Page 2 of Biggest Player
Which makes no sense to me.
Why shouldn’t I be me? Isn’t that what the ladies want?
And so, I use my real name, my real photos, my real age.
I even had my house manager, Ms. Dorothy, help with my bio, though Harlow and Landon offered to write it for me.
Ha. As if.
Dex, 25
Professional Football Player
Nice young man in search of a serious relationship.
Tall, dark, and handsome.
Funny. Sarcasm is my second language.
Loves eating but not cooking, unless you include frozen pizza.
Still discovering what it is I want.
No cat people. Dogs only (big dogs preferable).
The “serious relationship” part at the beginning of the bio? Still on the fence about including it, but I didn’t have the heart to tell Dorothy otherwise. She’s old enough to be my grandmother, which means she’s old fashioned. The only real optionwith her reading over my shoulderwas to write that I’m looking for something long term, even though I wouldn’t mind a friend-with-benefits situation.
Or just the benefits.
See? Mostly honest.
Why should I pretend to be someone I’m not? Why should I use pictures that aren’t mine to avoid gold diggers? Shouldn’t a woman know who she’s going out with before she goes out with him?
They should be so lucky! It’s not my fault I am who I am!
I jam the remaining hunk of pizza down my gullet and thumb to the messages within the Kissmet app, the little heart icon bursting with tiny pink envelopes to indicate I have mail. Or a message. Or whatever.
It’s like a party every goddamn time I log in, confetti and hearts and all that cutesy bullshit.
But it also gives me a confident feeling I don’t get with the other dating apps. I mean, come on—whodoesn’tlove confetti raining down on them? It’s as if the app is congratulating me for making the correct choice to log in.
A photo of myself greets me, and I smile. “You handsome son of a bitch,” I tell it, going to my stats.
One thousand three hundred eighty-two women have swiped right on my profile. Say whaaaaat?!
“Those are good chances!” I say out loud to no one, mentally patting myself on the back.
Oh, also.
Have I mentioned I have a date later tonight?
I’m playing the odds, still swiping and going on dates. None of them have worked out for me, and there have been zero second dates.
This date with a young woman named Claire I’m slightly optimistic about. We seem to have a lot in common. She loves football, sports in general, and parties, and has a dog named Snoopy. Plus, she’s tall and blond and wants kids—but not right now.
Cool.
Works for me.
