Chapter I: XXX Vs XO
The DM hit different that night. Just a simple “Hey handsome
” sliding across his notifications while Dale was half-buzzed, half-bored at a house party. He thought it was spam at first—another bot with too much makeup and not enough reality. But something about the way she phrased it, casual but confident, made him stop scrolling.That night turned into the next, and the next after that. What started as a boredom-fest on random IG pics became a late-night rabbit hole of curiosity. Then came her—Layla Ayari. Or, as the rest of the world used to know her, Nadia Starr. Thirty years old, retired from the porn game, now running her own show on OnlyFans. The same woman Dale had… well, let’s just say he lost more nights to her videos than he cared to admit to a priest.
When he first realized it was really her, his jaw damn near hit the floor. The same woman from his old laptop playlists was now DM’ing him like they went to the same school. But he still didn’t trust it. Catfish City was real, and Dale wasn’t about to get played. Still, one message became two. Then a couple jokes. Then a FaceTime request popped up on his phone one evening after practice.
He hesitated. Thumb hovering. Then he answered.
Boom.
There she was—no filter, no gimmick, no lie. The camera framed that familiar face, those bright brown eyes, that slow grin that could melt ice. And yeah—the ass, the tits, the caramel skin, that body. The one that had broken the internet long before IG models were even a thing.
“Damn,” was all Dale managed to say, half under his breath.
Layla laughed, smooth and sultry, the kind that curled around his nerves. “You expected a catfish, huh?”
“Honestly? Yeah,” Dale admitted, chuckling. “You too fine to be real.”
“Well, now you know.” She winked. “Your move, quarterback.”
That one line stuck with him all night. And just like that, the line between curiosity and connection blurred.
Over the next few weeks, their DMs turned into long late-night convos that bled into early mornings. They talked about everything—music, childhood, the weirdest fans she’d had. She roasted his playlist for being “too Drake and not enough Redman,” sent sleepy selfies with messy hair, and argued with him about whether Final Fantasy X was better than Kingdom Hearts.
“Final Fantasy clears that Disney mess,” Dale texted one night.
She shot back, “Boy, Sora would wash Tidus' ass in a heartbeat.”
He laughed out loud in his dorm, thumb hovering before he typed: You talk too much for somebody losing this argument.
She replied with a selfie—tongue out, middle finger up.
That was Layla. Sharp tongue, softer heart. And it hit him—she wasn’t Nadia Starr anymore. That was a mask she used to wear. She was Layla Ayari. Real. Grounded. Funny as hell.
Of course, when Dale told Ezekiel about her, his boy nearly spit out his drink.
“Hold up, the Nadia Starr? Like, ‘Tutor Trains His Student’ Nadia Starr?” Zeke started laughing so hard his chest shook. “Yo, you really out here tryna wife the OnlyFans princess, huh?”
Dale tried to brush it off. “Ain’t like that, bro. She cool, that’s all.”
“Uh-huh.” Zeke smirked, shaking his head. “Yeah, keep tellin’ yourself that. You gonna catch feelings and get burned, mark my words. That girl’s a walking headline.”
Maybe Zeke was right. Probably was. But something in Dale didn’t care. She wasn’t a scandal to him—she was a person. A woman who made him laugh, who asked about his day without wanting a sound bite, who made him forget the noise that came with being Dale Denton, former-Washington’s golden boy.
So one night, after weeks of back-and-forth, Dale typed the words that had been eating at him for days: What if we met for real? Like, dinner—not screens.
Layla’s reply came quick. Thought you’d never ask.
That’s when it clicked. Whatever this was—flirtation, fantasy, something in between—it wasn’t staying online much longer.
Dale felt that mix of nerves and excitement bubbling in his gut, the same rush he got right before a snap on 3rd-and-long. This was either about to be his next great highlight or the kind of L that lingered.
But that’s the thing about Dale—he didn’t play scared.
So when the night finally came, and he stepped out the door with his best fit on and his cologne hitting just right, he already knew: whatever happened next, it was his moment.
The game clock had started, and it was already too late to turn back.
———————————————————————————
Layla stood outside the little sushi spot, RA Sushi Bar, trying to remember how to breathe. Her heart wasn’t just beating—it was fighting. Hard. Fast. Like it was trying to punch its way out her chest and sprint back to the safety of her Uber ride.
Black heels. Blue denim shorts with purple patches clinging tight enough to start a petition. Oversized light-green fleece jacket that didn’t match a damn thing but made her feel less naked. Underneath, an orange low-cut crop top that screamed confidence louder than she felt. Big gold hoops, a black choker framing her throat, curls spilling everywhere like a lioness who forgot she was supposed to tame her mane. She looked down at her phone.
7:43... Thirteen minutes late.
“Fuck,” she muttered, tugging her shorts an inch lower like that would suddenly make them longer. Her breath fogged the lenses of her black-frame glasses. Or maybe that was just her nerves sweating.
“He’s not a fan. He’s not a fan. He’s not a fucking fan.”
But of course he was. Everyone was. Everyone had seen Nadia Starr. Men had damn near grown up on her. Lost whole generations of potential kids to her moans. National tragedies, she used to joke to herself, half proud, half disgusted.
Layla clenched her jaw. “No. Stop. This ain’t that.”
He wasn’t some lonely Reddit lurker or Twitter perv. Dale was different. He made her laugh. He argued about stupid games, asked what her comfort anime was, sent songs that weren’t about sex. He never once said, ‘I’d recognize those tits anywhere. She peeked through the window. And there he was.
Dale Denton—live, in the flesh.
He was sitting by the window, half-pretending to look at the menu but too restless to fake it. One hand drummed on the table, the other fidgeting with his phone. His knee bounced, jaw set tight like he was trying not to show it.
Cute. Real.
Her stomach twisted. Butterflies turned into locusts. Her thighs were damp—nerves, not lust. Definitely nerves. Layla took a breath, straightened her jacket like armor, and pushed through the door. The bell above the entrance chimed. Dale’s head shot up. His eyes met hers, and for a second everything in her went still.
(Don’t you fucking freeze.)
“Hi,” she said, voice soft, shaky around the edges but carrying a smile anyway. “Sorry I’m late. I, uh… had to fight with a pair of heels and lost.” A light laugh slipped from her lips.
Dale’s face broke into a grin, lopsided and warm. “Hopefully it wasn’t by knockout. Better learn how to bob and weave next time.” He stood, gave her a quick hug—just long enough for her to smell his cologne, clean and woodsy—and pulled out her chair. “Had I known you was scheduled for eight rounds, I would’ve tapped in with PrizePicks to place a bet.”
Layla snorted as she slid into the chair. “Oh please, like you could’ve handled those heels better than me. Those things were out for blood. I barely escaped with my dignity intact.” She laughed again, nervous fingers drumming on the edge of the menu before she forced them still. “Though, I gotta admit, your faith in me is questionable at best. Last time I played Fight Night, I got my ass knocked out in ten seconds flat.”
Dale chuckled low, the sound settling somewhere deep in her chest.
Layla rolled her eyes. “So, I guess you got a valid reason.” Her smile softened, less performative now. Under the table, her knee started bouncing again, mirroring his earlier fidget. The smell of soy sauce and fried tempura drifted between them, grounding the moment. “I’m really glad we’re doing this,” she said, glancing up at him again. “Like… finally meeting. Feels kinda surreal.” She twisted the edge of her napkin, voice dropping softer. “You been waiting long?”
Dale leaned back in his chair, biting back a grin that threatened to turn into a laugh. “Nah, I wasn’t waiting long. Got here, like, ten minutes ago.”
He took a slow look at her—the light makeup that didn’t hide her, just highlighted her. The gloss. The hint of blush. She came correct, and Dale noticed. “It’s really great to see you,” he said. “In the flesh. And yeah, surreal’s the word. Feels like I’m linking up with an old friend.” He paused, that smirk cutting across his lips. “Gotta be honest, though—I thought you might’ve got cold feet and bailed on the homie.”
Layla blinked, lips parting before she hid the flicker of emotion with a playful eye roll. “Oh please, like I’d bail on free sushi. I got some standards.” She tucked a loose curl behind her ear and laughed. “I was more worried you’d see me and bolt. Like, ‘oh shit, she’s actually crazy in person.’”
Her voice dropped lower, teasing. “But nah, I don’t bail on plans. Unless it’s leg day. Then all bets are off.” Their laughter mingled, easy. Her foot brushed his under the table—a jolt of accidental electricity—then she pulled back quick, clearing her throat. “So…” she said, smiling again. “You come here often?”
Dale shook his head. “Nah, this my first time here. First time in Texas, actually. Moved out here from Washington for my last year of football. City’s all new to me. I just opened the map, typed in ‘sushi,’ and picked the first spot that popped up. Hopefully, I picked right.”
Before she could answer, the waiter slid up beside them, pad ready.
Layla didn’t hesitate to sift through the menu and order. “We’ll do two lobster filet mignon rolls, a Hot Night, and two Blazin’ Dragons,” she said, handing the menus back.
Dale raised a brow, a grin tugging at his mouth. He wanted to question her boldness but didn’t. Maybe she just knew what she wanted.
When the waiter left, she caught his look and smirked. “I hope you didn’t mind me ordering for both of us.” She winked.
Dale shrugged, leaning back in his seat. “The night’s on me. Live it up—just make sure you can stand on your two feet afterwards.”
Layla’s laugh came bright and unguarded this time, her smile settling between them like a spark that wasn’t going out anytime soon. Leaning back in her chair, her eyes flicking up and down Dale like she was reading the fine print on a man too good to be true. “First time in Texas and you already trusting me with sushi orders?” she said, voice lilting with mischief. “Bold move, QB.”
She traced the lip of the soy sauce bottle with her fingertip, slow and idle, the kind of motion that wasn’t meant to be seductive but came off that way anyway. “Don’t worry, though. I got good taste—both in food and company.” Her eyes lifted to his, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Though I gotta say, I’m impressed you’re letting an old porn star take the reins. Most guys would've 'mansplained' raw fish to me by now.”
She winked, then added with a sly smirk, “And hey, if the rolls suck, we can always blame your terrible map skills.” Her foot brushed his again under the table—this time she let it linger, just long enough to spark before she pretended to adjust her chair.
Dale leaned forward, elbows on the table, grinning like a man who’d just been called out and loved every second of it. “Wow… that’s what we doin’? I pull up in your city, and you just gonna tomahawk me like that?” He shook his head, smiling wider. “I mean, I guess I had more time to reconsider a different spot, considerin’ you was busy catchin’ an L against your own footwear.”
Layla gasped, hand flying to her chest. “Excuse you, those heels were treacherous! Like walkin’ on goddamn ice picks!” She flicked an imaginary speck from her sleeve and huffed in mock offense. “But fine, twist the knife, Mr. Quarterback. First date and you already exposin’ my weaknesses. Real smooth.”
Dale chuckled, low and easy. “Hey, that’s what I do. I read and react. Ain’t gonna let you get the upper hand that easy.”
Her grin softened as she toyed with the napkin’s corner, eyes glimmering in the dim light. “...I gotta admit, I like that. You don’t tiptoe around shit. It’s… refreshing.” She tilted her head, chin resting on her hand. “Tell me about Washington. Bet it’s all rain and existential dread, huh?”
“Nah,” Dale said, leaning back, shoulders relaxing. “It’s chill. Lotta rain, yeah, but I liked it. I’m originally from Harlem, did a little time down in South Carolina before I hit Indiana, then Washington. Did some wild shit, made some noise on the field… and some enemies off it.” His tone dipped low, eyes narrowing like he was watching old film in his head. “When it rains, it pours. But there’s been more sunny days there than not.”
The waiter appeared just then, laying their food out with practiced grace. The smell of charred lobster and spicy tuna filled the air between them.
“But I’m here now,” Dale said, picking up a roll. “Doing a little soul-searching. Last year of college, might as well go out with a bang, right?”
Layla paused mid-reach for her chopsticks, eyes searching his face. “Harlem to Texas with pit stops in between…” She gave a soft laugh. “You really out here collectin’ states like Pokémon cards, huh?”
He smirked.
She took a bite of sushi, chewing thoughtfully before pointing her chopsticks his way. “Soul searching with raw fish and questionable company. Questionable strategy. But hey, if you’re gonna go out with a bang…” Her grin turned faint, thoughtful. “You mentioned unnecessary enemies… sounds like there’s a story there.”
Dale sighed, rubbing a hand down his jaw. “Yeah. A reckless one. But that’s one story I’d rather leave where it’s at. Too many people already know too much.”
He washed down his words with a sip of blazin' dragon, face relaxing as the burn settled in. “That’s real shit right there.” He popped a roll into his mouth, chewed, swallowed. “What about you?” he asked, eyes locking onto hers. “How’d a gaming nerd like you end up in the sex industry?”
Layla froze mid-motion, her smirk faltering just long enough to show the crack underneath. Her fingers tightened on her chopsticks before she made herself breathe. “Gaming nerd to porn star?” She gave a humorless laugh, swirling her sushi in soy sauce until it nearly fell apart. “Oh, you know…”
Dale leaned forward, brows raised. “Nah, I don’t know. That’s why I’m askin’. No judgement here, just tryna understand what made you put down one joystick for another.” He chuckled harder than he should’ve.
The air shifted.
Layla’s chopsticks stopped dead. The sushi fell back onto her plate with a soft plop. The sound might as well have been a gunshot. She stared at him for a long second, chest tight, that familiar sting creeping up like an old scar getting touched. “Wow,” she said finally, leaning back. Her laugh was short, sharp, brittle. “You really just went there, huh?”
Dale froze, mid-reach for another roll, guilt washing over his face.
“Guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” she said quietly, eyes hard now, glass catching the neon light.
“Hey…” Dale started, hand half-raised before dropping it. “I’m sorry. That came out wrong. I ain’t mean to offend you, real talk. I was just tryna understand your story. You don’t give off the desperate type—like ‘I did it for rent’ or ‘put myself through school.’ You're different. I was just curious what brought you there. But if that’s off-limits, I get it. I respect that.”
Layla’s jaw flexed, her breath slow through her nose. She traced her finger around the rim of her glass, her expression softening—but not by much. “Desperate?” she said finally, voice quieter. “No. I wasn’t desperate. Just… curious. Maybe reckless.” Her eyes flicked down, then back up, locking onto him. “Started as a dare. One webcam stream. Then it just… spiraled. Turns out I liked the control. The power. Being wanted without being needed.” Her voice dimmed near the end, like she was talking to herself more than him. “But yeah. There’s always a price.”
She stabbed a roll, lifted it, met his gaze dead-on. “Your turn.”
Dale nodded slowly, chewing on her words like they were heavier than sushi. “Me? My story ain’t sexy like that.” He chuckled softly. “I just wanted to play ball. Get my moms up out the hood. She broke her back for me—metaphorically, but still. I got caught up in some dumb shit, ended up in South Carolina with my pops. Dude wasn’t in my life till I was seventeen, but he believed in me when I didn’t. Kept me straight. Four years later in college, two championships…” He smiled faintly. “And here I am—eatin’ sushi with my former favorite adult star, who I honestly thought was catfishin’ me.”
He sipped his drink again, grin tugging at his lips. “Though I gotta say, mighty bold of you to slide in my DMs with a ‘hey handsome’ like you some cougar.”
Layla blinked, then snorted, tension breaking like ice. “Cougar? Please. I’m barely thirty. I’m in my prime.” She flicked a grain of rice at him, laughing softly before her tone dipped, gentler. “Though I did think you’d be some horny college kid with a fake profile. Imagine my surprise when you turned out to be…” She waved a hand, gesturing to his whole frame, her grin turning crooked. “Well, you. A football star with a momma’s boy complex and questionable taste in sushi.”
She popped another piece into her mouth, swallowed, then leaned back. “I only slid in your DMs ‘cause that profile pic had that cocky smirk. Figured you’d be an asshole. Turns out…”—her eyes narrowed playfully—“I wasn’t half wrong.” Her foot nudged his again, lighter this time, lingering just long enough for both of them to feel it. The air between them warmed, no longer awkward—just charged, like something new was sparking alive under the neon hum of the sushi bar.
Without a real rebuttal, Dale conceded and took the low road.
"Ya' muva, B', ya' muva," he muttered, lips curling into a soft giggle that he contained behind a smirk. His eyes caught Layla’s chocolate gaze, locking like a predator spotting prey. "Naah, this ain't no 'momma's boy' complex or whatever you call it. We been chatting it up for months now, I had you pegged for a vibe. I ain't wrong, am I?"
He bit into his lobster filet, the flavors sharp, buttery, lingering on his tongue, while his eyes bored into hers, predatory, daring. "You let me know if I'm getting the wrong signals."
Layla’s breath hitched slightly, pulse picking up as his gaze held her captive. For a split second, she felt the thrill—and the threat—of being caught in headlights. But then her smirk returned, slow, deliberate, teasing. She leaned just enough forward to let the swell of her cleavage peak over the table’s edge, her fingers twirling a chopstick between them before pointing at him.
"Oh, you're getting signals alright," she purred, voice a velvet whisper laced with challenge. "Question is... you smart enough to decode 'em?"
Dale leaned back slightly, letting the tension hang thick in the air before responding, voice low, measured, and dangerous. "I think the better question is, are you brave enough to stick around and find out why I'm a 'dual threat'?"
He gave a subtle wink, the kind that dared her to test him, and she felt it—felt the heat of it slither down her spine like wildfire. Her throat went dry, pulse thundering as she leaned closer, close enough to catch the faint mix of his cologne and wasabi that made her senses reel.
"Oh, I live for threats, dual or otherwise," she murmured, voice heavy with teasing danger. Her fingers absentmindedly twisted a curl around her finger, gaze dropping pointedly to his mouth before flicking back up. "But let's not get ahead of ourselves, hotshot."
Dale reached across the table, snatching the last sushi roll from her plate, devouring it with a crisp, deliberate bite. The motion was intimate, almost possessive, and Layla caught herself in the haze of desire and challenge.
"That's the best decision you've made thus far tonight," he said with a grin, leaning back slightly. "We can play chess and checkers all night, but I think we know what's up."
Layla arched a brow, lips curling into a slow, deliberate smirk. Her arms crossed under her chest, accentuating her curves as she watched him devour her sushi like a man claiming territory. "Oh, so you're a sushi thief and a mind reader now?" she teased, voice dropping into a husky purr. Fingers traced idle, teasing patterns along the tablecloth. "Careful, QB. Confidence is sexy until it turns into arrogance… and we both know which one you're toeing the line with." She tilted her head, curls cascading over her shoulder, gaze darkening with intent.
"Oh, you didn't know? I'm a habitual line stepper." Dale smirked, unwavering, holding her gaze. "I'm not saying I'm a mind reader, but if the risk is worth the reward, then I figure there’s some treasure chest that needs 'plundering.'"
Her breath hitched, lips parting slowly, almost a whisper, as his words licked at her ears like fire. A shiver ran down her spine—not just from the thrill of his words, but the way his gaze held her, undressing her with intent she could feel in her chest. She wet her lips, soft, deliberate, before letting out a low, throaty chuckle that vibrated with heat. "Is that so?"
Her fingers inched across the table, just shy of his hand, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his skin. "Funny… I don't remember putting a 'plunder me' sign on my chest." Her voice dipped to a whisper, dripping with mischief. "But since you're already stealing my food… might as well go for the full heist, right?"
In that moment, Dale slid his hand over hers, interlocking their fingers. His eyes lit up with something primal as he downed the last of his drink in one motion, savoring the burn, the fire. "Momma didn't raise no shook ones..." he said, low, certain, the challenge hanging in the air between them like smoke.
Layla’s grin deepened, a spark lighting behind her gaze as she leaned just a fraction closer. "Good," she breathed. "‘Cause I don’t back down either." The table between them felt smaller now, tension electric, every flick of a gaze, every brush of fingers, a spark threatening to ignite. And in the quiet hum of the sushi bar, with neon light flickering across their faces, the game had just begun...
They sold me on Joe Breezy!!