“HARD PASS.”
That’s what the last girl I slept with said when she got her first sober glimpse of me. She laughed, walked out of my penthouse—and I never saw her again. It doesn’t matter that I’m a rich, professional athlete; what mattered was my face. Beauty might only be skin deep for some—but I know better.

“PAY UP.” That’s what the last girl I spoke to said over the phone when I made her an offer she couldn’t refuse. Desperate to sell a set of rare baseball cards, she’s clever and entertaining. I’m instantly smitten, but nowhere ready to reveal myself.

Thank god she has no idea who I am—or what I look like. I’m a professional athlete--how hard can playing the love game be?

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