Bright Lights and Summer Nights: A Fake Dating Billionaire Sports Romance (Black Tie Billionaires)

My condo feels eerily quiet except for the sound of the TV in my living room. I used to thrive in the quiet of an empty house. It left me alone with my thoughts, and being in my head used to be all about work. Now, my mind isn’t as fun a place to be because it always drifts to Emma.

So, I no longer enjoy the silence. I leave the TVs on so I can pretend this condo doesn’t feel empty without her.

“And the Mambas are already off to a great season, not having lost a game yet in the seven games they’ve played so far,” Bill Silas, one of the nicest sportscasters I’ve met over the years, says on the TV.

“Something’s got to give though, right? Preston Rhodes is playing lights out right now, but eventually, a defense is going to figure out how to stop him. Everyone thinks this will be their Cinderella season, but I’m not so sure,” Roger Oleman responds.

I smirk at Roger’s jab. The guy has never liked me—I don’t know why—and even though he’s supposed to remain unbiased, he’ll use any chance he gets to have the Mambas losing against an opponent.

Bill clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “That’s where I think you’re wrong, Roger. I can’t tell you the last team I’ve watched where I thought it was actually possible for them to go all the way to the Super Bowl without ever losing a game.”

“No. I think the Portland Pirates have a great shot at taking them down next week. Austin Rickerd is playing out of his mind for it only being his third season. He’s going to want to come out and prove to everyone that he’s better than the seasoned vet that’s Preston Rhodes.”

I only pay half attention to the broadcast. I normally try to avoid all of the different sports stations during the season, not wanting any of their opinions to get in my head, but this season, things are different.

I’ve never been so focused in my life.

I don’t care if Roger Oleman thinks I’m going to finally lose to Austin Rickerd. If anything, it fuels me even more to hear his opinion. I eat, breathe, and try to think about nothing but football. I tell myself it’s because this is my last year in the league and I want to give it my all after I made a promise to Emma.

But deep down, I know the focus is because if I allow my mind to drift to anything besides football, it’ll go to the woman I fell in love with—the one who wasn’t ready for my love. And thinking about her—about what we could have been right now—hurts. Excelling and being the very best quarterback I’ve ever been doesn’t hurt, so it’s where all my focus goes.

The noise from the TV fades out as I look at the little black box in my lap. Inside it sits letters I’ve written to Emma that I haven’t sent. I didn’t write them for her to read, not yet at least. I wrote them because I needed to feel like I was still talking to her, even when I wasn’t.

It’s been a way for me to make sense of my feelings for her. One by one, I unfold the unsent letters and torture myself by reading over every one.

Rebel,

It’s been two days since you left and I don’t think I’ve ever felt pain like this. I know this is for the best. I know for us to work, which, god, that’s all I want is for there to be an us at the end of this, that you have to go and find yourself on your own. I’m just really fucking missing you while you do it.

Yours,

Preston

Rebel,

I knew you leaving would hurt. That much was obvious. What I didn’t know was how lonely I’d feel without you. From spending almost every second with you over the summer to not seeing you at all is like ripping off the most painful Band-Aid to ever exist. I want to come home and tell you how practice went. I miss walking through the doors and hearing you belting out lyrics to a boy band song I’ve never heard of. I just miss the little things with you.

Yours,

Preston

Rebel,

We had the season opener today. It was the best game I’ve ever played. I would’ve given anything to have you there to watch it. But sometimes when I really miss you, I go to your profile and watch your videos. You look happy. I want you to be happy. I hope you’re falling in love with yourself a little more each day. That’s how I fell in love with you. Little by little until you became the most important person in my life. You still are that person for me. You always will be, no matter what happens.

Yours,

Preston

Rebel,

I’m sorry people still ask you about me. I hate that the paparazzi followed you all the way to your aunt’s house. I hate that I still can’t shake the feeling that the opinions of others about us and you made you second-guess yourself. I hope I’m wrong. You’re the most incredible person I’ve ever met, even as you’re still figuring it out, and I hope the world sees that in you too. I know they will. It’s hard not to.

Yours,

Preston

Rebel,

I know I shouldn’t have texted you. You have no idea how many times I’ve typed out a text to you only to delete it before I hit Send. But after you won that award, I couldn’t help myself. I’ve never watched award shows, and the ones I’ve attended I barely ever paid attention to. But last night, I was glued to the TV. I thought my heart was going to leap out of my chest waiting for them to announce the winner. I’m so happy it was you. Hearing from you, even if it was only a few words, gave me hope. I’ll see you in February, Rebel.

Yours,

PrestonExclusive © material by Nô(/v)elDrama.Org.

Rebel,

There was a moment today during the game where I got hit so hard that for a moment, I couldn’t move. My teammates and coaches were huddled over me, their eyes wide with fear because they knew how hard that hit was. I couldn’t hear a damn thing any of them were saying. Trainers were asking me questions, refs were trying to talk to my head coach, and the only thing I could think about was that time we walked out to the pier at midnight. The moon lit the path for us down the old, creaky boards. I remember it so vividly. The way you smelled, the baby-pink tank top you had on. We danced under the stars that night. And for some reason, as I lay there on the field, I wanted it to be that night again. I wanted to be back on that boardwalk with you. I was pulled out for concussion protocol, but was able to return after being checked out. I tried to focus on the game—we won by twenty-one—but it wasn’t the most focused I’d been in a game. All I could think about was wanting to be back on that boardwalk with you.

Next summer I want to dance with you on the boardwalk every night.

Always yours,

Preston

Rebel,

I saw that interview you did with Ruby Robinson. You’re doing big things, Emma Turner. Every answer you gave her about your life and your experiences was so authentic and real. I love watching the rest of the world fall in love with you, just the way I have. It does sting a little, knowing you’re here in New York. You’re so close, but so far. I miss you.

Yours,

Preston

I reread the latest one a few times, still feeling the tinge of pain knowing she’s back here in New York. From what I understand, she’s been all over the place recently. Mexico for a brand trip, LA for a shoot, and back here in New York for I don’t know how long. It’s probably a good thing I don’t know where she’s staying while she’s here. She could be at Beck and Margo’s, spending time with their new baby, or she could be with Winnie and Archer, or she could be staying somewhere on her own. I really don’t know. It’s better that I don’t. If I did, I might not be able to control myself and go see her. But we’ve made it halfway to February. She really seems to be getting her life together. She knows how I feel. When she’s ready—if she’s ever ready—she knows where to find me.

So I’ll continue to wait, even though waiting for her is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. It’ll be worth it in the end, as long as she’s mine.