Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 90736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
“Because deep down inside, you’re actually a vain asshole.”
Is that true? It can’t be.
“Listen, bro, all of us have that gene. I don’t think you can do this job and not have a certain level of ego. It’s not easy stepping out onto that field and doing what we do, and you can’t do it if you’re a pussy.”
He’s not wrong about that.
However, I don’t love that he thinks I only chase women who have clout, as if I needed it myself. That would put me in the same category as Paisley, who isn’t terrible but who also isn’t winning any Miss Congeniality competitions.
“I don’t date women who are famous on purpose.” A majority of them have been set up by my team, several others were women who hit on me at one benefit or another. One woman I dated for five months or so was the sister of our quarterback’s wife—turns out she was a gold digger who wanted the same lifestyle as her sister and would blow me to get it.
I liked her, but she became clingy and a total desperado—and wanted to have sex with no condom from day one. Which I wasn’t interested in and didn’t trust.
It was hella fucking awkward when I broke things off—everyone had been invested in the relationship, including our QB, the press. Her parents. Mine.
Kristy (that was her name) was familiar with what being a football player’s wife might be like, knew the routine, had seen all the fans and cleat chasers, never letting it bother her to the point I convinced myself for a hot second that she was perfect.
That hadn’t convinced my mother, who I’ve grown to consider an expert bullshit detector.
Danica soon followed, and I entered a vicious cycle of strong, self-assured—and social-climbing—girlfriends.
The good news is I’m on the road to recovery and crave normalcy, the kind of normalcy my parents had living in the suburbs when I was growing up.
I want kids and shit—is that so wrong?
“We never date those women on purpose.” Dex snorts. “Our dicks fall into them by accident, and it’s never our fault.”
“Hey—you’re just as guilty as I am.”
“But we’re not talking about me. We’re talking about chasing some girl who lives in the frozen tundra, who wants privacy and didn’t recognize you, who is going to shit a brick when she finds out. You’re going to be all over the news when you pick a team. It’ll be impossible for her not to notice you.”
“So what are you saying?”
“Don’t know. The sooner you contact her and tell her the truth, the better.” Dex hesitates a few seconds before opening his mouth to say something, then closing it again.
“What?”
His head shakes back and forth. No.
“Say it.”
“How do you know she doesn’t know who you are? What if she’s faking it?”
Faking it?
Nah. Not Harlow.
Now it’s my turn to shake my head. “She’s not faking it.”
“But how do you know?”
“I just . . . do.”
“But how?”
Is he being serious? Does he not trust my judgment?
I squint at him. “Don’t you think I would know if she was pretending not to know who I was?”
That makes Dex laugh. “No, dude. It happens all the time, chicks and other people pretending not to know or acting unaffected by the fame for the sole purpose of tricking us into dating them or whatever.”
So we don’t suspect their motives and think they’re a gold digger.
Tale as old as time.
“I get that you’re skeptical because you have to be—and you’re watching out for me—but, dude, where was this conversation when I was fucking that maneater Paisley Blue?”
“I was fucking her best friend, remember?”
Facts.
He was. Another model slash influencer slash beauty rep slash, slash, slash . . .
“Seriously. I appreciate you looking out for me.”
He nods. “Someone has to.”
I mean, my parents are pretty great. Over the past few years, Mom has basically turned into a lioness, distrusting anyone and everyone—and by everyone, I mean women—who comes circling into my orbit.
I thought Mama Burke was scary when I was a teenager, but she’s nothing compared to the protective mother she is now.
“Well, I’m glad it’s you.”
“Listen, dude. I just find it odd that she has no idea who you are; no one is so naive they don’t recognize a celebrity when he’s right under their nose.” He pauses. “Also. Are you telling me no one on the street recognized you, either, while you were on that dumb red bus?”
I shake my head. “No, man, no one recognized me.”
He leans back in his comfortable leather chair. “How is that even possible?”
“I had a disguise on.”
He shrugs. “So? Even with a mask on, I still recognize them.” He lifts his hands and points at his face. “It’s the eyes.”
“Don’t know what to tell you, man. If someone recognized me, they didn’t say anything.”
My thoughts stray to that dude in the elevator of the Statue of Liberty—he definitely knew who I was, or suspected he did—but he was cool enough not to rat me out. Not sure what I would have done if he’d started fangirling in front of Harlow. I would have looked like a major dickhead if I’d denied my identity, or worse, told him to piss off and leave me alone.