The Playbook of Love and Lies
By Olivia Salter
Word Count: 2,111
Christine thought she had control over every aspect of her life—her career, her emotions, and her past. But when Vincent Carter, a man she once loved and lost, walks back into her world with a promise too good to be true, she faces a question she never expected: Can love exist without trust?
***
Christine Marshall wasn’t in the business of second chances.
She had built her consulting firm from the ground up, commanded respect in every boardroom, and learned the hard way that love was the one investment with no guaranteed return.
She had walked away from deals that weren’t worth the risk.
She had walked away from people too.
So when her assistant casually mentioned that Vincent Carter was back in Lawrenceville, she barely reacted.
She didn’t ask why.
She didn’t ask if he was alone.
She didn’t ask if he still looked the same, if he still carried himself with that easy confidence, if the years had changed him the way they had changed her.
She simply nodded, finished reviewing the quarterly reports, and moved on.
Then he called.
Her phone lit up with a name she hadn’t seen in years.
She could have let it go to voicemail. Should have.
But she didn’t.
"Hey, Chris," Vincent’s voice was lower than she remembered, steadier, but there was something underneath it—hesitation, maybe regret.
She tightened her grip on the phone. "Vincent."
"Can we talk?"
Christine hesitated. "Talk about what?"
"About us."
The words landed heavier than she expected.
There hadn’t been an us in years.
She should have said no. Instead, she found herself saying, "Meet me at Aria. Eight o’clock."
Aria, a sleek but intimate spot in Buckhead, was perfect for business dinners and quiet conversations she wasn’t sure she wanted to have.
By the time she arrived, Vincent was already there, waiting by the entrance.
He was taller than she remembered—6’4” of presence that filled a room. Dressed in a tailored black sweater and dark jeans, he looked effortlessly put together.
Christine, on the other hand, had chosen her armor—a fitted emerald-green dress, sleek heels, and a confidence that had never failed her in negotiations.
Vincent’s gaze swept over her, something flickering behind his eyes. "You look good," he said.
She met his gaze evenly. "Cut to the chase, Vincent."
He let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. "Still direct."
She didn’t respond, just raised a brow.
He sighed, hands slipping into his pockets. "I made a mistake, Christine."
She folded her arms. "Which one?"
His jaw tensed. "Walking away from you."
A bitter laugh escaped her lips before she could stop it. "You didn’t walk. You ran."
His expression tightened, a muscle ticking in his jaw.
"I got drafted," he said. "My whole world flipped overnight. I wasn’t ready for—"
"For love?" she interrupted, her tone sharp.
"For losing control."
Christine studied him carefully.
That had always been his fear, hadn’t it? The idea of something—someone—being bigger than the game.
And now, after all these years, he stood in front of her, trying to rewrite the ending of a story she had long since closed.
"And now you’re back. Why?"
Vincent exhaled. "Because I’m retiring, Chris. And I want you back in my life."
Silence.
The words should have meant something. Should have stirred the old feelings she had long since buried.
But she had spent years erasing him, telling herself he was a lesson, not a regret.
And now, just like that, he wanted a do-over?
"Vincent," she said carefully, "people don’t change overnight. And I don’t do second chances without reason."
He took a step closer, his voice quieter, steadier. "Then let me prove it."
Christine held his gaze, searching for the truth.
But trust was a gamble she wasn’t sure she was willing to take.
Not yet.
For weeks, Vincent pursued her like she was the last championship he’d ever win. Candlelit dinners at the finest restaurants in Buckhead, where he ordered for her without asking—remembering that she liked her steak medium and her wine red, full-bodied, and dry. Late-night drives down backroads lined with oak trees, where the hum of the tires on asphalt filled the silence between unspoken words.
They reminisced about college—how he used to leave his playbook open on her coffee table, claiming he studied better when she was near. She reminded him how she used to roll her eyes, saying, Football was your first love, not me. He didn’t deny it back then. But now?
Now, he swore everything was different.
And she found herself softening.
It wasn’t just the grand gestures—though Vincent was a man who understood the weight of presentation. It was the quiet moments. The way he rested his hand on the small of her back when they walked. The way he listened, really listened, when she talked about work, nodding in all the right places, asking follow-up questions that made her heart clench.
One evening, they drove out to the Chattahoochee River. The air was crisp, humming with the first whispers of autumn, and the moon cast silver ribbons over the slow-moving water. The trail was nearly empty, just them and the occasional jogger. Vincent took her hand, fingers warm against hers, his grip firm but unhurried.
"Tell me what you’re afraid of," he murmured, his voice barely louder than the rustling leaves.
Christine stared ahead, her gaze tracing the path where the moonlight kissed the pavement.
"That I’ll love you again," she admitted.
He squeezed her hand. "And?"
"And you’ll leave."
Silence.
She could hear the distant croak of frogs, the rhythmic chirp of crickets. The sound of Vincent breathing, deep and steady, as if weighing her words.
Then he stopped walking.
"I’m not that man anymore," he said, turning her toward him.
She wanted to believe him. She really did. But something nagged at her, a quiet voice whispering in the back of her mind.
There was a hesitance in his words, a crack in his confidence she couldn’t quite place.
She searched his face—the sharp angles of his jawline, the way his eyes flickered, just for a second, before settling back on her.
Before she could push further, her phone buzzed.
She hesitated, torn between ignoring it and breaking the moment. But when she glanced at the screen, her chest tightened. Malik Craig. An old friend from the league. Someone who never called without reason.
"Give me a second," she murmured, stepping away.
Vincent shoved his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels as she answered.
"Chris," Malik’s voice was quiet but urgent. "You know Vincent’s not retiring, right?"
Her stomach twisted.
The air around her stilled, the rustling trees and soft river waves suddenly distant, like she had been yanked into another reality.
"What?" she said, gripping the phone tighter.
"He’s still under contract. Three more seasons."
The words landed like a gut punch.
Christine turned slightly, her gaze locking onto Vincent’s silhouette. He was watching her, unreadable, as if sensing the shift in her demeanor.
"That’s impossible," she said, but even as the words left her lips, doubt crept in. "He told me—"
"He told you what you wanted to hear," Malik interrupted. "Look, I wasn’t gonna say anything, but I saw him at a league meeting last week. He’s negotiating an extension, Christine. Not an exit."
The world tilted.
Her fingers curled around the phone, nails pressing into her palm. "Are you sure?"
Malik sighed. "One hundred percent. He’s playing you."
Christine swallowed the lump rising in her throat.
A familiar, bitter taste filled her mouth—the taste of disappointment, of betrayal. Of deja vu.
She exhaled slowly, composing herself before hanging up. For a long moment, she just stood there, staring at Vincent, her mind racing through every conversation, every promise, every touch.
How had she let herself believe him?
She walked back, slowly, carefully, like she was approaching a dangerous animal.
"Who was that?" Vincent asked, his voice light, but there was something else in his eyes now—caution.
"Just a friend," she said.
He nodded, studying her. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah," she said smoothly. "Everything’s fine."
But inside, she was already planning her next move.
This game wasn’t over.
Christine paced her living room, gripping her phone so hard her knuckles turned white. Her thoughts raced, colliding with each other, forming a tangled mess of anger, hurt, and something dangerously close to heartbreak.
How could she have let herself believe him?
The warmth of his hands, the way he had looked at her beneath the soft glow of streetlights, the whispered promises—all of it had been a lie.
A sharp knock at her door cut through the chaos in her mind.
Deliberate. Controlled.
She knew who it was before she even reached for the handle.
Christine yanked it open.
Vincent stood there, dressed down in a hoodie and jeans, a stark contrast to the sharp, confident man who had wined and dined her just days ago. But his expression? Unreadable.
She folded her arms across her chest, the only barrier she had left.
"Tell me the truth," she said, voice steady despite the storm raging inside her. "Are you retiring?"
Vincent’s shoulders tensed. His lips parted, hesitation flickering in his eyes.
"Christine—"
"Don’t lie to me."
His jaw flexed, muscles working beneath his skin. He dragged a hand over his head, exhaling heavily.
Then, finally:
"No. Not yet."
A slow, bitter exhale slipped from her lips.
It was one thing to suspect. Another thing entirely to hear it confirmed.
She shook her head, forcing out a dry laugh. "So everything—the late nights, the promises—was all just a setup? A play?"
"No!" Vincent stepped forward, eyes wide, pleading. "It wasn’t a lie. I am changing. I just... I didn’t know if I could have both—the game and you. I wanted to be sure before I told you."
Christine’s stomach twisted. She wanted to believe him. But wasn’t that the problem? She had always wanted to believe him.
"And when exactly were you going to tell me, Vincent?" Her voice was quieter now, but no less sharp. "After I fell for you again? After I rearranged my life—again?"
His face fell, and for the first time, she saw it—the guilt. The doubt. The flicker of regret beneath his defenses.
"I love you, Chris." His voice cracked just slightly, just enough for her to hear the weight of his words. "I just didn’t want to lose you again."
Christine closed her eyes for a brief moment.
Maybe he had changed. Maybe he truly believed he could balance it all. But trust? Trust wasn’t a gamble she was willing to take anymore.
She squared her shoulders, lifting her chin.
"Then you should’ve trusted me with the truth."
She turned and walked away, leaving him standing there in her doorway—just as she had once been left behind.
Days passed. Vincent’s texts went unanswered. His calls, ignored.
Christine buried herself in work, drowning in spreadsheets, meetings, and the endless hum of productivity. It was easier that way—easier to pretend that his absence didn’t sit in the back of her mind like an unfinished sentence.
Then, a package arrived.
A plain black box, unmarked except for her name scrawled in Vincent’s handwriting.
She hesitated before opening it, her pulse betraying her with its unsteady rhythm.
Inside was a football.
Signed.
She ran her fingers over the ink, heart thudding as she read the words scribbled across the leather:
No more games. I’m done playing without you.
Nestled beneath the ball was a single envelope.
A ticket.
To his last game.
Christine sat at her desk, staring at it, her fingers tracing the edges.
She could hear Malik’s voice in her head—He’s negotiating an extension. But now, doubt crept in. If Vincent was still playing the game, why would he send this? Why would he say he was done?
Her walls wavered.
Vincent had made his move.
Now, it was her turn.
She leaned back in her chair, exhaling slowly.
Vincent hadn’t just been fighting for her. He had been fighting himself.
For years, football had been his anchor, his escape, his purpose. His first love. But now, for the first time, he was choosing something else.
Someone else.
And Christine?
She had spent years guarding her heart like a fortress, refusing to let anyone close enough to tear it down.
Maybe it was time to see if love was worth the risk.
But this time—she would call the plays.
She reached for her phone.
And dialed.
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