Page 1 of Biggest Player (Not Yours #2)

Dex

Swipe left.

Swipe left.

Always to the left . . .

I sigh, mindlessly trolling the dating app as if it were my job, my ass planted firmly in this reclining chair for the past hour.

Swipe left.

“ Everything in a box to the left ... ,” I singsong humorously, continuing on my dating journey, proud of myself for having the strength to go on.

I’m not one of those dudes who goes on a binge when scrolling; I do not swipe right on every living, breathing person with a pulse. I look at all the photos and try to get a vibe.

I read the biographies.

I’m picky—some would say a little too picky—but I have my reasons.

Pfft. What does picky mean anyway? I consider it having standards and not settling, but if you want to be an asshole and judge me for it, be my guest .

I take a slice of pizza resting on a plate on the side table and dangle it in front of my face, aiming for my mouth. Take a bite. Chew. Swallow.

Swipe.

Chew.

Swallow.

Swipe.

This is my new favorite Sunday-evening activity, since I don’t have to play in a game tonight.

See, that’s something you don’t know about me. Not to brag, but I play professional football and I’m kind of a big fucking deal.

It’s the offseason right now, which means I have time to fuck around and try dating—which I’ve been going hard at for months. And months. And months of me looking for love in all the wrong places, and those places include these damn dating apps.

I have four of them on my phone, including the new Kissmet app, which my buddy Landon’s girlfriend developed—sorry if that was a mouthful.

I think it’s great he’s dating someone who has her own thing going on—Harlow is a badass in her own right. The fact that she happens to be dating an old teammate of mine is a bonus.

I’m the least romantic guy you’ve ever met, but I have to admit, my best friend is one lucky bastard.

I figured it was time to join the club and be part of “couple goals,” but damn. It’s harder than it looks!

I stare at the profile of a woman named Madisson—yes, with a double s . From the looks of it, Madisson loves fishing, hiking, and new adventures. Has a golden retriever. Loves trying new food and traveling. And has several photos that are heavily filtered.

Already aggravated by the dumb way she spells her name, I swipe left to delete her.

Poof!

Just like that she disappears into oblivion, only to reappear once I run out of local matches. Ha fucking ha.

But the joke seems to be on me because finding someone I click with has been impossible. I’m fun, dude! It should not be this difficult to connect with a woman in person. Unfortunately, that has been my reality.

Landon, my best friend, called me a fucking idiot to my face because on the dating app I am there as myself. He thinks I should create a different profile with a nickname, using photographs that don’t reveal my true identity.

Which makes no sense to me.

Why shouldn’t I be me? Isn’t that what the ladies want?

And so, I use my real name, my real photos, my real age.

I even had my house manager, Ms. Dorothy, help with my bio, though Harlow and Landon offered to write it for me.

Ha. As if.

Dex, 25

Professional Football Player

Nice young man in search of a serious relationship.

Tall, dark, and handsome.

Funny. Sarcasm is my second language.

Loves eating but not cooking, unless you include frozen pizza.

Still discovering what it is I want.

No cat people. Dogs only (big dogs preferable).

The “serious relationship” part at the beginning of the bio?

Still on the fence about including it, but I didn’t have the heart to tell Dorothy otherwise.

She’s old enough to be my grandmother, which means she’s old fashioned.

The only real option with her reading over my shoulder was to write that I’m looking for something long term, even though I wouldn’t mind a friend-with-benefits situation.

Or just the benefits.

See? Mostly honest.

Why should I pretend to be someone I’m not? Why should I use pictures that aren’t mine to avoid gold diggers? Shouldn’t a woman know who she’s going out with before she goes out with him?

They should be so lucky! It’s not my fault I am who I am!

I jam the remaining hunk of pizza down my gullet and thumb to the messages within the Kissmet app, the little heart icon bursting with tiny pink envelopes to indicate I have mail. Or a message. Or whatever.

It’s like a party every goddamn time I log in, confetti and hearts and all that cutesy bullshit.

But it also gives me a confident feeling I don’t get with the other dating apps. I mean, come on—who doesn’t love confetti raining down on them? It’s as if the app is congratulating me for making the correct choice to log in.

A photo of myself greets me, and I smile. “You handsome son of a bitch,” I tell it, going to my stats.

One thousand three hundred eighty-two women have swiped right on my profile. Say whaaaaat?!

“Those are good chances!” I say out loud to no one, mentally patting myself on the back.

Oh, also.

Have I mentioned I have a date later tonight?

I’m playing the odds, still swiping and going on dates. None of them have worked out for me, and there have been zero second dates.

This date with a young woman named Claire I’m slightly optimistic about. We seem to have a lot in common. She loves football, sports in general, and parties, and has a dog named Snoopy. Plus, she’s tall and blond and wants kids— but not right now .

Cool.

Works for me.

I don’t want kids right now either.

Maybe not ever, if I’m being honest.

My friends are my family. I have one brother, and my parents are out of the picture, reappearing every so often to ask for money. I’m not close to any cousins and haven’t seen any aunts or uncles in years. Not in person, anyway, although every so often they, too, reappear—again, asking for money .

So, yeah, I have an estranged relationship with them.

The last person who should be bringing up children is me, considering I can’t get along with the people who raised me.

Actually, I had to go to therapy for two years to cope with the fact that my family is full of leeches and the guilt about telling them no, but hey, I learned how, and that’s all that matters.

Which brings me to dating.

Wanting someone who loves me for me—the way Harlow loves Landon for himself and not because he is a world-class football player, and she didn’t know his true identity when they met.

“Maybe I should go to a big city and sit in a park and wait for a woman to fall into my lap the way he did, instead of having to put myself on this stupid dating app,” I grumble, thumb moving in the same direction, one swipe after the next in the wrong direction.

Left.

Always left.

“Don’t they tell people in their advertising that we’re supposed to find a match so we can delete this thing?” I complain.

“Are you talking to yourself?” My chef appears in the doorway, blue pin-striped apron tied around her waist. “Hold up. Why are you eating pizza?” She moves into my office, fingers clearly itching to snatch the paper plate off my side table and toss it in the nearby trash.

I can see it in her eyes. “I thought you said you wanted to eat healthy.”

“I do want to eat healthy. Once I’m done with this pizza.”

“The giant pizza on the counter is why I’m barging in.” Her lips curl in disappointment. “Yesterday I put lean chicken in the fridge to thaw out. Did you want me to make extra and meal prep the rest?”

“Yes, please.” I bat my lashes in her direction. Lean chicken is my favorite. “You’re an angel.”

“Fine.” She turns to go. “Don’t let that ruin your appetite.”

“This isn’t going to ruin my appetite!” I protest and take another bite to prove my point, chewing vigorously.

Carrie squints. “When would you like to eat?”

My shoulders move up and down in a shrug. “Whenever. Doesn’t matter. I’m in the middle of finding a girlfriend—then I’m having drinks in a few hours.”

My chef laughs the kind of laugh that makes her a terribly unprofessional employee, but we grew up together and went to high school together, and when she moved to Arizona, I hired her to freelance as a personal chef.

Several of my teammates use her too.

Is she a pain in my ass?

Yes.

Does she make great food? Yes.

Do I occasionally wish she wasn’t all up in my business?

Also yes.

But Carrie is really the only family I have in Arizona, and I wouldn’t trade her for the world, though I do wish she was less of an asshole.

I’m sensitive, dammit!

“So you won’t be here for dinner or you will?”

“I’ll grab something before I leave but probably won’t sit at the counter and eat, no.”

If Carrie is annoyed, she doesn’t show it. “Is this person you’re meeting for drinks a love interest ?”

My eyes narrow. “Don’t you have something better to do other than harass me? Like bake my chicken?”

“Better you than me, that’s all I have to say. I hate dating apps.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re en gaged .”

“Thank God.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you meet Tyler on a dating app?”

“Yes.” Her chin notches up. “And I detested every loathsome minute of it before I met him and swept him off his feet.”

I grin. “If I need any tips, I’ll let you know.”

Carrie nods. “Please do. I can’t imagine what a train wreck it is being so well known.”

My mouth pulls down at the corners. “I am feeling very sorry for myself, actually.”

“I’m sure you are.” She sighs. “Okay. I don’t have all night to stand here; I have to get you fed so I can get Tyler fed.”

I snort. “Oh sure. Rush home to feed your fiancé.”

With a laugh, she walks out of my office to finish the task of making my dinner so she can clean up—the back end of a woman leaving me is a familiar sight. I don’t have the best track record.

But I’m doing my best, which honestly is not all that remarkable, considering I haven’t had a single successful date. At the moment, I have the time to put into this, so what the hell am I doing wrong?

Landon says if I show my face and add my career—which happens to be as the best quarterback in the league—it will attract the wrong sort of person.

The thing is, I don’t know who the person is that I’m trying to attract yet! My plan: trial by error.

When you know, you know !

Bowing my head, I get back to swiping, a gob of pizza sauce smeared on my knuckles.

I lick it off, sadly noting I’ve eaten all the slices on my plate, before grinning down at a woman’s pleasant photo. She’s smiling at the camera, arms around a golden retriever; the caption above reads my only nephew .

Huh.

Cute.

Margot is active and 5 miles away! Swipe on her now! the app tells me.

For once, I take direction, swiping right without reading one word in her profile.

Hearts bubble up and flutter across my screen. Kissmet makes me feel as if I’ve made a wise choice with Margot, and my stomach drops when the words You’re a match! are announced on my tiny phone screen.

More praise!

This is fun.