The game, p.1
The Game, page 1
Table of Contents
Books by A.B. Wilson
Title Page
Legal Page
Book Description
Dedication
Trademark Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Epilogue
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About the Author
Totally Bound Publishing books by A.B. Wilson
The Shellenberg Brothers
The Role
The Shellenberg Brothers
THE GAME
A.B. WILSON
The Game
ISBN # 978-1-83943-575-1
©Copyright A.B. Wilson 2022
Cover Art by Erin Dameron-Hill ©Copyright March 2022
Interior text design by Claire Siemaszkiewicz
Totally Bound Publishing
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Totally Bound Publishing.
Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Totally Bound Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.
The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.
Published in 2022 by Totally Bound Publishing, United Kingdom.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the authors’ rights. Purchase only authorised copies.
Totally Bound Publishing is an imprint of Totally Entwined Group Limited.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book”.
Book two in the
Shellenberg Brothers series
He’s everything she hates, but exactly what she needs. What will it take to turn two rival players into teammates?
Recover. That’s Abby’s entire plan when she suffers a potentially career-ending injury. But she needs financial support for her rehab now that she’s been dropped by her pro soccer team.
Enter Matti, her unlikely, tatted-up savior with a man bun. The guy with everything she wants, a stellar career and the ability to get away with anything. When Matti’s fired by his team after yet another off-pitch scandal, he needs someone to help rehab his reputation.
After a gossip column goes viral with a piece about their supposed engagement, the plan falls into place. A fake engagement to save Matti’s career, and access to the best rehab center for her. A new city, no friends, the only person they have to rely on is each other, and Abby’s grumpy cat, of course.
As they play pretend day in and day out, their feelings start to shift from those of uncomfortable teammates to something a lot like love as the two find out each other’s deepest secrets. But when a new opportunity for Matti comes knocking, ready to pull them apart, will they take the risk of admitting the truth behind their feelings?
Dedication
This one goes out to the members of my mother’s book club who can still look me in the eye after reading my sexy scenes.
The author acknowledges that she has utilized artistic license with professional and collegiate sporting schedules to further the plot of this book.
Trademark Acknowledgements
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
iPhone: Apple, Inc.
Siri: Apple, Inc.
Olympic Village: Olympic Village Development LLC
Women’s National Team:
F.C. Chelsea women’s team: Chelsea Football Club
Cup: English Football League
Northwestern: Northwestern University Corporation
Heathrow: Heathrow Airport Holdings
Romeo and Juliet: William Shakespeare
Calvin Klein: The Trustees of the Calvin Klein Trademark Trust
Fiat 500: FCA Group Marketing
Stamford Bridge Stadium: Chelsea Pitch Owners
University of Wisconsin-Madison: Board of Regents of the University of Wisconsin System
Daisy Buchanan: F. Scott Fitzgerald
iPad: Apple, Inc.
Friends: Bright/Kauffman/Crane Productions, Warner Bros. Television, Warner Bros. Television Distribution
The Girl From Ipanema: Antonio Carlos Jobim, Viniciusde Moraes, Norman Gimbel
The Bean: Anish Kapoor
Millennium Park: Chicago Department of Cultural Affairs
Field Museum: Field Museum of Natural History
School Ties: Jaffe/Lansing Production, Paramount Pictures
League: The Football Association Premier League Limited
Islands in the Stream: Barry, Robin & Maurice Gibb
Uber: Uber Technologies, Inc.
Yo-Yo: Sam Dubiner
In The Air Tonight: Phil Collins
Hungry Like the Wolf: Nick Rhodes, Simon Le Bon, John Taylor, Roger Taylor, Andy Taylor
Prius: Toyota Jidosha Kabushiki Kaisha TA Toyota Motor Corporation
BMW: Bayerische Motoren Werke Aktiengesellschaft Corporation
FaceTime: Apple, Inc.
PowerPoint: Microsoft Corporation
Taco Bell: Taco Bell IP Holder
Starbucks: Starbucks Corporation
Shake It Off: Taylor Swift, Max Martin, Shellback
Instagram: Instagram LLC
Madame Tussauds: Prestbury
IKEA: Inter IKEA Systems
UEFA: Union des Associations Européenes de Football
Bluetooth: Bluetooth SIG Inc
The Hangover: Legendary Pictures, Green Hat Films, BenderSpink, Warner Bros. Pictures
Beerfest: Legendary Pictures, Gerber Pictures, Cataland Films, Broken Lizard, Warner Bros.
Big Ten conference: Big Ten Conferences, Inc.
Adidas: adidas AG Joint Stock Company
Jerry Maguire: TriStar Pictures, Gracie Films, Vinyl Films, Sony Pictures Releasing
Sharpie: Sanford, L.P. Newell Operating Company
NCAA: The National Collegiate Athletic Association
Gatorade: Stokely-Van Camp, Inc.
GQ: Advance Magazine Publishers, Inc.
UCLA: Regents of the University of California, The Corporation
Everything I Do, I Do It For You: Bryan Adams, Michael Ramen, Robert “Mutt” Lange
Chapter One
Abby
Air horns, club songs and pile-ons from teammates. Confetti raining down in the drizzle, sticking to our hair and rain-spattered, grass-stained jerseys. I would never forget the moment that the F.C. Chelsea women’s soccer team won the Championship. Never, ever in my life had I felt the level of exhilaration that the men’s team must feel after the average game, because that’s how many people had jammed into Stamford Bridge stadium to watch us win—a sold-out crowd.
All around me my teammates had torn off their jerseys to trade with our opponents and were battling tears with sloppy hugs. Something magical happens at the closing whistle of a hotly competitive match that the average person never feels. The way in which your direst enemy suddenly becomes your friend, happy for you in your happiness. There is that solidarity amongst female athletes where those congratulatory moments mean something, and I’d been dreaming of this one since I was five years old.
Up in the manager’s box the entire men’s team was cheering us on. And there. Right in the middle of the crowd, if I could be bothered to look, would be my nemesis with his dirty-blond hair trapped in a messy top knot. His nice dress clothes most likely all rumpled and his sleeves rolled up to show off his massive, tattooed forearms.
His electric-blue eyes would be crackling above his stubbly, chiseled cheekbones and jawline. He was probably waving his hands theatrically, acting the fool with everyone loving on him. If he were American instead of German, I’d have bet money on his tie being wrapped around his head. Matti Shellenberg, a man I’d wished a bad case of jock itch on more times than was probably healthy.
Knowing he was up there was enough to make my blood boil. My eyes shot straight to him—like there was a magnetic force between the two of us—even at this distance. To my complete shock, he wasn’t in the mix with his teammates. Instead he was sitting all alone in a corner of the box—him, the man who was never still, never at rest, never less than one hundred percent positively on. The center of attention and master instigator. Now he sat slumped in his chair like a puppet with his strings cut, head in hands.
He’s probably pissed we’re getting all the attention.
One year later, I could still feel the mashed potatoes crusting in my eyebrows and long auburn hair, which I’d curled so carefully the night of the fundraiser for pediatric cancer patients. Those hyper-realistic plastic spiders he’d stuck on my chair that made me scream and flip my plate, launching a shower of food down on top of me and my tablemates.
I could still see him in my mind’s eye, doubled over in laughter, wiping tears of hilarity off his flushed cheeks. Could still hear his delighted slow clap and taunt. “You gonna come after me with that steak knife, Stabby Abby?” I hated nicknames, but I had to admit that ‘Stabby Abby’ was one I could get behind. That clever jerk.
The confetti storm had finally settled in colorful, sodden clumps and the team’s owner and head of operations strode through the tunnel and out onto the pitch for the trophy ceremony. I winced as I wound my way through the crowd. My bad knee was twinging like a motherfucker after a tackle from Porto’s defender that had knocked me awkwardly onto my ass. Hopefully I’d only twisted it, nothing more serious.
My co-captain, Teresa, wrapped an arm around my shoulders and started tugging me toward the hastily erected podium at midfield. The team song was still blaring through the stadium speakers and the emotions of the day were catching me. I’d won a gold medal with the U.S. Women’s National Team, but this was somehow bigger. Better, because it was unexpected. Times like this reminded me that every sacrifice I’d made to play professionally was worth it.
Tears pricked my eyes as Teresa hugged me close. “We did it, chica. Can you believe it?”
I hugged her back and we wiped each other’s tears and laughed. “You get up there first,” I encouraged. She hopped up on the stage and pulled me up behind her. Together, we walked to the podium to accept the trophy. The owner and manager were tag-teaming a self-congratulatory speech about how delightful and historic the moment was. Teresa and I exchanged a Look. This moment would have come a lot sooner if the club had bothered to invest in its women’s side the way it did in the men’s.
The owner handed us the trophy, almost bobbling it as he attempted to kiss our cheeks. The smell of whiskey flowed off of him as he leered at us. Teresa and I did our duty, ignoring the foul, smelly man as we smiled and raised that trophy high above our heads. Not even a lecher could rub the shine off of this one for us. I kissed the cool, damp metal that smelled like blood and fresh grass. That too-brief kiss was, without a doubt, the greatest in my entire history of kisses—not that that history was particularly long or interesting.
I jumped down with the Cup, wincing again as my knee protested the action, and passed it off to my teammates. Teresa and I stood back from them, arm-in-arm as we watched the celebration continue. The men’s team would be rushing the field soon because they could never handle the women’s team having the lion’s share of attention. I had no interest in being out there when Ratty Matti showed and turned to Teresa. “I’m going to the locker room, need to hit the ice baths before we have to get ready for the party. Cover for me?”
“You got it. Guess we all need some extra time to look our best tonight after this, huh?” She winked at me.
“Ugh, totally. But if I don’t get in an ice bath soon, I’m not going to be able to stand in high heels.” My tone was rueful and she slugged me in the shoulder, jerking her head in the direction of the locker room.
I took one last mental picture of my still-celebrating teammates, and the fans who hadn’t stopped singing our song, and started for the bench to scoop my kit. As I maneuvered around the celebrants and the men’s team clattering up from the tunnel, I glanced back at the owner’s box and got one hell of a shock. Matti was still there, not down with the rest of his team trying to steal our glory. No, he was still in his seat with his head in his hands. Curiouser and curiouser.
The locker room was empty, but the training staff were there and ready with congratulations and help getting the tape off from the brace around my knee. I’d suffered an ACL tear not too long ago and coming back had been an excruciating journey.
The physio helped me into the tub and one of his assistants started dumping in the ice. The cold burn of an ice bath was something that athletes supposedly got addicted to. Me, though, I was dreaming about tropical beaches and a solitary walk on white sand with the ocean curling in to tickle my toes as I shivered uncontrollably while buried in the tiny cubes.
“McKinnon, your mobile’s ringin’, darlin’! Says ‘Sylvie’. That’s your agent, right?” The head physio shook my shoulder as he showed me the screen of my phone.
I sank back into the tub and managed to get out through my chattering teeth, “It can wait till I’m done here, probably a congratulations.”
“I dunno, darlin’, this is the third time she’s called in five minutes. You’re about done, let’s get you out of there and you can take the call.” He hadn’t even really congratulated me. Nor had he asked me if I was okay, given the slight limp I knew he’d seen with his laser-like focus on all of our working extremities. My stomach hollowed out and my shivers got bigger and stronger as I accepted his hand and let him haul me out of the tub.
What does he know?
I grabbed my phone and headed back to the locker room with a newfound sense of foreboding and sent a quick text to Sylvie that I’d call when I was out of the shower. I resolutely ignored the immediate buzz of a reply and the repeated chimes that indicated an incoming call. All I needed was one more moment to bask in the feeling of winning, of being a winner, of finally, finally achieving my dream before the real world could intrude again.
The water speared into me and I could barely hear the shouts and laughter of my teammates finally coming off the pitch over its spray. Our ancient locker room was about to turn into a pre-party while we all got ready for the huge end-of-season shindig thrown by the club’s owners.
A bunch of us—me included—wanted nothing more than to go home, but one simply did not skip this event. No matter how tired, no matter how injured. You went, you gladhanded the shit out of everyone, and you pretended to have the best time. Every year, I dreaded it. This year, though, things would be different. We were winners and I was trying to shake my salty reputation—my contract was up for renewal in the off-season. I cranked the water to cold to rinse out the last of my conditioner and practiced my biggest, most pleasant smile. My cheeks hurt already.
With my team all around me, their chatter echoing off the cinderblocks that needed a new coat of paint, I felt like I was in my safe space. Safe enough, at any rate, to call Sylvie back. The insulation of their enthusiasm made a little bubble around me as I waited for her to pick up. I snorted when her voicemail kicked in. That was so Sylvie, harass me for hours, then pout when I finally did what she wanted—probably thought she was teaching me a lesson.
Joke was on her, though. I’d grown up in the most passively aggressive toxic home with a mother who knew how to wield silence as a weapon as easily as a backhanded compliment. In a small Midwestern town in southern Wisconsin where everyone knew you and your business.
Shoving thoughts of Sylvie aside, I forced my attention to making myself up to appear as photogenic and approachable as possible. Most of the other girls had completed their transition from sweaty athlete to debutante and were starting to file out to the hired cars that would take us to the Fairmont Hotel for the celebration while I was still winding a final section of hair around my curling iron.
“Want me to make sure there’s a car for you when you finally finish?” Teresa asked with a small smile as she appeared in the mirror behind me. She knew how much I hated the schmoozing that went along with our captain’s badges.
