Page 24 of Biggest Player
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 youDad?” 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 thatIfelt 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.
