Player Season: The Pickup Artist Who Hacked Nike (19 page)

"Tampa police! Can you open the door please!" the officers shouted.

At this point, Roxy already gave her story in the hallway before the two-uniformed policeman stepped in my room. Thanks to Kendall, they were given a warm welcome, because she didn't even bother to put her clothes back on the entire time; nor did she attempt to cover herself.

It didn't come as a shock, but the officers seemed more interested in getting a prolonged glimpse at the perky and above average chest of my star witness.

I'm not even sure if they listened (their senses were preoccupied) but I went on to explain the dreadful series of events. In the end, they kicked Kendall and myself out of the hotel, and gave the room to Roxy.

Although it was MY room, I wasn't in the position to press my luck so Kendall and I packed up and went to BJ's house – we were finally able to finish.

I awoke the following morning, got my computer and gave Dave a play-by-play of the previous nights encounter.

"That is the best story I have ever heard in my entire life!" claimed Dave.

Roxy texted me shortly after, telling me she was flying back to Arizona. Believe it or not – this wouldn't be our last encounter.

"I'm staying in Tampa until spring training," were Justin's first words after New Years.

I called up my friend who worked at the Plaza, where Kazmir and Price stayed, and got Justin a one-bedroom poolside suite. Once again, my bed was on the couch.

We settled in and then went to a local spot called The Drynk to meet up with Ryan Howard, a former MVP with the Philadelphia Phillies.

I wore a white t-shirt with the words "Yoga Class Creep" across the chest, which Justin custom designed for Dave in Arizona...who swore yoga classes were the best place to meet girls.

Similar to my awkward moment with Longoria in Arizona, the tables turned I was spectating Justin filling a somewhat comparable role. Already seated at the table when we arrived, was a girl from Tampa who frequently 'visited'
both
Justin and Ryan Howard. Now they were in the same place, and the best part; she chose Ryan.

As always, it was my objective to scout the room for talent and lure them in but before I set out on my mission, Ryan stopped me.

"I want that shirt," he said, appreciating the 'Yoga Class Creep'.

"You can't have this shirt," I commanded.

After ushering the girls in, I ventured out to the patio and ran across another familiar face ... Gary Sheffield, a 9-time MLB all-star. I never miss a moment to make a new friend.

"Hey Gary, I'm Brad, BJ's friend," I said to him.

"I know, I talked to BJ while you guys were out to dinner one night. He told me all about what you do," explained Gary, with a genuine smile.

This was a fascinating discovery. Gary Sheffield, a guy who I grew up watching on TV, knew who I was. To me, this was hard to comprehend. I always tried to keep up with Justin and BJ (although it was nearly impossible) but being recognized by their peers was a big step to me. So what if he knew me as a guy who picked up girls, apparently I was making a name for myself.

Kendall sent a text asking me to come inside; I made it to our table just in time to watch her walk up to Ryan Howard and immediately grab his dick. I had to get her out of there.

The next night was more of the same, but I encountered a bigger name. It seemed as though Justin and Ryan weren't the only athletes their mutual lady friend was acquainted with.

Although she was only interested in athletes with top-grossing jersey sales, I started chatting her up anyways. In the middle of our conversation, we were interrupted.

"Pssssst. Pssssst," someone behind us beckoned, clearly for her.

I turned around and saw this mystery man dressed in black slacks, black boots and a loosely fitted gray shirt with half of his face hidden. The closer I looked, the more he tried to hide his face. Finally it hit me; I was looking at the captain himself, Derek Jeter.

Everyone knew he owned a house in Tampa and I heard he kept a low profile ... the scouting report was spot on. He spoke with our female social liaison friend for a few minutes and then slipped out the door, seemingly without being noticed by anyone – New York style. I missed my chance to meet him but it didn't appear as if he held any interest talking to some dude, or any dude that night. Very well played.

Justin and I were still recovering the next day, so we decided to pull a prank on his teammate Chris Young. Keeping in touch with Dave proved to be advantageous; the prank wasn't possible without his technical knowhow.

Dave told me about a website which allows you to call someone and have any number of your choosing show up in their caller id. If it wasn't already devious enough, you could also select to have your voice scrambled to make it sound like a female's. So we called Chris from his ex-girlfriend's number.

Unfortunately, he didn't answer. Justin left a voicemail, which ended up igniting a priceless narrative.

"Hey baby, I've been thinking about you so much. I want that big black dick in my mouth. I miss it so fucking much. I can't wait until you fuck me again. Definitely need to do that soon, I want you to dog my fucking pussy out. Fucking dig my hole out from behind baby, I can't wait. Please call me when you get a chance, it's Lindsey baby. Love you, bye,"

The website also recorded the call, which put us both in tears just listening to it. The plot thickened when Justin's phone started ringing ... it was Chris.

"So I get a call from her, and I'm like what the hell? On the voicemail, it's like some scratchy ass like distorted voice. Like they had a voice machine, but it was from her phone. And the voice message said, 'Yeah hey Chris, um, I miss you so much, I want you to fuck my pussy so bad. I need you to fill my asshole up. I miss you so bad, I want you to dig inside of me again' and I'm like 'what the fuck?'" explained Chris.

"Damn dawg! Forreal?" Justin replied, in a high-pitched voice.

"It wasn't her voice though and Lindsey don't even talk like that," said Chris.

"She don't talk dirty to you like that?" Justin asked.

"Not like that, she never told me she wanted me to fill her asshole up," Chris explained.

"Damn, hahaa. So you gonna beat?" responded Justin.

"I'm trying to make sense out of this, what could that be? It's like a distorted voice, like a voice machine, but it's from her number. Like who would go through her phone, call me and leave that voicemail?" asked Chris.

"I mean, it's gotta be her right? Maybe ... is she out of the country? If she's out of the country, it'll sound like that. Can you call your voicemail from your phone?" Justin asked, while he leans back to hold in his laughter.

This is when Chris called his own voicemail and played the message, the one we actually left, on speakerphone.

"Dawg! What the fuck? That's her!" Justin insisted once the voicemail ended.

"That is not her!" said Chris.

"You don't think so?" asked Justin.

"Does that sound like her to you?" Chris asked back.

"It sounded like the way she talks but it didn't sound like her voice. You know, like her dialect, it kinda sounded like her dialect but it didn't sound like her voice," explained Justin, poorly.

"Really?" Chris asked.

"Yeah," Justin confirmed.

"I don't know what to think of that," Chris said.

"Maybe she just woke up, I don't know," Justin told him, after I whispered in his ear telling him to do so.

"You think she's tripping like that?" asked Chris.

"I don't now what kind of meat you gave her. A? A+? Masters degree?" said Justin.

"Hhahahahaha. She said I need you to come over and dog my pussy out!" replied Chris.

"She said I want you to dig my hole out from behind! Maybe she misses your meat!" suggested Justin.

"I mean I did my thing but shit..." said Chris.

"The last time you beat it up you must have given her that A+++++ masters degree in pussy pounding," Justin said.

"I gave her the truth!" replied Chris.

Chris hung up saying he needed to call his friends and tell them about it. So Justin and I decided to call him back again, from Lindsey's number. Keep in mind; Justin's voice was scrambled during the entire call.

"Hello?" Chris answered.

"Chris, you gave me that A+ meat didn't you? You beat it up didn't you?" said Justin.

"Who is this?" Chris asked.

"You beat it up good didn't you?" Justin asked.

"Who is this?" Chris repeated.

"Hey, why don't you come over and fuck me? You in Arizona? HAHAHA. PLAYBOY!" said Justin, losing his composure.

"Who is this?" an angry Chris repeated yet again.

"PLAYBOY! Who else call you playboy?" said Justin.

"Who is this?" Chris's confusion grew.

"You got hustled! Playboy, you got hustled! Haha, he's confused as fuck B-bad!" said Justin, commenting to me at the end.

"Who is this?" Chris asked, still unaware.

"IT'S JUSTIN MAN! HAHAHAHAHA. YOU GOT HUSTLED PLAYBOY!" explained Justin.

"Hah," Chris briefly let out.

"You couldn't have got hustled any worse than you just got hustled. HAHA. You gave Lindsey that A+ meat didn't you?" asked Justin.

"Hah, what you talkin bout,'" replied an embarrassed Chris.

Justin reached his tipping point so he hung up and spent the next ten minutes rolling around on the couch; crying and repeating 'He got hustled!'

Admittedly, the story is much funnier in the audio version, which I saved and will be releasing on PlayerSeason.com.

Later that day, BJ said he wanted to go to the blackjack table, so David Price ushered us to the casino in his new Bentley Flying Spur. When we pulled up to the valet – a fortunate PR moment awaited.

"Heyyyyyy Brad!" five girls hollered from the front entrance.

After they ran up and gave me a group hug, BJ dragged me inside shaking his head.

"I don't know how you do it, you probably fucked all of them too," he explained, even though I didn't slept any of them.

It was difficult to keep up at the blackjack table when you're playing with three multi-millionaires. Their stacks were endless and mine was on loan, with each win being returned to Justin, my investor.

I took $500 and lost it all. I took another $500 and turned it into $2,000; returning the initial debt. Then, I walked away, but I wasn't done gambling just yet.

Everyone says 'do not play slots', and for the most part, they're right. Never being one to listen, I entered the high limit slots room and sat down for a terrifying game ... $25 per spin.

Benjamin Franklin slid himself in and I gave myself four chances, the first three came up dry. However, the fourth struck gold and awarded me with a $2,500 jackpot. As I waited for my payout, I walked two machines down to the same exact game and took another spin. Unbelievably and against all odds, I hit it for $2,500 again!

I texted Dave to brag about my winnings and he reminded me to save my money; a policy I should have followed. When it was time to leave the casino, I blew another $4,000 trying to keep up with them on the blackjack table. I would learn my lesson one day.

The role I played, which allowed me to seemingly live their life, also came with expected limits. One of them–I soon learned–was to not bring a girl around who is much better looking than their own. In enters "Natalia".

While I stopped to fill BJ's G-Wagon with gas, I stood
petrified
and utterly breathless at the sight of the girl parked in front of me. She was taller than most, with long chestnut hair and an unrivaled hourglass figure.

I laid on the charm more than eve, for what turned out to be a historic session of gas pump pimping.

"Hey, do you go to school here?" I asked, the only line that came to mind.

"Yeah," she replied, gently moving her soft lips.

"Well I think you're very pretty and I also think we should hangout," I told her.

"Ha, ok I guess," she shyly countered.

"Tonight," I insisted.

She gave me her number and I invited her over BJ's that very night. I was upbeat, and rarely did I get this way over hanging out with a girl, something which normally happened nearly every night. Only her arrival wasn't taken as well by BJ or Justin – they didn't like me having the most attractive girl.

I sat on the couch with my tanned goddess and soaked in the grimacing facial expressions emitted from Justin and BJ's face. They couldn't accept it and I knew one of them was going to pull a stunt.

"Brad, go get my phone out of the car," Justin demanded, firing off first.

"No," I responded, rejecting the power play.

A power play is a derivative of nature. It's when someone wants to assert their dominance over another, and in this case, Justin wanted her to think I abided by his commands. Normally I would have retrieved his phone, but she was different and I wasn't going to allow it. In fact, when she looked away I silently mouthed 'FUCK YOU' to Justin, letting him know I was privy to his plan.

"If you want to pull power plays on me, you better put me on salary otherwise, I'm standing my ground," I told Justin, while we were alone on the back porch.

He accepted, and probably respected my point of view on the topic; sometimes you have to put your foot down and this was that time for me.

She ended up coming back to the Plaza with us and it was my lucky night – she brought her bathing suit in the car. When she came out of the bathroom and presented her sleek and somewhat revealing apparel; I was at a loss for words. Most girls have a few above average attributes, but lack in other areas. Not her, she was flawless in every way: legs, lips, face, hips and everything in between; she was
PERFECT
.