Page 21 of Biggest Player (Not Yours #2)

Dex

The place is packed.

Not that I’m surprised, but it’s always nice to see a good turnout, especially when you’re bringing a date.

A first for me.

It’s not unusual for my teammates to bring friends or family to these things, but for me? I’ve never had anyone to bring. Just me, myself, and I.

Which puts me solely in the spotlight, front and center, no wife or kids or girlfriends lingering nearby to draw attention. Occasionally my agent will show up, depending on the city.

This signing event is local.

Obviously we’re contractually obligated to be here—the same way we’re contractually obligated to do postgame interviews—and in case you’re wondering, yes, we get paid for our autographs.

It does kind of feel weird taking money from people, but I can’t be the only dude at the table not charging fans.

It would piss off my teammates, and the rookies can use the extra cash. They don’t always rake in the big bucks unless they’re drafted in the first round.

I’m tempted to take her hand when we walk into the building, Margot stepping into place beside me. I catch a whiff of her perfume when the wind kicks up. She looks fantastic and smells better, but also: she looks fantastic.

This is going to be the longest hour.

I regret inviting Margot along because now the only thing I want to do is be alone with her. I want to be in a half-empty theater with my hand under her blanket ...

That will have to wait.

I introduce Margot as my friend when the event coordinator greets us, and she’s given a spot off to the side where she’ll be able to easily see the fans and the action.

Me.

I’m the action . . .

There is a long table draped in a black tablecloth where me and two of my Arizona teammates will be seated with stacks of glossy 8 × 10 photos of ourselves, along with glossy team photos.

You know the kind—the entire team sitting on the bleachers in the stadium, looking badass and serious? Yeah, those.

Those will be free, but the headshots cost money.

“Oh my God, this is so exciting,” Margot says nervously. “I hardly know what to do with myself.”

She’s not wrong; people are lined up in the lobby, the line flowing down through the venue and probably out the front doors, each person waiting for their moment to meet us.

I pat her on the behind to comfort her.

I notice quite a few kids and teenagers and would have given my left nut when I was younger to meet any of my pro sports heroes.

I also notice I’m placed between Kendrick Hayes and Dominic Rivera, two of the most popular and well-known players on our team besides me, although Dominic is a rookie and doesn’t get as much playing time.

We draw a massive crowd.

“This is crazy!” Margot is next to me, pressed into my side as if she doesn’t want to lose me.

I turn to look down at the top of her head, watching as she nervously runs a hand over her hair.

She has it down. It falls in long waves over her shoulders, which are bare because of the white top she’s wearing. It’s not overtly sexy, but it’s tight and clings to her breasts.

I can see cleavage from this angle.

They haven’t opened the line yet, so there’s still a bit of time to chat and tell her how events like this work.

“They don’t last long—we’ve only agreed to be here an hour, so they’ll close the door at seven, and anyone who wasn’t in line won’t be able to meet us.”

She nods in understanding. “It seems like something that will go quickly.”

“Yeah, they do tend to go quickly.”

“Are they always like this?”

“Always like what?”

“You know—full of energy? Loud? Busy?”

It is loud, fans chattering excitedly as they wait, and I can see several of them looking at their watches and phones for the time.

Two more minutes.

I’ll have to take my seat in a few seconds.

“Not always but usually,” I reply, butterflies in my stomach betraying my cool, even tone. We’re part of the hottest team in the league right now, and the fans’ enthusiasm is palpable. It never fails to amaze me.

I shake my hands out. “Jeez, who knew I’d be nervous?”

I play in stadiums full of thousands and thousands of people!

“Here. You might need this, then.” She rises on her toes to kiss me on the cheek.

“That’s all I get?” I flirt, puckering my lips.

Margot rolls her eyes, planting a kiss on my lips before I take my seat.

Behind us is an eight-foot-tall backdrop, twelve feet or so wide, with the team logo in the center. Managers, event coordinators, and building supervisors are among the throng to oversee us. Everyone wants a glimpse. Everyone wants credit.

They move the line-control barriers, and the fans rush forward.

I grin as a young boy clutching a football walks over, his eyes wide as he approaches, clearly in awe of us.

Me.

“Hey, buddy. How are you?”

He stands in front of me, not sure what to do or say. Shy.

“What’s your name?”

“Bryce.”

“Well, Bryce—do you want me to sign your football?”

He nods, still clutching it.

“Want to hand it over?” I wink, taking the ball in one hand and then signing it with a flourish, black Sharpie now permanently attached to my right hand.

Bryce beams as I hand it back, staring at the signature.

And off he goes . . .

Kendrick’s manager does the Lord’s work, keeping the line moving, ushering people along. I’ve met her on several occasions since her office is in downtown Phoenix, and I’m always appreciative of her no-nonsense, no-bullshit attitude, making sure everyone is on task.

If we let everyone have five minutes of our time, we’d be here until midnight.

And speaking of time . . .

With each minute that passes, each interaction becomes a blur—a sea of faces, names, and excited chatter. A sea of autographed photos and posters. Footballs. Some fans come with stories of how we’ve inspired them in their lives, some come with memorabilia.

All of them want a selfie.

This connection with the fans makes every moment being here worthwhile.

This is more than just a contractual obligation; it’s a chance to make someone’s day—like young Bryce’s, who couldn’t have been older than twelve—to be a part of something bigger than ourselves.

And that, more than the paycheck, is what keeps us coming back to the table.

I want to be me when I grow up.

Ha!

There are no lulls, but Margot appears beside me, resting a hand on one of my shoulders and squeezing. “How we doing? Hungry yet?”

Starving. “Hell yes.”

“Twenty more minutes,” she whispers in my ear before going back to her spot, her presence somehow reassuring.

Yeah, I’m a big boy. I do this shit for a living.

But it’s also ... nice knowing she’s behind me.

Didn’t realize I would appreciate it the way I am.

We obviously haven’t had the opportunity to speak since I took my seat at the table, but I’m looking forward to grabbing a quick bite on the way back to her place. I can always eat.

It’s still early enough.

Twenty more minutes turns to fifteen.

Fifteen turns to ten.

Eight.

Three.

Then,

The event is over.

The event planner is locking the doors to the room where we’re seated and reintroducing herself to us as Tracy, asking if there’s anything more she can do before we leave.

She shakes our hands.

“Thanks so much for keeping these dipshits in line,” I tell her, tossing a thumb over my shoulder at Kendrick and Dominic, who both take offense, though not really. They’re faking their outrage.

“Dipshits? The fuck, bro!” Kendrick clutches his heart dramatically, shit-eating grin on his handsome face. Damn, he’s a good-lookin’ bastard. “You haven’t even introduced us to your friend here, and you’re throwing us under the damn bus. We want to be invited back. Not cool.”

“Tracy knows I’m fucking with you.” I wink.

“He’s the worst.” Margot bumps me with her hip, putting her hand out for an introduction to my friends. “It’s my fault for bringing him.”

Kendrick takes it, lingering a little too long, his massive frame looming over hers. For a brief second I think he’s going to kiss her hand.

I give him a stern glower. “Guys, this is Margot. Margot, these are my teammates—the two dipshits of the apocalypse. Kendrick and Dominic.”

“Don’t listen to anything this asshole tells you.” Dominic laughs. “Unless he tells you I have a massive dick. Then go ahead.”

“Dude.” I glower some more. “You can’t spout off, telling my date you have a massive cock.”

Kendrick agrees. “Imagine how disappointed she’ll be when she sees yours in comparison.”

They laugh.

Idiots.

“Wow. You’re like my students.”

“Students?”

Margot raises an eyebrow at us. “Yeah, this is nothing. I’ve dealt with worse than the three of you.”

“Dang. Sorry?” Dominic is nosy as fuck, and now that he has a kernel of gossip, he wants the tea.

“I’m a teacher. My daughter will be in middle school next year, so—enough said.”

His eyes bug out. “You have kids ?”

“Well, no. I have one kid,” she corrects. “But sometimes having one is like having ten, especially when she has friends over.”

“Shit.” Kendrick lets out a low whistle. “Bro’s dating a mommy.”

And now the word will spread like wildfire—Kendrick will repeat the information to his agent, his agent will repeat it to a media outlet, and soon it will be in the news.

This is almost too easy.

Satisfied, I slide my arm around her waist. “Her daughter is more mature than I am.”

Beside me, she shakes her head. “That’s not even a little true. If it was, I wouldn’t be able to stand you.”

“Are you two the same age?” Dominic is rude enough to ask.

I thought you weren’t supposed to ask a woman her age, but here he is, asking Margot her age like a Neanderthal.

“No?” Margot squints. “I think he’s, what, three or four years younger?”

I can tell she’s trying to do the mental math or genuinely cannot remember our age gap and wants me to chime in. We’ve never actually discussed it; our ages were only ever shown on the Kissmet app, and we haven’t messaged one another there since we met in person.

Doesn’t matter.

This is even better tea for the media: Single mother. Older woman.