As a top pro basketball player, he was used to getting what he wanted. The more I ignored him, the harder he tried. I was working as a VIP hostess at the most exclusive club in LA. He would show up every week in old-school sneakers, a hoodie, and jeans, and stand in the corner of the entrance, watching me emasculate men attempting to enter. I was in charge of getting celebs to come in—and keeping B-listers out. The gig was glamorous but tough, and I learned quickly that many male VIPs had god complexes and felt entitled to my attention.

Every night that he showed up, he asked me out. Every night, I said no. On one of the early nights, a coworker yanked me aside to hiss, "You don't know who that is?" I didn't at first, but apparently everyone else did.

"Just give me a chance!" he'd plead.

"Nah, I'm good. Go find a chick who's impressed with your day job."

He would shake his head and mumble, "Brutal, man. Just brutal."

Nights passed, and he grew more ambitious, chatting with me by the door instead of going inside to hang with his entourage. Finally, the owner pulled me aside and said, "I took you off the schedule Saturday night."

"Why?" I asked, thinking of what I could have done wrong. "Because your athlete admirer is relentless. I gave him your number. He also paid your salary for your night off."

The owner was a good friend who had known my admirer for years and said he had never seen him act like this. I stopped assuming this guy was a prize-winning pig … but only for one night. The truth is, he'd charmed me enough that I was actually a little excited. He made me laugh, and despite being persistent, he wasn't as annoyingly aggressive as other guys. And yes, I saw how many people walked up to him every night. Our club had the prettiest girls in LA, and they all wanted to talk to him. I was definitely flattered he was into me.

The night before our date, I Googled him—the more I learned, the more impressed I was. He donated his time and money to programs that benefited underprivileged kids. I had been volunteering for years too. A socially conscious perspective was a prerequisite to date me. Perhaps our dinner conversation would have an ounce of substance.

Turns out, it did. He was smart, funny, and charming and drove an environment-friendly car. What mega-million-dollar-contract-signing athlete chooses the environment over comfort? We sat at a table in the back of a West Hollywood Italian restaurant and talked about his absent mother, the father he hardly knew. He became teary-eyed when he talked about his grandma. It appeared he wasn't the vapid dude addicted to panty-throwing groupies I'd assumed he was.

Three weeks after our first date, he said I love you, and we agreed not to date other people. I fell hard. He was mushy and sweet … and our sexual chemistry was electric. I loved how he picked up on every nervous habit of mine. We would be on the phone, and he would say, "Are you pulling at the cuticle on your right thumb right now?" It was as if he rented a chunk of real estate in my brain. I appreciated that his house wasn't extravagant in that baller way, but when we'd go out to dinner or a club, I would be treated like I was someone special. My friends were dying for details. At his games, I'd see thousands of people wearing his jersey and cheering for him. It was wild.

What I didn't love about our relationship: his phone going off at all hours. I knew he was a big deal and had business calls to take, but I was consumed with thoughts of him cheating. A few years prior, I left a relationship with a guy who cheated on me. And every night at work, I saw famous men slipping their wedding rings into their pockets so they could hook up with girls they met at the club. I never felt like I could relax with him, because my feelings for him were progressing faster than the relationship was.

Seven months into dating him, I met him in a midwestern city for 36 hours while he was in the middle of an 11-day away-game road trip. Upon my arrival, he seemed disconnected. He's just exhausted, I told myself.

Bzzz. His BlackBerry. He got up to use the restroom, and for the first time ever, I looked at his phone. "April Atlanta" was wondering if my boyfriend had received her pictures. Next stop on the away-game road trip? Atlanta.

"Who's April Atlanta?" I barked.

"Huh?"

"She wants to make sure you received her pictures," I screamed as

I launched his phone at his chest.

"What?"

"Stop it! Have you slept with her?"

"I— I—, ah, don't even know what to say. I love you. I'm sorry."

I left for the airport and ignored his calls for months. He finally gave up.

A few years later, I left LA and moved to Manhattan. Within three months, the cover of every newspaper at my local deli informed me that my cheating, naked-picture-receiving ex had been traded to a team on the East Coast. For the last year, he hadn't occupied a gram of my brain space. Why did his picture make my belly feel warm? In December 2012, I ran into him at a coffee shop. I felt someone staring at me, and when I looked up, I saw him smiling the biggest smile. "It's her!" he said to his friend standing with him. "It's her."

He asked me to meet up and apologized for his immaturity and infidelities. He confessed April Atlanta wasn't the only woman he'd cheated with and admitted that the chase and challenge played a large role in his obsession with me. No one had ever made him work for anything. He'd never believed I was fully his. He thought I was constantly waiting for him to screw up. He was right. I couldn't justify or pardon what he had done, but I tried to understand. He apologized over and over and asked if we could try again. I was convinced he'd changed. We got back together.

The first months of 2013 were a steady drive in bliss and honey. We saw each other constantly and talked about the future. This time, our bond felt deeper.

"We just make sense," he said as he glided back and forth on his foam roller, stretching his monstrous frame on the floor of his living room before his game. "I want you to have my kid."

I lay down next to him as my tears dripped onto his clean white rug. I was in love and overwhelmed.

His team lost, but we still celebrated his favorite holiday in true Cinco de Mayo spirit: margaritas and Mexican.

At a table filled with our friends, I stared at him. Not because he was wearing a silly oversize sombrero, but because I realized I was ready. I had finally arrived at a place where I could accept he was no longer an overgrown child. He was a grown-up, and he had made forgivable mistakes.

"I'm ready," whispered my 30-year-old self, fully tipsy and half incoherent. "I want to have a baby."

"I can't even handle that face of yours," he beamed.

We arrived back at his home, and I immediately, inexplicably, became violently ill all over his walls. I convinced myself my mystery illness was a coincidence, but now I'm convinced it was a sign. A voice deep inside me was telling me this wasn't right. I buried it. I woke up the next morning drowning in his tee shirt, still optimistic. The next morning, he went to LA for business. I had plans to meet him there one week later.

Immediately upon my arrival, he said he needed to see me and give me a gift. His voice sounded desperate. We sat down at a restaurant for tea as he slid a small box across the table. I opened it: a beautiful gold bracelet.

"The bracelet symbolizes us. We will always be linked."

"It's beautiful, babe. Thank you." Maybe my interpretation of his tone was wrong?

"I don't want to be with you. I'm in love with someone else."

Nope, I had been spot-on.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I know it hurts."

"I'm gonna go." I couldn't see through my tears as I left.

Three months later, he was engaged, and soon after that, he married his pretty new love. I Googled her and found photos of her last three boyfriends: all famous actors. They deserve each other, I thought.

Many women make the mistake of believing they're the one who can change a man. When he'd opened up about his past, I felt special. I believed I would be the mystical creature who could change both the athlete and the game. I couldn't, and I felt broken.

Six weeks after he dumped me, I met David — a short, artsy, tattooed Buddhist who worked in advertising. After he asked me out, I Googled him. Nothing came up. I said yes.

This article was originally published as "The Dirty Truth About Dating a Celeb" in the October 2014 issue of Cosmopolitan. Click here to get the issue in the iTunes store!

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