Page 8 of Scoring Truth
I scoff. “Get the fuck outta here.”
He shakes his head. “Does Daddy Dash know you have a potty mouth?” When I flip him off and aggressively warn him to never call my father Daddy again, he continues, “Whatever. Just saying. Wouldn’t hurt you to get laid. Maybe your throws will be more accurate.”
“Man, fuck you! My throws are dots, and you know it.”
He laughs to himself. “Listen, you want them off your back. Fake it for the weekend, then say it isn’t working out. You want to concentrate on getting to the Super Bowl. Everyone has to respect that. And seeing you with someone will ease their fears for a bit.”
I nod, gathering our plates as we head out to the locker room to watch some game tapes.
“But be ready. After we win, they’re going to be on you even more.”
“Is that the kiss of death?”
“Nope. Confidence, baby.”
Later that night, after a grueling practice, I’m lying in bed flipping channels and land on SportsCenter. It’s still weird as fuck to see my face in a tiny square in the upper right-hand corner of the television. I’m used to seeing Jackson on TV. That guy was everywhere, for the wrong reasons, when I was in high school. But once Francesca got his shit straightened out, and we won the State Championship, he was getting recognized for all the right reasons.
I couldn’t have been luckier to have him as my coach and his wife as my PR agent.
I hear my phone go off with an alert. Pulling it from my bedside table, I see the dating app notification.
I’ve been matched.
My heart races as I open the app and see the little message bell icon lit up.
‘Mr. Winters, we believe we have found you a love match!Penelope Presley is ready and waiting to be your 2023 Christmas Rent-A-Date!’
Dropping my phone, I groan inwardly. I can’t believe this is my life. Closing my eyes and taking a breath, I pick the phone back up and continue reading.
‘Penelope matched all your criteria for the weekend excursion package. Please make contact via email and introduce yourself. RAD has verified your employment status and run all the appropriate background checks on both parties. Please know you are in safe hands.’
Jesus. So, everyone at Rent-a-Date knows I can’t get a date.
“Fuck!” Tossing my phone to the side, I run my hands through my hair. “What the heck am I going to say in this email?” I contemplate calling Connor for advice, but then I remember he’s the one who got me into this.
Sitting up, I grab my phone once more and open the app. I click on Penelope’s name, which opens up her profile.
•Name: Penelope Presley
•Age: 27
Hmm, an older woman, I smirk.
•Occupation: I have a job and don’t need your money
•Likes: pasta, candy, and sunshine
•Dislikes: humidity (my hair is big enough), paying full price for anything, and sports
I narrow my eyes at her dislike of sports. Does this mean she doesn’t like football? Why on earth would RAD make us a match?
I continue to scroll to the bottom and see a photo with a blurb.
‘Wild hair, don’t care. Sweet face, full of grace. Party time? I’d rather settle down in life. And yes, I’m smarter than a fifth grader. Are you?’
I zoom in on her picture, and my breath catches. She’s gorgeous with a girl-next-door vibe. Her eyes shine bright right through the black-rimmed glasses she has on. Her hair is a wild mess of chestnut curls. And her lips? Perfect, pink, and full. My mind wanders about how they’d feel wrapped around …
Damn, Jameson. Get a hold of yourself. This is probably just an act. She’s on a dating site that rents her out for money, for Christ's sake.
