Page 31 of The Game Plan (Game On #3)

Dex

Having never been in the limelight before, I can say that it flat-out sucks to suddenly be thrust under its glare. At first,

I don’t know what’s going on. Why are cameras aimed at me? I get the occasional picture taken, but I’m a center. I’m not news.

I do my job and support the team.

This fucking flash-blitz that blinds me as I leave practice? Never happened before. And then come the shouts.

“Dexter? Dexter? This way!”

“Dexter! What do you think about the virgin hunt?”

“Dexter! Are you really a virgin?”

For a long moment, I can only blink, try to get my sight back. One word hammers through all the ringing in my skull: virgin . It’s like a hit to the ribs. I can’t breathe.

They’re talking about me being a virgin.

Shame surges hot over my skin, like I’ve been stripped of my clothes and placed in the desert. I duck my head and shoulder through the crowd, aware of my teammates at my back, looking at me. And then comes rage. I shouldn’t be ashamed. My life is my own business.

It takes me five steps to realize I’m not a virgin. I’m so fucking blindsided that for a second, I forgot about Fi. Jesus. I’m not a virgin. But obviously the world

thinks I am. And why?

“Dex.” Someone touches my elbow. I flinch, ready to throw the guy off. But it’s Rolondo, his dark eyes serious.

“Come on, man. I’ll drive to dinner.”

Dinner? People are still shouting, crowding. Cameras still in my face.

’Londo grips my upper arm and gives me a nudge toward his SUV. Right. We’re supposed to go out to dinner with Drew and Johnson.

We play their team tomorrow.

Dinner. I don’t think I can eat. I kind of want to throw up instead.

Numbly, I get in Rolondo’s ride. The thud of the door shutting is a relief. It muffles the sounds from outside.

’Londo hops in the driver’s seat. “We’ll hang at my place until it’s time to go. You don’t need this shit.”

He turns the ignition, and the car explodes into ear-ringing rap, his system set so loud my ass vibrates. He gives me a toothy

grin and swerves out of the parking lot, leaving the press behind.

We drive a block before he turns the stereo down. “Damn, I didn’t roll over any of those punk-ass fuckers.” He’s only half

kidding. His expression turns grim as he reaches into his jeans pocket and finds his phone.

“Google yourself and find out what the fuck’s going on, D.”

Part of me doesn’t want to. But knowledge is power, and I can’t fight what I don’t understand.

The headline immediately hits the top of the search page, and it’s a punch to the gut all over again. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I’m

a marked virgin? With a fucking bounty on my dick?

I could almost laugh, but my stomach turns instead. I choke out the story to Rolondo, who just whistles long and low.

“Shit, man. That’s some...” He winces, rubs a hand over the short dreads he’s wearing. “That’s some shit, Dex.”

“Who the fuck is Pippa Bloom?”

He gives me a look. “You never heard of it?”

“It? Sounds like a woman to me.”

“Pippa Bloom is one of those hookup sites. Only they cater to rich dudes. You know, specialize in eccentric shit. Truth, I

think there’s much more to them than just sex. Their slogan is ‘What’s your pleasure?’ It means anything. And I do mean anything .”

“How do you know about them?”

Rolondo squirms in his seat. “It... uh... It isn’t just guys looking for women.”

“God, you’re a member?”

“Not after this,” he snaps. “Not after they messed with my boy.”

“Thanks.” I run a hand through my hair. “No judgment, by the way.”

“Right, man. I didn’t hear any judgment in your tone.”

I can practically feel him rolling his eyes. I look over at him. When we graduated, Rolondo told our inner circle he was gay.

I’d suspected it, but never said a thing. It’s been hard for him, but we have his back. Always. He’s yet to tell the media,

which I know wears on him.

“I’m serious,” I tell him. “Live and let live. But yeah, okay, I’m judging the shit out of this site now. The fucking bounty

on my ass kind of killed my goodwill.”

Rolondo laughs. “But hey, you’re gonna be infamous after this.”

I know he’s joking. It doesn’t help, though. I can just hear the spew on ESPN now. The jokes. I’m stuck sitting here, feeling

exposed, pissed, humiliated, then pissed again.

“Why the fuck did they decide to target me?” I’m not even aware that I’ve spoken until Rolondo shrugs.

“You got this whole man-bun, tattooed, broody big-guy thing going on. You know how many chicks dig that shit? And being a

virgin on top of that? Fuck. It’s like catnip.”

My brows rise as I look at him. “Man-bun? You sound like an eighteen-year-old girl, you know that?”

I swear he blushes. But he shakes his head as if I’m the crazy one. “Man, I got younger sisters. It’s impossible not to know

this shit.”

I squeeze the bridge of my nose. I feel a headache coming on.

“The real question is how did they figure out you were a virgin?”

“I’m not.”

I know he gets what I’m saying. I shouldn’t even mention it. But it fucking irritates me that this dating site has labeled

me primary objective number one because they think I still am. “I mean, I was. Before... Shit, never mind.”

“Well,” Rolondo drawls, “at some point we all were virgins, D.”

I don’t want to smile. “You know what I mean. I’m saying it isn’t out of left field that they assumed I was. I never hid it.

But I didn’t advertise it either. Doesn’t matter because—”

“You’re not anymore. I get it.” He turns in to the driveway of his condo. “You don’t have to explain anything. But be prepared

for some shit. This bitch-ass agency offered one million dollars for proof of getting into your pants?” A low, mirthless chuckle

leaves him. “Man, shit. You’re gonna have bitches coming out of the woodwork for your ass.”

With a grunt, I slump in my seat, my heart clenching in my chest. “Fuck.” I’ve got to talk to Fi, prepare her for what’s coming.

My insides roil. I promised her privacy, normalcy. This is far from fucking normal.

When I get inside Rolondo’s place, I try to reach Fi, but my call goes straight to voice mail. It keeps going to voice mail until it’s time to go out to dinner. And I’m left with this sinking feeling that everything has just fallen apart.

Despite my foul mood, dinner with the guys helps. Immediately, they’re giving me hearty slaps on the back and offering inane

jokes as we’re led to a quiet corner booth.

But once seated, Johnson leans in, wearing the fierce expression that has the press calling him The Viking, with his long

yellow hair and slightly ruddy complexion. “Seriously, Dex, why the fuck did they start in on you? I mean...” He pinks

a little. “We all kind of guessed you were—”

He slaps his mouth shut, unwilling to go there, which is kind of ironic considering he’ll talk shit about everything else

under the sun. And I wonder if they pity me, thinking I’m some sad case. It pisses me off. The base part of me wants to tell

them what I told Rolondo, that I’m no longer a virgin, or that I don’t give a shit about what I hadn’t done before, because

being with Fi is the best feeling in the world.

But what I do with Fi is private. And I’m not even going to think about it now, not when she’s a thousand miles away and I

miss her to the point of pain.

Yes, pain. It’s lodged in my chest. I rub the spot, hating that it feels cold and empty. There’s a pressure along my spine,

like a hand pushing me toward wherever she might be. It’s getting worse, this urge to just leave where I am and go to her.

Why isn’t she answering her phone?

I have dozens of voice mails right now. From Ivy and Sean Mackenzie, asking if I’m all right and wanting to discuss a game

plan. Calls from my team’s PR rep wanting the same thing. Calls from nearly everyone I know except Fi.

Johnson is waiting for an answer.

“I honestly don’t know.” I rub the back of my neck where it’s stiff and sore. “I keep a low profile.”

“Man, I don’t think so,” Rolondo says with a shake of his head. “Not with you singing in bars and shit.”

Johnson laughs, hunching over. “Oh, man. I nearly pissed myself when I saw that video. Fucking crazy, D. I cannot believe

you did that.”

I can’t either. But then Fi brings out parts of me I didn’t know were there. I’d gone into it trying to win her, but ended

up having fun. I’d let go in a way I’ve only ever done on the field.

“Thing is, that video has been out for a while. It had a run on social media, got a good laugh on ESPN, but that was it.”

“It’s your calendar. They’ve released the photos.” Drew holds out his phone.

There’s a picture up on his browser, and we all make a swipe for the phone to see. I get there first, elbowing Johnson off

as I look down at the screen.

“Shit. I forgot about this.”

“Sexy Dexy,” Rolondo sings out with a laugh, earning a shove from my other elbow.

My team’s calendar photos. Nude photos. Yeah, I did it. Mainly because the photographer was a hot young woman who had a way

of scaring the pants off all of us. Literally.

Thing is, she clearly had talent, and she didn’t treat it as some gratuitous man show—not that most of the guys would have

minded.

The photos were tasteful, done in full, saturated color so rich it appeared as though you were looking at an oil painting.

My photo is a side shot against a deep red background. I’m taking a knee, my helmet on the ground beside me, my head bent

and my arm resting on my thigh. A sort of football-style “The Thinker,” the photographer had insisted.

Aside from showing the side of my ass, none of my goods are on display, though I suspect there might be a little Photoshop at work—things hang and all that. I look weary yet undefeated, my expression thoughtful.

“It’s a good pic,” I say absently.

Drew smirks.

And I glare. “What? It has artistic merit.”

“It’s man candy,” Johnson says. “Look at you, all thoughtfully flexing your muscles. Did you flex your ass too?”

“Nothing to flex. That’s just my natural form.” I give him a look. “Jealous?”