Page 6 of Biggest Player (Not Yours #2)

Problem is, she knows my true identity because she is a jersey chaser. The last thing I need is for her to go to the media. The last thing I need is her selling a story.

Note to self: do not let her take a photo of us or let someone else take our photo.

“Why are you being such a pussy about this? You are a fucking legend. Grown men want to be you; women want to sleep with you.” I crack a smile, remembering what a badass I truly am. “Get out there and take control of the situation. Tell her you’re leaving.”

I square my shoulders.

Drop them. “Ugh. Don’t be such a goddamn chicken!”

Dumping someone mid-date is the worst kind of dick move, even I know that. And I may be an asshole, but I’m not entirely insensitive—I care about people’s feelings 80 percent of the time but still ...

I need to get out of here.

Hope lost for a subterfuge escape, I pull the exit open and step back into the dining room, the noise hitting me at an unwelcome decibel.

At the same time, I feel someone smash into me.

Two things register in my brain at once:

1. The person is not an adult.

2. It’s a young girl.

She springs back, an apologetic expression written on her scrunched-up face. “Oh my gosh. Sir, I am so sorry!”

Her little hand is pressed to her chest.

I notice that her fingernails are bright blue.

“Sir? Kid, I’m only twenty-five.” Then. “Random question—did you happen to notice if there’s a window in the women’s bathroom?”

“I don’t think so?” She pauses, tilting her head. “Why? Were you planning to climb out of it?”

“Yes,” I answer honestly. “I can’t find one I’d fit through.”

The young girl laughs. “Who are you trying to get away from? A bad date?”

I’m surprised by how perceptive she is. “Yes.”

“Hmmm,” she hums. “You know, if you paid me, I could help you run her off.”

My ears perk up.

It’s that easy? All I have to do is pay her?

“Really?”

This kid is fucking brilliant! I like her. I like her a lot.

“Really. I’m having dinner with my family, and they’re boring.” She yawns. “My grandma is hounding my mom about her love life, and who wants to sit and listen to that?”

Sounds good to me! “You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.”

She nods. “Cool.”

I pull the leather designer wallet out of my back pocket and unfold it, glancing down at the money tucked inside.

I remove a twenty and hold it out to her. “This oughta do it.”

The kid has the audacity to fold her scrawny little arms across her chest.

“Twenty bucks?” She snorts. “Don’t insult me.”

I stare her down. “But how old are you? Like, eight?”

She pulls a face. It looks like she’s sucked on a sour lemon. “I’m not eight—I’m ten.”

Great.

A preteenager, probably in middle school.

“You’re not supposed to ask people their ages, unless you’re an ageist,” she announces with authority.

“What’s an ageist?” This is a new term for me.

“When you discriminate based on age.”

I shift on my heels. “I’m not discriminating. I was making an observation.”

“You were trying to take advantage because you thought I was a kid.”

I mean—she is a kid. But I’m not stupid enough to say that out loud so she can give me another set down.

“What’s your name?” she asks.

“Dex.”

The kid lets out a low whistle. “Yikes.”

I refuse to feel insulted by someone not even five feet tall.

“What’s yours?”

“Wyatt.”

I nod appreciatively. “That’s a pretty badass name.”

“I know.” She flips her hair.

“Okay, Wyatt—how much is it going to take to get you to help me out?”

Wyatt rubs her chin, deep in thought. “Well. The LEGO kit I want is a hundred and fifty bucks.”

My eyes bulge. They’re charging that much money for bricks these days?

I pat at my pockets and come up empty. “I don’t have a LEGO kit on me right now. Sorry.”

Wyatt rolls her eyes. “I know you don’t have a LEGO kit—but you can give me the cash and I’ll buy it. I’ll beg my mom to take me to the mall.”

I narrow my eyes. “Are you shaking me down right now?”

’Cause this feels like extortion.

“Shaking you down?” She narrows hers back at me. “I don’t know what that means.”

Not sure if I believe her; she seems really smart. I begrudgingly remove a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill from my wallet, plus another twenty to sweeten the deal, and make the amount a cool one forty.

“This should cover the LEGO set.”

She plucks the bills out of my hand. Counts them like a banker—then counts them again—and slides them into the pocket of her conservative floral dress.

“Not one fifty?”

“Sorry, kid. It’s all I have—unless you take credit cards.”

“Fine.” She looks around. “So what’s the plan?”

No idea.

“ You’re the mastermind here.”

Wyatt nods in agreement. “That’s true. I am. No offense, Dex, but you don’t seem like the kind of guy who’s quick on his feet.”

My mouth drops open. Never have I ever had anyone say that to my face, and if any of my teammates or friends overheard her—specifically that twat Landon—they would drop dead laughing.

Not quick on my feet?

Wyatt is a little shit, that’s what she is.

But also: she’s not wrong.

She doesn’t give me time to reply, asking, “Do you have kids?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“Did you tell your date that you don’t have kids?”

I shake my head again. “I might have mentioned it?”

Wyatt snaps her fingers. “Oh! I have an idea—why don’t I walk up while you’re at the table and pretend you’re my dad? I’ll really lay it on thick. She’ll think you’re a huge liar and get mad.”

Hmm. Solid plan—but I still have my doubts. “What if it doesn’t work?”

She smiles up at me. “Satisfaction guaranteed or your money back!”

“Good enough for me.” I have total confidence in this short person I bumped into by fate. “So ... now what?”

Wyatt gives me a none-too-gentle shove, pushing me in the direction of the open dining area. “You go back to your date and let me handle this. Pretend to act normal.”

Obediently, I walk back to my table the way Wyatt has instructed me to, Madisson watching me with a curious stare as I approach. When I pull out my chair and reseat myself, I give her a nervous smile.

Remember to lay the napkin back in my lap.

Can she sense that I’m up to no good?

“Hey, babe.” She leans over to kiss me. “What took you so long?”

Babe?

That’s a no from me.

Do not pass go. We have known one another fifteen whole minutes, twenty tops.

“What took me so long?” I frown. “Uh. There was a line.”

She purses her lips unsympathetically. “Pfft. Try being in line for the bathroom at a concert.”

I inwardly scoff. Any occasion I’m at a sporting event, I’m either on the field playing or I’m in one of the suites watching from the VIP section. Ergo, I never stand in line or fight for urinal time.

My parents didn’t teach me much etiquette when it comes to being fancy, but what they did teach me was that when I’m eating out at a nice restaurant, I shouldn’t keep my elbows on the table, and I should sit with my back straight.

Just as I’m reaching for my beer, Wyatt appears around the corner, feigning shock when she sees me sitting at the table.

“Dad?”

Oh shit.

“Hey!” I stumble, unprepared for her to be such an enthusiastic actor. “Kiddo.”

“Oh my God, Daddy! Why didn’t you tell me you were going to be here?” The girl bounds over, bubbly as ever, wrapping her puny arms around my neck and squeezing. “Daddy, I missed you so much.”

“Did she just call you Dad ?” Madisson leans back in her chair, folding her arms. Stares across the table. “You didn’t tell me you have kids.”

“Oh—there are so many of us,” Wyatt informs her, voice booming, arms squeezing the life out of my neck. “I’m one of eleven.” She enunciates the number eleven. “Technically most of them are half siblings. I’m only blood related to three of them.”

My jaw drops open.

Madisson’s jaw drops open, too, red lips agape. “Eleven?”

Wyatt nods with authority. “I know, right? Can you imagine what that costs him every month in child support payments?” She lets out a low whistle. “Yikes.”

Jesus Christ.

I want to get rid of my date—not have her running to the media with fake news about my dozens of illegitimate children!

I tamp the air with the palm of my hand.

“Okay, simmer down—she doesn’t need to know all the skeletons in my closet.” I grit my teeth, prying Wyatt’s arms off me and returning them to her sides. “Who are you here with?”

“Grammy and Pop Pop,” she tells us, directing her gaze at my date and squinting. “You’re so much older than his usual type.”

Oh my God. She did not just say that.

When I said I wanted to run my date off, I didn’t mean I wanted to embarrass her to the point that I felt like crawling under the table.

“How old are you?” Wyatt asks Madisson. “Like, forty?”

Madisson has no idea what to say, managing a low, irritated “Twenty-four.”

“Dang.” My “daughter” grimaces. “You look way older. I was being nice.”

I can see the range of emotions changing Madisson’s face—she wants to say something rude to my “child” but also doesn’t want to be rude to my child.

It’s a touchy spot to be in, except I don’t sympathize. She misrepresented herself the same way she thinks I did. Unlike in her profile, she has that ankle thing on and also clearly comes off as a gold digger, only interested in a relationship for clout.

“Hey, Dad, did you order that rat for me yet?” she loudly asks.

“Rat?” Madisson’s eyes go wide.

“Yeah. I love rats so much. My last one got loose in the house, and now he’s living in the wall, so Dad said he’d buy me a new one.” She lets out a long, loud sigh, then boasts, “Our house has a reptile room. One of my many brothers has a snake collection.”

“Snakes?”

Wyatt nods enthusiastically. “Do you like snakes? Ricky has some big ones.” She laughs. “Bob is my favorite—except for the times he escapes and gets into my bed. He loves beds.”

My date shakes her head. “No. I don’t like snakes.”

“That’s too bad. Dad lets us keep some of the aquariums in the living room.”

I am genuinely amazed at the words coming out of this kid’s mouth—and dare I say she is one of the best improv artists of her generation.

Give this kid an Oscar!

For real.

I am so impressed with her performance I’m tempted to slip her another hundred bucks.

My lips part, ready to reply to her snake comment, when a gasp has my attention.

“Wyatt Hazel St. John! I was about to send out a search party for you.”

A woman who can only be identified as Wyatt’s mother is standing next to the table, her hands going to my fake daughter’s shoulders.

“I am so sorry.” The woman begins her apology tour.

Stops speaking.

Stares me dead in the eyes as if she can see into my black soul, as if she knows me.

And this is where it all starts making sense, my friends —this is where it all catches up to me, shit hitting the fan as my sweaty brain zips along a mile a minute, details clicking into place. Click.

Click.

Click.

Now you know the full story of how we got here, so can we all chill the fuck out and move on?

Yeah. That’s what I thought.

“You.” She’s glaring at me harder than anyone has ever glared. “What are you doing with my daughter?”

“Mom,” Wyatt begins. “Why didn’t you tell me Dad was going to be here tonight? You know I wanted to show him the rash on my arm.”

Oh shit. The kid is method acting, caught up in the little drama she’s spun out of her ass.

The woman looks understandably confused, but before she can say another word, my date cuts in.

“Jesus. Is this your ex-wife?”

Wyatt nods. “One of them.”

Her mother looks back and forth from me to Madisson, to me to Madisson, to—

“Wrapping children up in your web of lies, I see?” She clicks her tongue.

I barely notice my date sitting at the table, puzzlement marring her pretty face.

“I’m sorry—do I know you?” I already know the answer but stall for time, no idea what to say that will make any of this better.

It’s a fucking mess.

“We have not met in person.” Wyatt’s mother looks down at her daughter. “Wyatt, sweetie, you know better than to talk to strangers.”

Ah. There it is.

“I wasn’t talking to a stranger. I bumped into Dad.” Wyatt pauses. “Don’t you recognize him? Where are your glasses?”

Her mother rolls her eyes, taking her by the hand. “Enough out of you, young lady.”

Feisty firecrackers, both of them.

Damn, I like this kid.

She reminds me of me.

“You know what?” Madisson announces, pushing back her chair and standing, tossing her napkin to the tabletop. “This is way too much drama, even for me.” She snatches up her purse. “I can see now that this wasn’t worth the trouble I’m going to be in with my parole officer.”

And with that, she storms off toward the exit, the three of us staring after her.