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

I pull up to Mila’s parents’ and admire the mammoth of a house as my thoughts turn to my mom and the hope that I can someday afford to buy her a place half this nice. Mila had asked me yesterday if I’d mind meeting her here.

Mila’s dad Alex answers the door wearing khakis, a blue sweater, and a Santa hat covering most of his graying hair. “Hi, Grey. Nice to see you.” He takes a step back. “Please, come inside.”

Wide-planked floors and light walls invite me inside where the ceilings span twelve feet, making the large room feel even bigger. An overstuffed sectional is positioned around a stone fireplace, and windows that stretch from floor to ceiling bring in extra light, lending to the rich feel of the house.

Jon joins us from the open kitchen, dressed in a T-shirt and jeans. He has dark hair, a short beard, and glasses.

“Jon, you remember Grey,” Alex says.

I’ve met Mila’s dads a few times over the years, usually for celebrations or holidays.

“Of course. How are you?” Jon asks, giving me a firm handshake.

I nod. “I’m well, thanks. How are you?”

Jon nods. “Glad to hear it. I’m doing great, thanks.” He looks at Alex, brows furled as they share a look, and then he clears his throat. “So you’re here to go running with Mila?”

Alex’s smile hints at amusement as he slides his hands into his pockets and rocks back on his heels.

I nod. “We’re going to take the trail around the lake. Hudson mentioned he takes it when he’s home.”

Alex nods. “That’s right.” His smile grows. “You know you should stay for brunch, Grey. We’re having a belated Christmas today.”

“Maybe we should wait until we have pizza night or—” Jon says, but Alex shakes his head.

“No. Today’s perfect.” Alex brushes his hands as though he’s just completed a chore.

“I don’t—” I start to object, but Alex shakes his head.

“You can. I know it will mean a lot to Mila, and we’d love to get to know you better.” He looks at Jon, waiting for him to agree.

Jon gives him a panicked expression, one so damn similar to a look Mila makes that I know for certain not everything stems from genetics.

Mila jogs up the stairs then, a wince tightening her brow, revealing she’s still sore as she looks between her parents and me. “You’re early…” she says.

“Punctual is good,” Alex says.

Jon cringes.

“Not a movie,” Mila tells him.

“Where do you think screenwriters get their ideas?” he asks her.

Mila shakes her head, moving closer to me. She’s wearing a pair of skintight black leggings, tennis shoes, and a black tee that hugs her chest.

I swallow, trying to pull my attention away from her thighs, hips, and breasts. She’s so damn perfect it hurts.

“You should wear a jacket,” Jon says. “There’s a light breeze, and being close to the water, you might get cold.”

“I’ll be okay,” Mila says, shaking her head. “We won’t be gone long.”

“Oh, good. Maybe the four of us can play a game before dinner,” Alex suggests.

“Sorry?” Mila asks.

“We invited Grey to stay for brunch since you didn’t,” Alex tells her.

Mila shakes her head. “We’re just working out. He’s helping me learn a new routine.”

“A new routine?” Jon asks. “Since when did you have an old routine.”

Mila drops her chin.

“We want to meet your friends. The only people we ever see are Hudson, Evelyn, and Griffin. Ease our parent guilt a little and let us hang out with him for a couple of hours. We swear we won’t embarrass you,” Alex says.

“Much,” Jon tacks on.

Mila winces. “I’m pretty sure we’ve already surpassed much.” She turns to me, her cheeks stained pink. “You really don’t have to stay.”

“He wants to,” Alex says before I can reply. He steps forward and opens the door. “Are you sure you don’t want a coat?”

“If we’re keeping on script, shouldn’t you be cleaning a shotgun or something, not inviting him over for dinner?”

Alex quirks a brow. “Maybe next time.”

Mila steps outside, leading me halfway down the driveway before she turns around to face me. “I told you to text me when you got here.”

“If you’re that embarrassed, I can say no.” The truth is, I was entirely distracted.

Mila sighs. “Tell me we’re going to do something besides run today.”

“You’re only on day seven.”

“It feels like a month.”

“You won’t be this sore in a month,” I tell her.

She huffs out a sigh. “Let’s go.”

Mila

I lead Grey to the side yard, where we stop and stretch. The air is deceivingly warm after our promised snow that never came—typical winter weather here in Oleander Springs.

I expect Grey to ask me how to get out of staying for dinner or complain about having to drive the extra ten minutes it takes from campus to get to my parents’ house, or even about the prospect of having to work out with me for the seventh consecutive day that was met with my snarky comment, but he says nothing.

I stretch my hamstrings, which are beginning to burn less. I’m tired this morning both physically and mentally. After dinner last night, I’d rode home with Hudson and Evelyn, where we stayed up entirely too late, theorizing what Julian Holloway had meant when claiming I ignored him for years.

I didn’t sleep well. Every bump and click had me sitting up in bed, checking our alarm and doorbell camera.

At four, I gave up on sleep, and decided to read until it was time to take Hudson and Evelyn to the airport. I dropped them off and returned to my parents’ house to meet Grey.

I clear my throat and shove thoughts of Julian out of my head. “Who taught you how to fight?”

Grey lifts one long arm above his head and reaches for his opposite shoulder, the width of this biceps nearly wider than his head. My heart skips, defiantly recalling how hard those muscles are and how secure his touch had been.

That kiss—those few minutes—has become a forbidden thought, one I haven’t discussed with even Evelyn, knowing she would read into it and imagine it signifying more than it did. Instead, I’ve locked the details up and thrown away the key.

Except for these specifics, which I quickly shove into the same stash as I turn my attention to the trees behind us. I sit down, stretching my legs out in front of me.

“We learned a lot of things on our own, and then, Cole’s cornerman, or coach, picked him up after a few months and taught us the rest.”

“Cole’s your friend from Highgrove.”

Grey nods once with confirmation.

“How long have you guys been friends?”

“My whole life.”

“Why don’t you ever bring your other friends around?”

Grey looks at me with pinched, cautious eyes. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, why don’t you ever invite them to hang out with the rest of us?”

“Why don’t you invite your other friends to hang out?”

“Because I don’t have other friends.”

He looks at me like I’m lying.

“I have other acquaintances, but I’ve always had a small friend circle,” I clarify.

“Why’s that?”

“Because I’m shit when it comes to trusting people.” It’s the absolute truth.

Grey swallows, and similar to when he asked about my forgotten accent, I see questions humming in his thoughts, ones he doesn’t ask, maintaining the boundaries of our relationship. “They don’t trust people, either,” he says.

I stare at him, knowing he includes himself when he says “they.” I wonder what he’s like when he’s around them. If he’s less serious and laughs more. “Why?”

His eyes turn calculating as he runs his knuckles over the length of his chiseled jaw. Over the past few days, our conversations have been minimal, all business. My questions cross those lines we carefully constructed two and a half odd years ago. “Highgrove is a quintessential plutocracy.”

I raise my brow. “A what?”

“It’s run by the wealthy. A minority influence nearly everything. They’ve managed to stop competitors from opening businesses that would offer better job opportunities so they can be richer while everyone else struggles.”

I think of some of the worst foster care homes I spent time in, where greed and strength equated to power and influence.

“Growing up and seeing how money can corrupt everything from school to police, it makes trusting others—especially others with money—difficult.” Grey waves a hand toward my house. “People who have this in Highgrove are assholes who looked down on my friends and me and treated us like trash.”

I think of the biting look Grey shot me a couple of weeks ago when I paid for dinner after my botched self-date, wondering if he took that as an insult. I know how desperation can lead to cruelty, and losing even a tiny bit of anything feels significant when you have so little.

“I can’t really relate,” I admit. “My mom was poor, but so was every foster family I stayed with. I never knew anyone who had money until moving here, or if I did, I don’t remember.”

Grey swallows, his eyes stuck on mine. “I never in a million years imagined a rich kid with a dad who played in the fucking NFL would become one of my best friends.”

I grin, but for some reason, my eyes feel wet with tears. “I still pinch myself, too.” I glance at Hudson’s. My love and loyalty for Hudson has nothing to do with his wealth or his father’s status, and I know they mean nothing to Grey, either.

“I don’t look at our Camden friend group as being less. It’s just … complicated.”

I nod. “It’s hard not to assume everyone will be like the person who hurt you.”

Grey’s gaze darkens, and his jaw locks. Before he can ask more questions, I dance back across the line of oversharing to comfortable with a playful grin. “But Palmer can befriend a rock, and I’m pretty sure, given a chance, Evelyn would make friends with the woodland creatures. It’s impossible for people not to like them.”

“Then why don’t you include Palmer as one of your friends?”

I try and muster an eye roll, but I know it falls flat. “I never said I don’t like Palmer, but it’s not like he calls me to hang out or invites me to parties. We are, by definition, acquaintances.”

“You’re really sticking to that term.”

“Because it fits.”

“Cole would be cool. He’s easy to get along with and likes most people, but his brother, Abe, is a loose cannon. He’d punch a fridge if he thought it looked at him wrong.”

“Maybe we should invite Lenny…”

Grey huffs out a laugh. “The thing is, we’re tight. One guy dives in, and the rest follow. That’s how it’s always been. So if I invited them to hang out with the others and Nolan makes a wisecrack or Palmer says something stupid, things would get tense real quick.”

“And you’re stuck in the middle.”

He stares at me, his silence confirming he wouldn’t be in the middle but on their side. Something in my stomach twists with unease.

“Are you done stretching?” I ask, already turning toward the trail that surrounds Lake Oleander. The lake is manufactured but vast, covering over forty miles. We live on the only section parceled for building. The rest is a county park with trails, sports courts, and green spaces. I’m pretty sure my need for nature and greenery was born here, where even in January, when most of the trees are barren, it’s tranquil and beautiful.

Grey nods and follows me to the foot trail. On this side of the lake, it’s unpaved and narrow, forcing me to run in front of Grey, which unlocks a new level of self-consciousness that makes this arrangement even stranger.

Why did I wear leggings? Leggings show every curve of my backside.

Why did I think running here was a good idea?

My frazzled thoughts wane as sweat pricks my brow and spine, and my insecurities steer me to fears as Julian’s words about ignoring him ring in my ears.

Could Julian be watching me?

Ravens crow from nearby, giving me something to focus on. I find four things: the uneven path, the ferns still shamrock green, the dozen geese floating across the lake, and the glassy surface of the lake. I listen to the lap of the lake against the nearby shore, the whir of a boat engine in the distance, and the raven still crowing before picking out two scents.

When we reach the paved section where the path grows wider, Grey moves to run beside me without saying a word. The silence was easier when he was behind me, but I’m breathing too heavily to talk, and having him next to me is more comfortable, so I shove the discomfort aside and continue the pace.

I want to collapse when we return to my parents’ yard, my lungs screaming and mouth parched, but I begin stretching without instruction, feeling my heart pounding in my ears as sweat trails down my back and temples.

“You’re already finding a good stride,” Grey says. “Are you still pretty sore?”

“Only when I move or breathe.”

He flashes a surprised grin and chuckles but doesn’t offer to help me stretch again. I work to ignore the stab of disappointment.

“I didn’t know running would make my ribs ache.”

Grey nods. “Next week, we’ll start adding some calisthenics.”

“Will I want to punch you?”

“If you don’t, I won’t be doing my job.”

I bend over and try to touch my toes to hide my smirk.

“Are you guys done, or is there more?” Alex asks, leaning over the porch railing.

“We’re done. We’re just stretching. I’ll be in shortly.”

Alex leans closer. “You mean you’ll both be in shortly. I set Grey a place at the table, and Jon’s making him a mocktail, now.”

“I’d tell you to fake sick, but he likely watched us through his bird-watching binoculars and knows you’re fine.”

Grey’s eyes flare with alarm. I recall him asking me over to his table for dinner with Emma and the booster date, and my mortification is shelved.

“Don’t worry. He’ll probably wait until the next time he sees you to mention wedding dates and venues.”

Grey goes entirely still. This time, I’m pretty sure even his heart has stopped.

“That can’t be healthy,” I tell him, shaking my head as I turn toward my house.

“Why does he look pale?” Alex whispers as I climb the stairs.

I look over my shoulder at Grey as he follows a dozen feet behind. “If you ask him to call you Dad or mention what you expect from a son-in-law, I swear, I will be the best child ever for all of eternity.”

Alex steps closer, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. He’s an inch shorter than I am, his eyes a dark brown, with impossibly long lashes I’ve always envied. “But I like him.”

“You don’t know him.”

“I’ve met him at least five times. Plus, he makes you smile,” he bumps his hip against mine. “I saw it.”

“So does Jim Gaffigan.”

Alex rolls his eyes and slips his arm free of my shoulders. “Grey, you can use the guestroom if you need a shower. We even have some spare clothes in there that I think will fit you because Jon’s brother is cursed, and his bag gets lost every time he visits.”

I breeze through the doorway as Alex tells Grey how he’s made a habit of collecting shirts from every place they go to add to the closet. I find Jon mixing drinks in the kitchen.

“Should I put alcohol in his drink?” he whispers. “How old is he?”

“You should put alcohol in mine,” I whisper back.

He glares. I giggle.

“He doesn’t drink much. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“Because of Hudson or because it doesn’t mix well with steroids?” Jon glances toward the doorway where Grey is listening to Alex’s tale of clothing. He’s wearing a white tee that sculpts to his biceps and broad chest and a loose pair of black basketball shorts that reveal he doesn’t skip leg days.

Laughter peels out of me, and I don’t know if it’s because it’s been several months since I’ve seen my parents or because, for the first time, someone else isn’t a hundred percent team Grey.

“Let’s have a drink on the porch,” Jon says, distributing tumblers filled with a bubbly and light red cocktail garnished with pieces of rosemary skewered with fresh cranberries.

Alex swoons. My parents are openly affectionate and ridiculously obsessed with each other.

Out on the sun porch—my favorite space except in the spring when everything turns yellow with pollen—I sit in one of the two wicker chairs.

“How were finals?” Jon asks, sitting next to Alex on one of the couches while Grey sits on the other couch, subtly inspecting his drink.

“A few were borderline brutal,” I tell him.

Jon winces. “Sociology?”

I nod, taking a sip. The bubbles tickle my mouth and nose. “And that Shakespeare class Alex convinced me to take.”

Alex’s eyes grow wide. “You didn’t like it?” Shakespeare is practically his god.

I cross my legs and lean forward. “My professor doesn’t believe Shakespeare wrote his own plays.”

Alex leans back, repulsion flickering across his features as he brings a hand to his chest like he’s been wounded. “And he’s allowed to teach?” He turns to Jon. “This is what happens when we allow our daughter to attend a liberal college.”

Jon and I giggle as Alex takes a long drink to ease the sting.

“What about you, Grey? Are you relieved finals are over?” Alex asks.

Grey looks rigid and entirely uncomfortable, making the glass look like a bomb about to detonate rather than a cranberry spritzer. “Very. Between football and finals, the month before the break was ruthless.”

“Congratulations on your win at the bowl game,” Jon says. “That was a great game.”

Grey nods his appreciation.

“How have things been going at work?” I ask Alex. “Are things calming down?”

Alex leans back, sighing heavily. “We’re still having some disagreements.”

“Diva actors? Budget?” I ask, listing the common complaints.

Alex waves his hands. “Just business. You know how it gets.”

I don’t. My time spent in his world could be compared to sticking a toe into a pond.

“Is it something with the story?” I press.

Alex looks at me, his eyes bright with adoration and a familiar look I wish would eventually fade—one of pity that I used to mistake as shame. “Nothing to worry about. They always realize I’m right eventually.” He brandishes a smile that has me laughing.

“So you two are running together?” Jon asks, raising his eyebrows. “How did that come about?”

“I pretended to be his date, and so he owes me.” I lay out the facts as I usually do with my parents.

Grey swallows, his attention volleying between my parents. He’s usually the epitome of calm and collected, but over the past couple of weeks, I’ve seen him uneasy a dozen times. Somehow, he wasn’t even slightly nervous after kissing me, which still has me feeling a little bitter because I felt wholly unhinged afterward. Still do, any time I think about it.

I put that thought into the locked box as well.

“And for that, you want him to run with you?” Alex’s voice reflects his confusion, likely for my long avoidance of organized sports or hobbies that included exercising.

“It was a black-tie event,” I explain to mark the significance of the favor, omitting the largest part, which, of course, is the fact we kissed. I still remember the taste of him. Recall the weight of his hand against my spine when I’m trying to sleep. “I wore a gown.”

Jon smirks.

“So you guys are—” Alex starts.

I shake my head before he can dive into tropes and plotlines in an attempt to dissect what’s going on between Grey and me. “It’s just a deal we made.”

“Or friendship…” Jon says. “Kind of like Hudson.” He gives a pointed look at Alex, backing me up, only he’s missed the mark.

“We’re not friends,” I regret saying the words as soon as they leave my mouth because they sound childish and cruel even before all three men look at me.

Alex’s shoulders rise, and his demeanor switches from matchmaker to protector in a flash. I can see it, feel it in the way his gaze scrutinizes mine. I’m pretty sure I can even sense it in the air, as though the energy has changed.

“Grey’s cool. He’s a nice guy. I just mean that he’s Hudson’s friend. He’s working out with me because he owes me. Nothing nefarious, romantic, or wherever you were going.”

I swallow, looking at Grey and trying my damnedest to offer a silent apology.

Grey stares back at me, his blue gaze lacking the animosity I was expecting to discover. Instead, he looks almost perplexed with only a hint of bitterness.

“Mila,” Alex says, pulling my gaze to him. His dark eyes are filled with tenderness that has me wondering if I’ll always feel like a child, fragile and exposed, when he looks at me like this with so much love and compassion.

I swallow thickly as a rush of emotions tangles in my throat.

“Would you mind helping me with the charcuterie board?” he asks.

I clear my throat and stand, my knuckles white around the glass I’m gripping like a stress ball. I appreciate that it doesn’t compress and falter under the pressure.

Inside, I lean against the kitchen countertop, pressing the fingers of my free hand together without thought, just habit. Alex stands across from me, allowing me a moment of time and space.

“I’m proud of you for trying something new.”

“Did I embarrass him and make this really awkward?” I ask. “I didn’t mean… It just came out. I feel like such a jerk.”

“I think he was taken aback. I would guess if you asked him, he would have thought you were friends.”

I shake my head. “He doesn’t like me, and I’m not talking romantically.” I hate the thin veil of tears that form in my eyes.

Alex steps closer, pulling me into a hug that feels forced and uncomfortable until I remind myself that it’s not. Alex cares, wants to be here, and like the glass, won’t break. I wrap my arms around him a little tighter and breathe in the calming scent of cypress that is so familiar until my tears recede and my breathing become even. Still, he holds me.

“I’ve missed you, my beautiful girl.” He doesn’t make this about Grey or my insecurities that some argue will never change or go away. Instead, he is again the glass, reassuring me of his presence, consistency, and love.

“I’m surprised Jon chose a charcuterie board. He seemed so adamantly against them when we spoke at Thanksgiving,” I say, stepping back once my feelings are intact.

Alex gives a rueful smile. “You know him and how he hates anything that gets trendy. I swear, it’s like he’s allergic to anything popular.” He goes to the fridge and withdraws the wooden board filled with cheeses and fruits.

“Can you grab the crackers and nuts out of the pantry? He put them in a basket, so we’d know which ones to use.”

I grab the wire basket and a bag of goldfish crackers I spot on the shelf beneath them and bring them to where Alex adds small ramekins for the different dips and nuts.

“Maybe running together will be good. Hudson’s always been a good judge of character. I know my trainer wouldn’t be willing to come over every day to work out with me in exchange for me dressing up for a couple of hours…”

“It’s only been a few days.”

“He was willing to meet you at your parents’ house.”

“You’re in your producer’s mind again.”

“Am I?” he asks. “Or are you assuming he doesn’t like you because you still sometimes struggle to remember that others see how amazing and awesome you are, just like Jon and I?”

I glance toward the back porch where Jon and Grey are talking, their expressions somber but amicable.

“He tolerates hanging out with me because of Hudson. We wouldn’t be hanging out otherwise. In the two and a half years I’ve known him, do you want to know how many times we’ve texted or called each other before last week?” I make a goose egg with my hand. “Zero.”

Alex fills the middle container with goldfish crackers. “Everything begins somewhere.” With a meaningful look, he lifts the board and carries it out to the porch.

“Goldfish?” Jon squawks, raising accusing eyes at me. “Those weren’t in the box.”

I lean over and grab a small handful to set on one of the plates I brought out. “But they should have been.” I wink.

He shakes his head. “Some of these cheeses are a hundred dollars a pound.”

“For cheese?” I ask, shocked but not entirely surprised, feeling a twinge of guilt as my conversation with Grey floats to the top of my thoughts. I came to Oleander Springs with a half-filled garbage bag that fit all my belongings. I still remember walking into this house, amazed by the size and how nice everything was, and how hard I cried when they showed me my room. It was the first time I’d had my own bedroom, and it was made for a princess, filled with toys, clothes, and books that I struggled to accept.

“And these grapes are from France,” Jon says, interrupting my trip down memory lane.

I grab a small bunch of the purple globes he’s referring to. “Are you saying my crackers aren’t fancy enough for your board?”

He frowns at me and the insinuation. “I’m saying these are all quality ingredients, and those are processed and high in sodium. How are they even in the pantry?” He turns his accusing stare to Alex.

“That’s what happens when you send me to the grocery store alone. Things fall into the cart.” Alex shrugs, grabbing a handful of the crackers.

I chuckle, passing a plate to Grey. “Eat the cheese or eat the crackers. Jon’s a food snob but an excellent cook, so we don’t hold it against him.”

Grey accepts the plate with a broad smile. “I don’t think I’ve ever eaten hundred-dollar cheese before.”

“Please, help yourself. We have more of everything in the fridge.” Jon sits forward, pointing to each cheese and telling him where they came from and how they taste. He turns to Alex as he finishes. “When we return to California, you’re back on your diet. You heard what your cardiologist said.”

My back straightens. “What did your cardiologist say?”

Alex waves a hand. “That I’m healthy as a horse.”

Three years ago, Jon had a heart attack following his sixtieth birthday. The devastating and terrifying event changed what Jon cooks and buys.

Jon plucks a strawberry from the board. “As long as you avoid salt and saturated fats.” He puts a handful of vegetables on Alex’s plate, then grabs a celery stick and points to a hard white cheese, thinly sliced. “Try this one, Mila. It’s going to remind you of Florence.”

I take a small bit of it, and he smiles with satisfaction when I nod. “It really does.”

Our conversation shifts as Jon asks Grey about his major and football before Jon tells me about the new condo they’re considering buying.

“Do you need a coat, Mila?” Jon asks as I lean back in my chair. “There’s a breeze.”

“Yes. Why don’t you get one and check on the timer for the potatoes, please? We need a minute to speak with Grey, anyway. Make sure I approve of his intentions.” Alex crosses his legs and shoots me a wink.

I don’t feel even a hint of guilt as I ignore Grey’s stare and go inside.