SEAL’s Fake Marriage (A Navy SEAL Romance)

by Jordan, Ivy

  She shakes her head and stands. “No, I'm good. Thanks for your time.”

  “My door is always open,” I tell her as I stand walk towards the door with her. She smiles and waves goodbye and I stand in the doorway a minute. I am just about to close the door when I see a fellow professor heading right towards me.

  I stifle a groan and force myself to not roll my eyes. Benjamin MacIntosh is the head of the science department, single, attractive, and a few years older than me. A number of the single female professors want to date him, an equally high number of the co-eds, too, and he's got his sights set on me.

  I am not at all interested.

  Besides the fact that I'm not attracted to him, I have no desire to date someone I work with. I want more than someone I have stuff in common with. I want a spark with someone. I want to feel the passion starting in my toes and coursing through my entire body.

  Benjamin MacIntosh does none of that for me.

  “Serena, I was just thinking about you,” he starts, leaning in to kiss one of my cheeks and then the other.

  I smile although on the inside I want to gag. “What can I do for you today, Ben?”

  “Everyone in the department is getting together for a Super Bowl party at my place. The Condors are playing again this year, so it's a pretty big deal. I wanted to invite you personally.”

  I had never heard of the Condors. Sports had never been my thing, but I played along. “When is it again?”

  “A week from Sunday.”

  “I'd love to come, but I have plans with sister. She has a painting in a show that night.”

  Benjamin’s smile falters. “Oh, well, if you change your mind, I'll text you the address. Just in case.”

  “Just in case,” I humor him. “If you'll excuse me, though, I have some papers to read.”

  “Of course. I'll see you soon.”

  I wave and disappear inside my office, leaning against the closed door with a sigh. Crossing to my desk, I push the papers aside and flip open my laptop. I mean, I know the Super Bowl is football, but I'm not interested in learning more. Knowing what sport someone is referring to when I hear talk over the next few weeks so I don't look completely clueless is enough.

  I click until I get to my email. There’s a notification about new messages on a dating profile I made a few weeks ago when I was home alone with a bottle of wine. Okay. Fine. Two bottles of wine.

  I login to the site and click through to the messages. The first few ask for nudes. Delete. The next one is a picture of the sender’s penis. Classy. Delete again. There are three more messages deleted in quick succession. Clicking to my profile, I change a couple of things. If this is what men are like these days, my love life just might be a lost cause.

  Looking at the clock and realizing I have a class to teach in ten minutes, I save my profile and close my computer. Collecting my things, I shove everything in my bag.

  If it's meant to be, it'll be, I tell myself as I hurry to my next class.

  Chapter Three

  Cade

  I drape a towel over my head and inhale deeply to gather myself. The third quarter is seconds away from starting and we’re down 3-21. It was not what any of us were expecting, getting our asses handed to us in the first half. I'm angry, not at my guys or myself, but the circumstances. It's not that we've played bad; we're playing our game, but the breaks just aren't going our way. I want to win for the new guys, for the rookies, for Jake and Malcolm.

  The whistle blows, and I take the field with the rest of my offensive line. In the huddle, I relay the play to the others and we break, lining up on the field. I look over at the defense for Carolina, glaring at each of them, when something in my mind ticks. With a gleaming smile, I get into position and call an audible.

  The ball snaps to me, and I search for my favorite receiver, Gibson. He’s wide open, and I spiral a perfect pass to him as he takes off running, no one covering him since my audible has their defense scrambling. Incredibly, Gibson makes it 65 yards before he is taken down. Two plays later we’re in the end zone, and with the score on the extra point, it’s 10-21.

  On the sideline, the team is abuzz with an unmistakable energy as I jog over and take my helmet off. We’re in it. Take no prisoners, in it to win it, whatever you want to call it, but we are in the zone. It is exactly the start we need for the second half.

  On the field, Carolina snaps the ball, but our defensive line reads the play perfectly and sacks the quarterback. They gain seven yards on their next play, and ten on the play after that.

  And then it happens.

  I rise to my feet, everything happening in slow motion as Carolina’s quarterback throws the ball and Malcolm jumps up, snatching the pass from the air and running towards our end zone. It is an incredible play, and I can hardly believe it when the kid reaches the end zone. I hold my breath as we set up for the extra point. We’re playing outdoors, and the wind has picked up from even five minutes ago. I know it might be a problem, hell, everyone in the stadium knows it might be a problem. Lee Smith has been our kicker longer than I’ve been the Condors quarterback, and his success rate is close to perfect.

  Time seems to stand still as the ball sails through the air, every one of us on the sideline is willing the ball to go between the posts. A groan runs down our sideline as the ball goes just left of the post. No good. 16-21.

  The rest of the quarter passes in a blur until we’re in the fourth quarter, still down. I move the ball down the field, and Carolina’s defense is right there with us, keeping us from the end zone. They move the ball down field, and our defense keeps them from scoring. It’s become like a chess game, trying to anticipate the other guy’s next move, trying to score, trying to keep them from scoring.

  I’m pretty sure this game has taken a year off my life, but I’m too wrapped up into it to care. I want this for my team. We have a goal, and now we need to achieve it.

  The clock ticks down until there is less than ninety seconds left in the game. We have the ball, but we’re 95 yards from the end zone. In the huddle, I call the play, and we line up on the line of scrimmage. I exhale a breath, yell out at my offensive. “Hut, hut!”

  The ball is snapped into my hands, and I’m looking for an open receiver – any open receiver – but there are none. There's only one option for me here: run.

  I run like the devil, tearing down the middle of the field as the defense scrambles, my receivers doing everything in their power to stop them from reaching me. I hear the roar of the crowd in my ears, and I have tunnel vision on the end zone. I barely hear the whistle as my feet cross the line, the ref’s arms shooting up in the air. Touchdown.

  I just scored a ninety-yard touchdown. In the Super Bowl. A winning ninety-yard touchdown. It’s another record that will have my name on it. The special teams are on the field and setting up for the extra point. The celebrating is already starting on the sideline, guys slapping me on the back, hugging each other. When the extra point is good, there’s more hugging and yelling. We’ve won, 23-21.

  I give interviews on the field, but I don’t remember any of them. When they announce the MVP of the game, I’m excited, but not overly surprised to hear them say my name. I accept my award, the cheering crowd deafening, and look around at my teammates and the joy in their smiles. I smile, too, but it almost feels forced. My teammates are celebrating, and I see Jake and Malcolm whooping it up together. I remember those days, I think.

  On the big screen, I see the camera pan to Josephine Lowell — blonde, beautiful, bombshell, A-list Hollywood actress — also known as my girlfriend. She’s waving and blowing kisses. Lapping up every moment of the attention, even though she hates football and her agent had to force her to come.

  I look away and catch sight of some of my married teammates interacting with their wives and kids. I've played for seventeen years, and while the accolades I've earned have always been nice, there's a feeling in the pit of my stomach I can no longer shake. I yearn for something different. I wa
nt something more. I want something football doesn't offer, but I just don't know what it is yet.

  Or maybe I do, I just don’t know if I’ll ever get it.

  Chapter Four

  Serena

  “Why did I let you drag me out tonight of all nights?”

  My sister Ashley laughs. “Because I promised you a free meal.”

  “But it’s Valentine’s Day, and we’re surrounded by happy, lovey dovey couples. Everyone probably thinks we’re lesbians.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing, except you’re my sister, not my lover.”

  “Do you have a lover?”

  “No.”

  “You should take one...or three,” she laughs.

  Ashley is a free spirit, or at least that’s how everyone starts off when they describe her. She is a painter, and her art projects are always just a little over my head, but she is my sister and I love her, so here I am.

  Ashley is babbling on about the commercialization of love by way of Valentine's Day, a rant I’ve heard every year since she was a freshman in high school and I was a freshman in college.

  “I mean, why do we need a day to be told we have to tell the person we love that we love them? Shouldn't you be showing that every day? I don’t want to be taken out and romanced one day a year; I want it every day,” she rants.

  I nod in agreement and sip my wine as she continues. “Look at this guy,” she says with a tilt of her head. I follow her eyes and see a couple, probably around my age, and the man has just moved from his chair to one knee. The woman’s hand moves to cover her mouth and even from across the room we can see her eyes glisten with tears. Ashley scoffs.

  “This is what I'm talking about. What’s romantic about getting proposed to in a restaurant with dozens of strangers watching right after you ate the salmon? I guarantee he thinks this is some grand romantic gesture because that’s what Hallmark told him. But it’s not. It might even be worse than proposing to a girl at a sporting event. Get real, dude, and come up with a more inventive way to ask your girl to marry you.”

  “What do you know about romance, Ash? You are a love ‘em and leave ‘em girl,” I say. My sister loves hard and fast, and it flames out just as quickly. She’s had more boyfriends in the last year than I’ve had in my entire thirty-three years.

  “Says the spinster,” Ashley snarks back.

  “I’m not a spinster.”

  “When was your last date?”

  “Eight months ago,” I mumble.

  “I’m sorry, come again?”

  “Eight months ago.”

  “And, your last boyfriend?”

  “Fourteen months ago. But that doesn't make me a spinster. I’m selective. I don't want to just date random guys — I want to feel a connection.”

  “So, what do you want then?”

  “I don’t know. Someone who makes me laugh, who supports me with my dreams.”

  “And, what does he look like?”

  “Looks aren't everything.”

  “They aren't, but you have to be physically attracted to him, nonetheless.”

  “I don’t think what he looks like is important, though. He should be kind, and have a job, and love me.”

  “So really, he could be anyone.”

  I shrug. “When it’s right, you just know. And, I’ll know when it’s right.”

  “Okay, but while you wait for him to show up, maybe you could just get laid. You work too much, Serena, and you never go anywhere to meet people, so how is Mr. Right going to find you? Besides, Mr. Right Now could end up being Mr. Right if you went out and met him.”

  “I have the online dating profile you insisted I make.”

  “And, how many dates have you been on?”

  “None.”

  “Let’s make a deal then. You go out on one date in the next week with someone from the dating site, and I will not bug you for a week about meeting someone.”

  “I don't know...”

  “I know you are my big sister, but seriously, Serena, if you don’t put yourself out there, you won’t ever meet the one. If you’re not at work, you have your nose in a book. If you don’t have your nose in a book, you’re trying to turn nine-year-olds into astrophysicists. And while that is perfectly admirable, it’s all you do: work. You gotta get out and enjoy life for yourself.”

  A sigh escapes me. I knows she’s right, even though I don’t want to admit it aloud. “I will try to find one decent guy to go out on a date with this week, okay?”

  “Okay. Now, do you see this?” she points subtly at a couple who is being seated nearby. She is carrying a single red rose and looking at her date with what can only be described as heart eyes.

  “A red rose on Valentine’s day. Does it get any more generic than that?” Ashley continues. “If a guy ever shows up for a date with me with a single red rose, I swear I’ll swat him in the face with it. The least he could do is find out her favorite flower and bring her that.”

  “What if her favorite flower is a rose?” I ask her.

  “No one’s favorite flower is a rose.”

  I tune out while Ashley continues her rant about flowers. As I look around at the other couples, I realize that despite the corniness of it, I want what these women have. Perhaps not the stereotypically Valentine’s Day gifts, I’d appreciate something a bit more imaginative — but the companionship, I realize, I crave. I'm lonely and I want someone to share my life with.

  Chapter Five

  Cade

  For someone who won the Super Bowl three weeks ago, you wouldn’t know if you saw me. I’ve been in what I can only describe as a funk since that night, probably even before. I have become the living embodiment of a moody, sullen teenager, and I’m thirty-eight years old. It’s ridiculous.

  Across the room, my phone buzzes with an incoming text message. I glance at the screen, and my already sour face turns further.

  Where are you?????

  Even in a text message I can hear Josephine’s shrillness, and I shudder at the thought. I was supposed to meet her for lunch and didn’t bother to text or call her to let her know I wasn’t coming. She’s been blowing up my phone for hours, and I’ve been ignoring it for just as long.

  I am no longer sure what I ever saw in her. Sure, she’s hot, and the sex has always been great, but our relationship has no substance. It’s a relationship of convenience these days. I need a woman like her when I show up to events, she needs a man like me to parade around at her movie premieres. Our relationship has had more ups and downs than a rollercoaster, and I need more than that.

  Before I can stop and think about it, I grab my phone and call Josephine. She answers on the second ring.

  “Where are you?” she demands. “Do you know how humiliating it was sitting by myself at Chateau Marmont? Where the fuck were you? You better have a damn good reason to stand me up. I’m Josephine Lowell, and no one stands me up, not even you Cade Thomas. You owe me big time, Cade. Jewelry big.”

  “Josephine, for once in your life, shut up.”

  “How dare you!” she gasps.

  “I’ll tell you how I dare. We're done, Josephine.”

  “Cade, don't be silly.” Her tone instantly changes, and she’s purring through the phone. “I’m sure you had a good reason. You can make it up to me anyway you like. I’m wearing those purple panties you like so much.”

  “Do you want to know what I was doing today? I was in bed listening to Adele. I haven’t left my house in three days. I don’t have any interest in you or your Hollywood lifestyle. I want something real, Josephine, and you will never be real.”

  “I am real, Cade. For the last two years, I’ve been me.”

  I laugh. “That doe-eyed innocent act you play on screen isn’t you, no matter how hard you try to convince the public otherwise.”

  “Fuck you, Cade.”

  “It’s been... Well, it’s been something, Jo, but this isn’t it for me anymore.”

  Now she laug
hs, and the bitterness turns my stomach. “You’ll be back, Cade. You’ll come crawling, begging me to take you back. But it will be too late. I’m the best thing that will ever happen to you, and you will regret this.”

  She hangs up before I can say anything else but it doesn't matter. A weight feels likes it has been lifted from my shoulders, and I head to the bathroom to shower. When I feel like I’ve washed away the crustiness of spending the last three days in bed, I get out, wrapping a towel around my hips and dripping water on the floor into my bedroom. I dress quickly, shake my hair, and grab my car keys. I’m not sure where I’m going, but I need to get out of my house.

  I drive to Manhattan Beach and walk the beach for a while, lost in my thoughts. I’ve been thinking about retiring from football; I’ve played seventeen seasons, and I’m pushing forty. I’ve had a great career, one that might not ever be matched, but I’ve also had injuries over the last few seasons. I played most of this season with a torn labrum in my shoulder. I need to have surgery on it.

  Truth is, I have no idea what my next move should be, but I know the feeling in my gut is telling me to embark on something new. It's not like I have to do anything — I’ve made more than enough money to live on the rest of my life, but I’m pretty sure I’d go stir crazy without some sort of backup career.

  I thought the salt air might help clear my head, but I decide I need a drink instead and head back to my car. I recall a friend of a friend mentioning a place nearby called Zinc. If memory serves me right, they are supposed to have great craft beer and a hot bartender, so I head over.

  Immediately upon entering the lounge, I hear the murmurs and feel the looks. I don't mind being recognized, and for the most part, people are respectful. I’ve never been accosted while trying to take a piss, which is great. I smile and wave. I’m stopped for selfies with a group of women who appear to be out for a ladies’ night, and then sign autographs for a couple who are from the Midwest and in town as a belated honeymoon.

  When I finally reach the bar, I look over the menu and decide on a craft beer they have on special. The bartender has just set it in front of me when the door opens and a woman enters. I can’t help but do a double take.