Page 3 of Biggest Player (Not Yours #2)

Dex

To say my date this evening went horribly wrong is an understatement.

I lean back against my pillows, showered and shaved and exhausted, my fingers drumming anxiously on the mattress next to me as my brain recounts the train wreck that was my date with Claire.

It started off promising enough. Meeting someone new always comes with a nervous excitement and anticipation that this could finally be the one who frees me from having to masturbate in the shower, night after night.

But as soon as Claire walked through the door of the sleek bar I’d chosen to meet her at, I knew the night was headed straight for the gutter.

I’m sure you’re asking yourself why.

Dex, what could have possibly been so bad?

Well. Let’s just say the pictures she used in her profile must have been taken during the Paleolithic era because the woman who showed up? Looked nothing like the photos she’d posted.

Not even in the same decade.

Now, I’m all for embracing natural beauty— but there’s a limit to how much Photoshop and editing a person should be allowed to get away with , and let’s just say: she had crossed that limit by a mile.

I tried to hide my shock and disappointment behind a polite smile, but it was impossible to ignore the glaring disparity between expectation and reality. I also couldn’t ignore the fifteen years that had been added to her face—Claire is nowhere near my age, not even close.

I hate being lied to.

Strike one.

“This was a waste of my time,” I said, stifling any chance of salvaging the evening. “No.”

“No? You’re just gonna ... leave?” She raised her thin eyebrows, frosted lipstick from another era sticking to her upper front teeth. “But I want to get to know you! You’re Dex Lansing!”

She clearly only wanted to date me because of who I am, which was strike two. Plus, she was screeching: strike three.

My head was shaking.

No, no, God no ! “Not happening.”

I’m out.

Standing, I reached into my back pocket. Pulled out my wallet to retrieve a ten-dollar bill, then smacked it onto the center of the bar.

“Get yourself a drink.”

“Wait.” She shimmied herself onto a barstool. “You’re leaving?”

I rolled my eyes—I couldn’t stop it if I’d tried. “Uh. Yeah, I’m leaving. You didn’t think I was actually going to stay.”

Her flared nostrils told a different story. “What am I supposed to tell my friends, you asshole—I already told them all I was going on a date with a football player!”

Ergo, reaffirming my belief that she only wanted to go out with me because of my name and is worried about what her friends might think.

Strike four—which is more than baseball allows.

Ha!

“Great. Leave. It doesn’t matter anyhow. The Kissmet app has all my data,” Claire ranted, squinting her eyes. “They’re watching us, you know.”

But then, before I could formulate a response to that , Claire did the one thing no woman has ever done to my face: she launched into a passionate monologue about reptilian overlords and government conspiracies, hands gesturing wildly, voice booming.

It was so . . . weird.

And so random.

Strike five was my cue to get out of there before I lost my damn mind.

In the comfort of my own home, my tense body relaxes, finally at ease.

I can breathe.

I can open my app and see if any of my matches have left messages first, since I haven’t had the chance. Now that I’m home, I can mark myself safe from my date with Claire and respond to people on Kissmet.

My mouth widens into a grin when I see a message from Margot, the woman I matched with before leaving for my disaster date.

Margot:

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?

Whoa.

Feisty little thing.

My hackles are immediately raised.

Me:

No hello? Damn, girl, you get straight to the point.

I peel my socks off to get more comfortable as I wait for her response, wiggling my toes.

Ahh.

Margot:

I hate wasting time. Love cutting to the chase, don’t you?

Me:

Sure.

Margot:

So what’s your answer?

Me:

Depends on the day you ask—this app is turning into a disaster. So I guess the answer is playing football in real life is the best way to get myself laid LOLOL.

Margot:

Guess I shouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to hear the answer #CarefulWhatYouWishFor

Me:

Why are you asking me about getting laid, anyway? Is adding to your body count your goal? You want to fuck a football star, honey?

A red stop sign appears on my screen, asking if I meant to send a message containing profanity and giving me the option to cancel the message—or send it.

I hit send.

Fuck it.

I said what I said.

Margot:

Whoa. Are you asking me if I want to Sleep with you??

Me:

I wasn’t asking you to sleep with me. I was asking if Your goal on this app was to sleep with a football player! Or to sleep around, because that’s not what I’m here for.

I don’t point out to Margot that on a whim I could close my eyes and run a finger down the list in my phone, text any number of the contacts, and have a girl down on her knees within ten minutes. Twenty if there’s too much traffic.

Me:

I’m not the cleat chaser here, sweetie.

Margot:

Don’t call me sweetie. You don’t know me.

Well.

This isn’t going well.

In fact, I’m beginning to miss Claire.

I take several seconds to exit the chat to give Margot’s profile a glance, something I probably should have done before messaging her back in the first place.

Margot, 29

Single mom.

Fun professional who loves adventure. Date nights.

Spontaneous weekends, board games.

Loves: trying new food and restaurants.

I am on the short side, but sweet.

You : someone with their shit together—please know what you want!

Single mom?

Like—an actual mom? This means she has children, yeah?

Yikes.

Kids = do not pass go.

Do not advance to the next round.

Seriously. How many kids does this mom have? Her bio doesn’t say, and in my opinion, that’s need-to-know information.

Me:

Listen, babe. You’re a great-looking woman. I’m sure you’re a nice person and a lot of fun, but I’m not looking to be a stepdad any time soon.

I hit send, satisfied she’ll be grateful I’m letting her down gently—not to mention, I’m being straight up and honest with her. No bullshit here, thankyouverymuch.

She’s going to eat that shit up.

Margot:

Wow . I didn’t Ask if you wanted to be a stepdad.

Okay. So she doesn’t exactly sound thrilled with my candor.

Margot:

And don’t call me babe.

Me:

I’m simply responding to the information you have in your bio. Chill out. You don’t have to get salty with me.

I learned the phrase don’t get salty from one of the rookies on our team. The cocky little prick had the gall to say those words to my face after he’d taken the last flavor of Powerade I wanted from the locker-room fridge.

Been using it since whenever it suits my fancy.

Ha!

Margot:

Chill out? That’s a good one. A man with a Fake account, using Fake photos of some famous football player, telling me to Chill Out . Don’t make me laugh.

I doubt very much that Margot is at home laughing.

Me:

You can stop coming at me with those harsh, all-caps words, K?

Margot:

You are a catfish! Why should I give a crap whether or not you’re sensitive to my “harsh words?”

I sink farther into my pillows, luxuriating in their softness and staring at my cell phone screen because it is the most interesting thing in my bedroom at the moment.

This broad is on a bender, and I have no idea what has gotten her all worked up. Was it me?

Me:

Was it something I said?

Margot:

OMG. I can’t believe I’m still wasting time talking to you.

Me:

Your bio says you’re short but Sweet ! You’re the one who’s full of shit! You are anything But sweet.

I use all caps sporadically, mirroring her vibe.

Margot:

How about we just stop talking altogether—I do not need to defend myself to you!!!!

Me:

Nor I to you.

“Nor I to you,” I repeat, laughing when I type out that sentence.

“How proper do I sound?”

I give my nut sac a scratch, spreading my legs a bit to give my balls more air, wishing I had crackers or something crunchy to snack on.

Margot:

Great. Have a nice night.

Me:

Good luck with your search.

Margot:

Yeah, you too. You’re going to need it after I report your profile for being fake.

Me:

To clarify, based on your personality, you’re going to need all the luck you can get.

I smirk, firing off that last message.

My agent is always saying things like to clarify , and I dig how those words look in a written sentence. It makes me feel smart and stuff.

Then, as I prepare another message to Margot, grin spreading my mouth, her profile disappears completely.

Poof.

Gone as quickly as it had taken me to swipe on her.

For several seconds, I feel an odd disappointment settle in the pit of my stomach—a disappointment that should not be there. Margot is a nobody to me. A stranger. A single mom.

But damn I enjoyed sparring with her.

Is that wrong to say?

Our banter was fun, in a weird way, though it appears Margot didn’t feel the same and wasn’t willing to stick out the conversation. Good riddance.

I yawn, bored now that Margot has given me the axe.

Rude of her to delete me without saying goodbye, don’t you think?

“Dating apps suck,” I gripe, making a mental note to complain to Harlow, too, since this is her doing.

I exit the app and plug in my cell to charge, abandoning my efforts for the remainder of the night, and within minutes, I’m asleep, Landon’s advice to use a fake profile ringing in my ears.