Before starting my NFL career, I flew into the city closest to the town I'd call home. I booked a room, went out to grab a bite, and ended up talking football with the locals, who had no clue who I was. Oh yeah, and I had a few too many drinks.

As the night wore on, everything became a little bit blurry. Deciding to use the men's room before grabbing a ride back to the hotel to catch some ZZZs, the door to the stall behind me swung open and a chick with an SU ball cap on, barely containing her wild, dark locks, stepped out, glanced down at my junk, and said, "That will work."

My response? "You sure about that?" It worked. Of course, it worked. I've never had a problem making it . . . work.

Even after finding out she was related to the owners of the New York Knights, there wasn't a problem. We agreed it was no big deal. I didn't even take offense to what that could have meant south of the border, either.

The problem arose when I met her sister. They look alike, but they couldn't be any different. And no, it's not what you're thinking. I don't have a sisters fantasy or anything like that, and I've never been, and never will be, the guy who falls in love. My heart just doesn't work that way.

The minute I met her fiancé, I knew he wasn't the kind of guy who deserves to marry a girl like Riley Mae Brooks. Everyone around her knows it, too, but they're not doing a damn thing to stop it. So, why do I feel like I have to?

Contains mature themes.