with any women, I'm required to report it to my father and the Wildcats will throw him out on his ass. Wow.

Nothing I've read explains why he needs me to agree to date him. It must be bad if it's come to this extreme of an arrangement, based on the fact that he could lose his contract if it doesn't work out.

"Okay, this is the last one," the legal assistant says on an exhale. She’s been shuffling all the paperwork to me and notarizing some of the more important ones.

"Good."

"Let me go copy you a set of all this and I'll be right back."

"Sure," I say, pulling out my phone to check and see if I've missed any patient calls. Mr. Williams has been growing more depressed by the day ever since his wife left him, so I worry he might need an overhaul of his prescriptions. I hope I don’t get a call that he's been committed before I see him Monday. It's an hour earlier in the day than Ms. Jefferson's usual frantic call, her delusions varying from someone broke into her apartment and stole her glasses to the man in the apartment downstairs is pumping nerve gas up into her air vents. Yes, my patients can be rather distraught, but it's all just part of their sicknesses. It's why I work so hard trying to help them live their lives as normally as possible. It's a good thing I have an unlimited supply of patience for my patients.