Page 5 of Biggest Player (Not Yours #2)

Dex

What are you doing with my daughter?

I don’t recognize the voice, but I sure do recognize the face. When I tell you I’m about to be in a world of trouble, I’m not exaggerating.

Actually.

Pause.

Let me rewind and tell you how I got into this mess in the first place.

Bear with me, would ya? It’s a long ride.

Remember Madisson? The young woman on the dating app with two s ’s in her name that I said was annoying? Yeah, that one.

Well. I swiped on her.

I know, I know. I shouldn’t have done it, but I felt bored and she’s smokin’ hot, and sure, maybe it isn’t the smartest thing I’ve done this week—especially coming off that bad date with Claire.

All I wanted was a little redemption in the dating department, something to fill my time—maybe get a decent meal and a good drink—and Madisson felt like the easy, fun solution.

So I created a new profile.

Harlow said that’s what I needed to do since, technically, you’re not able to update or change pertinent information on Kissmet once you create your account.

Hence, a new bio was born. Even added some photos of myself from college and none with my current team or of myself in a football uniform. Nothing about my career, nothing about my famous friends.

I was all business this time around.

Instant match.

Instant fun.

Except . . .

This date isn’t going as smoothly as I was expecting it to, not by a long shot. In fact, it’s taking the same kind of turn the date with Claire did but in a completely different way, and I’m about to get to that.

Be patient.

Catering primarily to older couples, groups of pompous gentlemen, and golfers at the bar for happy hour, Dickson’s is posh—the kind of restaurant with outdated velvet wallpaper and cherrywood paneling.

The kind of restaurant with an attendant in the bathroom who gives you a warm towelette once you’ve finished washing your hands.

I’d bet money that they have a cigar-smoking lounge too.

Classy.

Impressive.

When the server asked what we’d like to drink, Madisson tried to order a bottle of their most expensive wine. An entire bottle, for herself.

The server’s brows raised, and he glanced at me for approval. “Ma’am, the most expensive wine is fifteen hundred.”

My date squealed in delight, clapping her hands, smiling brightly.

It was that moment I thought to myself, Self, how the fuck do you find these women?

I shake my head. No way am I paying fifteen hundo for a bottle of alcohol for a woman I’ve known ten minutes.

“She’ll have something by the glass.”

Pouting, Madisson crosses her arms—crosses her legs—bouncing her knee like a petulant child.

“Are you angry I didn’t order you an entire bottle of wine? ’Cause for the record, I’m having beer.”

Her chin tilts up in the air. Sniffle. “It’s fine.”

Bounce, bounce goes her knee ...

My eyes, damn them, choose that moment to trail over her smooth, tan legs, stopping short at the strap on her ankle—the black box there has me doing a double take.

Please tell me that’s not what I think it is.

It can’t be.

Madisson uncrosses her leg, the black anklet disappearing from my view.

Nosy, I pull back, tilting my large body for a better vantage point beneath the table so I can see for myself, one way or another.

The box on her leg does indeed appear to be what I think it is.

Shit.

“Not to get personal, but are you wearing an ankle monitor?”

Madisson’s petite frame shrugs, nonplussed. “Yes.”

I’m not entirely sure how I feel about that. At a loss for words, I let my mouth drop open. “Uh. Why?”

“I’m on probation.” Duh. “House arrest.”

No idea what to say to that.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t ankle monitors sometimes used to monitor alcohol consumption?

One of my buddies was on probation in college; he had to wear one, too, and I remember him saying the bracelet utilized transdermal testing to detect liquor through the skin, using whatever crazy science-technology shit they use.

Or something.

If Madisson has a drink of wine, it will surely buzz.

I narrow my eyes at her across the table. “Are you supposed to be drinking?”

“Who’s going to tell my probation officer?” Her eyes sparkle, and her red lips curve into a sultry smile, especially when the server sets down our drinks. “ You? ”

Jesus Christ.

I cannot be seen with ... with a felon . “Have you been convicted, or are you awaiting trial?”

I’ve seen enough teammates who’ve had run-ins with the law to know how this shit works, especially rookies.

“It was a minor offense,” Madisson scoffs as she bites on her thumbnail, ignoring my hard gaze. “Chill out, I’m not a danger to the community.”

Chill out.

Those words rear their ugly head, coming back to haunt me at the most inopportune time, because I said the exact same ones to someone else only a short time ago.

Now I understand why Margot got so pissed off hearing them.

Chill out?

I don’t think so.

I lift my beer and take a drink so I have something to do with my hands other than pick at my napkin.

“What was the offense?” I blurt out. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

Again, my date shrugs, the red sequin dress making a slow descent down her arm.

“Accidentally showing up at someone’s workplace.” She hesitates. “But, like—it was a total misunderstanding, and I only went there ’cause I had been drinking.”

“A drunken, accidental stalking?” I feel myself blinking rapidly. “Of who?”

“Some girl.”

She’s being deliberately vague. “What girl specifically?”

Her red pouty lips form the words. “My ex-boyfriend’s new skank of a girlfriend. Then him. But they’re full of crap. Why would I give a shit about either of them? She is a total downgrade.”

I mean—Madisson is attractive, no doubt about that.

But her behavior is as ugly as it gets.

And apparently she’s a criminal. They don’t strap ankle monitors on anyone and everyone for funsies—there is a reason the court ordered her to wear it, and I want no part of that.

I shiver—not because I’m cold; I shiver because my brain is unable to process this new information. None of this is in my wheelhouse, and not to mention, the sight of that monitor has my dick shriveling three sizes.

“Will you excuse me? I think I have to take a shit,” I announce, wipe my mouth with a napkin, though there was no food on my face, and toss it on my chair before stalking away from the table.

This date was foolish, and I knew that before it began, but did that stop me?

No.

I should have left Madisson in the category of Absolutely Not, the way I had done while using my other profile. The real me, professional-football-player me.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” I mumble to myself, once again stuck in a situation I want no part of.

Think with your head next time, not with your cock. I chastise myself as I navigate through the dimly lit restaurant, grateful for the short trip to the toilets, though I must weave between tables with my massive body.

I have to admit, this is a real romantic place, adorned with flickering candles, dark wallpaper, and hushed conversations.

Glancing up at the glowing chandelier, I let its light guide me to the elegant restroom tucked away in a corner, two mahogany doors placed side by side.

Toilets.

Nice.

I push through the door on the left.

Stepping inside, I peer around cautiously for a bathroom attendant. I’m in no mood to smile and chat politely to a stranger, even one stationed here solely to do a job that includes handing me a paper towel.

Phew. All clear.

Instead of a human I’m greeted by the soft scent of fragrance, the misting machine in the corner giving off a low hum as it gently sprays the room. Surrounding me is the quiet beat of classical music.

Marble countertops gleam under dim lighting, so very similar to the atmosphere outside.

I crouch down, searching for feet beneath the stalls.

“Sweet, I’m alone.”

Letting out a sigh of relief, I stand at the sink. Turn on the cold water, splashing it on my face.

“You are the biggest fucking idiot.” I steal a glance at my reflection in the mirror, frowning. “Do better next time.”

How do I get out of this mess?

Madisson and I have only ordered drinks so far, no food, but let’s be real, this isn’t the kind of place you come for just drinks.

Not if you’re seated in the main dining room.

This is the kind of place you come for an entire meal: starter and entrée, followed by dessert—and by dessert I do not mean Madisson naked in my bed with my face between her legs.

Which reminds me: Know what would be so cool right now?

Escaping through a window the same way they do in the movies.

I’ve always wanted to do that. It would be some real serious spy-thriller, action-movie shit.

I’ve always fancied myself an action-movie star if I’m being honest—perhaps I’ll cross that bridge when I retire from football.

Looking at myself in the mirror, my eyes scan the room behind me, landing on a frosted-glass window above one of the stalls. From my vantage point, it looks too small—would barely be large enough to fit my ass through, let alone my whole body.

What would it take to squeeze through?

There’s no realistic way I would fit.

Not a chance.

Still, I go into the corner stall. Survey the window’s dimensions, mentally measuring the inches. Climb onto the toilet seat and peer through the glass, gauging the distance from the bottom of the sill to the ground below.

“Yeah, not happening.” My escape will have to wait for another day.

I return to the sink and wash my hands as I contemplate my options:

Return to the table and rush through dinner.

Return to the table, make my apologies, and exit early.

Invent an emergency. I can text Landon right now and tell him to call me, pretending he’s my brother who needs me, like, immediately.

Pay for the drinks at the front, ditch her. Block her.

And when I say block her, I mean block the shit out of her.