Page 2 of Biggest Player (Not Yours #2)

Margot

Having to date online gives me hives.

Literal hives.

I scratch at my chest, itches occurring every so often, typically when I’m nervous or stressed out or have anxiety. The task of judging men solely based on photographs and brief biographies is daunting. And time consuming.

And more often than not? Fruitless.

Like finding a needle in a haystack.

I lean my hip against the kitchen counter, lifting the phone closer to my face to make it easier to see the photos clearly before swiping left on several more men.

Swipe left.

Swipe left.

“At the rate I’m going, I’m going to get carpal tunnel and need surgery on my thumb,” I complain, squinting at a grainy picture of a man named Jacob, scrolling through his pics and frowning. “Apparently fishing is the only hobby you enjoy.”

Not that I don’t, but ...

I cringe and swipe left.

Jacob meets the same fate as all the others, disappearing into the abyss.

All this unknown has my heart racing with excitement.

Apprehension.

Fear?

I glance at the time; it’s past six, and I have accomplished no tasks around the house.

“What the hell are you doing, Margot? Put the phone down and go be productive!”

My daughter, Wyatt, is with her grandparents but will be home soon enough.

It’s a school night, and when she arrives it will be bedtime for both of us. Wyatt is an early riser; her four alarm clocks, set each morning, are sure to have me moaning and groaning because I hear them go off from my bedroom, blaring loudly one by one.

Still, I don’t put my phone down.

I do not move from the counter.

With hesitant fingers, I go through the gallery on my cell, searching for a better image to upload as the main profile picture. It feels like I’ve done this one hundred times, but can you blame me for wanting to strike the right balance between approachable and confident?!

I want to look cute but not cutesy.

Sexy but not too sexy.

I give up and go back to Kissmet, resume scrolling through the endless stream of profiles, each one blending into the next with their generic taglines, staged photos, and cookie-cutter bios.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are ...,” I whisper, not being creepy at all. “Where are all the decent guys hiding?”

You know, the ones who aren’t going to murder me in my sleep ?

Dear Lord, please show me the guys who are looking for stability and long term and not just a casual fling. I’ve never had a one-night stand and do not plan on having one now, not with a young daughter as part of the equation.

Specifically, a ten-year-old daughter who encouraged me to download the app to put myself out there . She reminds me daily to enjoy the process of online dating and to chill out, bro .

Yeah. My child calls me bro, tells me to chill and take it easy.

Easy?

“Easy for you to say,” I grumble. “Some of these people look as if they’re going to eat me alive.”

I scroll on, wishing like hell I had a bag of, like, cheddar puffs to munch on as I stand here, shifting on the heels of my feet.

Give my chest a scratch.

Then, I stand up straighter.

“Whoa.” I stop swiping. “Who are you ?”

Amid the sea of selfies and cheesy pickup lines, a profile catches my eye. His name is Dex, and he is ridiculously good looking.

Like.

Super hot.

So hot I gaze at his bio with my mouth gaping.

“Stuff a chip in your mouth and get a grip, Margot,” I mutter, still staring at his photo.

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).

Several alarm bells go off when I read what he has written: still discovering what it is I want ?

“Dude, you’re twenty-five, shouldn’t you have it figured out by now?”

My daughter will be a teenager in three years, for heaven’s sake.

Got pregnant at nineteen, had her when I was in college—and, well, here we are.

Single mother of one at twenty-nine.

Good times.

My eyes home in on the career shout-out: Professional football player? He can’t be serious—this must be a joke, yeah? Perhaps he plays football in the park on weekends. Pickup games, I believe they’re called?

No way is he for real.

These photographs of a big dude in a uniform couldn’t possibly be his.

I should report the account as being fake.

I should . . .

But I don’t.

“What I should do is give him a piece of my mind for wasting everyone’s time!” I announce to a room full of no one. “Then I’ll report the fake account!”

Yes!

That’s what I’ll do.

Swipe in the guise of science—see if we match, then chew his ass out for giving women false hope that they’re going to meet a player in the NFL.

With a knot forming in my tummy and a bag of mixed nerves from the impending excitement of catching a catfish, I swipe right, reminding myself not to be anxious.

“This is fun!” I chant. “ So fun!”

Plus, if this is a fake profile, I’ll never hear from him anyway, and even if I do hear back, that most likely means he’s a bot. Right?

Seconds pass.

They feel like minutes.

Hours.

I set the phone down and go to the sink, then stack the dirty plates neatly so Wyatt can load them into the dishwasher tomorrow after school, then add the forks, spoons, and knives. I busy myself so I will not be tempted to fixate on my cell, putting it out of my mind so I can—

A notification pops up on my screen. You’re a match!

Hearts flutter, floating over my screen as if they were balloons being released into the air.

“Okay, pal, let’s see if you’re who you say you are.”

I’m not a detective, but I play one when I’m bored.

When no message instantaneously appears from Dex, I bite my lower lip.

“Sir, you are off the hook for having a life.”

It will have to be up to me to make the first move.

I hesitate before typing out a message, fingers hovering over the tiny keyboard.

What do I even say? Should I play it cool—or let my nerves show?

In the end, I settle for something simple yet playful. What do you think would get you laid more often: pretending to be a professional football player on a dating app, or being one in real life?

I hit send, immediately regretting the harsh tone of my first note. He’s never going to message me back when I sound like a bitter shrew! Ugh!

Why would he?

“So what!” I reason out loud. “He’s a liar!”

And I’m going to prove it.

He deserves the lashing I’m about to dish out, and now he knows that I know he’s a liar, so perhaps he’ll delete his profile and create a new one.

None of this stops me from going back to studying his pictures. Why would a man who looked like him swipe on a woman like me? Why would a man who looked like him swipe on a single mother?

“Because he’s fake, Margot.”

He’s big—massive, some would say. I can tell because he is surrounded by a few other dudes and stands a head above all of them.

Bearded.

So handsome.

Younger than I am by several years.

Something about him looks too perfect, too polished, as if his photos have been plucked straight from a stock photo website.

Men like him don’t exist in the real world.

“Not in yours, anyway.”

I’m tempted to do more investigative reporting, though that takes some of the mystery out of dating, does it not? Digging for details? I mean, shouldn’t he be the one to tell me about his personal and professional life? Not the internet?

Yes.

Waiting is the right thing to do, and I have other shit to worry about.

Like my daughter, who’s going to be home soon.

Setting my phone down again, I pick up tidying at the sink where I left off, a long sigh escaping my frustrated lips.