Page 20 of Biggest Player
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 myotherprofile. 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 forjustdrinks. Not if you’re seated in the main dining room. This is the kind of place you come for anentiremeal: starter and entrée, followed by dessert—and bydessertIdo notmean 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.
