Page 68 of More, Daddy

My shaken state is stirred to reality when an idea comes to me.

Quickly, I navigate to theFollow and Invite Friendstab in my settings menu. After giving Instagram access to my contacts, I sync my phone to the app and scroll through the list of friends in my phonebook who I do not already follow.

I don’t have an overwhelming amount of people programmed into my phone. But, as the list completes and I sift through, I realize the app doesn’t tell me each person’s phone number, only their account handle and their profile name.

CCaine27 pops up, since she’s in my contacts but we aren’t mutuals. Beneath her handle is her name,Cadence Caine.

Without being able to see which account is tied to which phone number, the only way I’ll be able to figure it out is through the process of elimination. I’ll have to go contact by contact, deleting one at a time, resyncing Instagram and checking who they predict. If I delete someone from my phonebook, then the app should no longer predict them in thefollow your contactslist. When I finally do delete the person who is posing as Cadence, the CCaine27 profile will disappear from myfollow your contactslist.

I will know exactly who has been messing with me.

Lying to me.

Hurting me while pretending to understand me.

How fucked up is that?

Cadence found me onVeiled, or, whoever the fuck this is. They messaged me first. How did they know I was onVeiled?

My stomach drops. This entire thing is growing more complex by the second.

My fingers tremble, and my nerves cause my knee to bounce, but nonetheless, I start to work on my plan. Knowing who is behind this, finally figuring out who is fucking with me, being able to confront them and ask them why,how fucking with a man’s heart and head is okay to them.

Demanding to delete the photos of me, that’s the next thing I’ll do.

Quickly, I back my phone up to the cloud so I can restore all the numbers I delete, then I get started. Leaving all the innocent folks untouched (pretty sure Riley Turner isn’t sending me nudes, and I am positive Hudson would die before he’d let anyone see his wife naked), I realize thatbasically the only contacts left in my phonebook are the junior coaches and team captains.

My phone crashes to the floor as I get to my feet and start pacing, making long, aggressive strides along my living room while pulling hard at the ends of my hair.

Oh my god.

Oh god I think I’ll be sick.

The junior coaches and team captains are goddamn kids still, the captains especially.

The captains are still in fucking high school.

Oh Jesus, oh lord.

Did I send a picture of my cum to a high school girl?

Cold sweat suddenly blankets my skin, slick and abundant as the edges of my vision get staticky. I make it to the toilet just in time to be sick, and when I think about it all one more time—that photo I sent of my hard-on with my precum stain exposed—I get sick again.

There is no way on God’s green earth that it’s appropriate or acceptable for any of the team captains or junior coaches to be receiving messages like that. Fuck me, they shouldn’t even see that. Not from me at least.

Rinsing my mouth and washing my hands, I only look at my sweaty, sick reflection for a second before I flick off the light and make my way back to the couch.

The TV plays, the football game still flickering, my meal now cold, laptop still open. The room is the same but I am completely fucking different.

If this turns out to be a junior coach—the lesser andlegalof the two evils—and not a student, I am going to fall to my knees and thank God.

Then, I’m going to fucking make whoever this is pay.

Majorly.

With shaking hands, I manage to find the first junior coach in my contact list.

Dallas Ray.