Most Valuable Playboy

by Lauren Blakely

  She’d shaken her head, wiped tears off her face, and slapped on a plastic smile. “I’ll be fine. I have a pint of ice cream and a movie to watch.”

  I scowled. “That’s ridiculous. You have me to dance with, cheesy photos to take, and a smoking-hot dress to wear. You’re going, and I’m your new date.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I know I don’t have to. I want to. Don’t you want to wear the dress?” I asked, because I suspected the fashionista in her would have had a hard time resisting getting dolled up as she’d intended. Focusing on the dress was the best way to get her to say yes, and I didn’t want her to remember prom as the day she was stood up.

  Her smile turned real. “It’s a really pretty dress.”

  “Then you need to wear it.”

  Her dress was more than pretty. It was stunning. The lavender material hugged her trim waist and covered her breasts enough to be classy, but not so much to be prim. Her long brown hair was twisted up onto her head, held in place with a silver clip as soft strands framed her face.

  We danced to fast songs and swayed to a few slow songs, then we hung out downtown, drinking diet sodas from the convenience store, and debating the best and worst prom songs, prom couples, and prom outfits. We grabbed a pint of ice cream and watched a movie in the cozy living room at my house. One of those fast and even more furious car movies that was mindless and a perfect popcorn flick for that night.

  At the end of the movie, she put her head on my shoulder and murmured, “Thanks for taking me. Someday, if you ever need a date, I’ll be your fill-in girl.”

  Now, back in the present, the fading memory only affirms what she said to me in her car on the way over. The kiss was weird, because we have history, because we’ve never been real, because we’re only friends. She was simply repaying a favor.

  Trent leans back in the barstool, stretching his arms behind him. “I’m glad we cleared that up. I just couldn’t see you two together.”

  I furrow my brow. “Because that’s the most ridiculous thing in the world?”

  He laughs. “It kind of is, Coop.” He waves a hand at me. “You’re a playboy, and she’s, well, she’s my sister.”

  But that’s not the real issue. The real issue is she’s just not into me.

  7

  If games are battles, then practices are duels.

  No one goes easy on the opponent in a duel, and the same is true for a practice. Especially after a tough game like last weekend, when we eked out a win by a mere three points, and especially with a coach like Mike Greenhaven. He’s the living, breathing manifestation of the word intensity. You know how Tommy Lee Jones looks all the time? As if he’s doing math every second of every day?

  That’s Greenhaven. He only cracks a smile when we’ve won the Super Bowl.

  Correction: when Jeff Grant won him the Super Bowl.

  Those two were as tight as coach and superstar could be. They were the unbeatable NFL combo. Double G. Grant and Greenhaven. G squared. Sometimes, I wished they had last names starting with D so their nickname in the press could have been Double D. That would have amused the hell out of me. But it probably wouldn’t have fazed the man who sets our agenda.

  Greenhaven presides over practice from his post on the sidelines, arms crossed, his unflinching eyes missing nothing. He might even have eyes in the back of his head, as well as his knees. Toes, too.

  Our game this coming Sunday is against Dallas, and he’s putting us through our paces. We work harder, and longer, and later. Just like we did earlier in the season after we choked the first two games. Or really, after I lost them for us, when I threw a whopping total of three interceptions between them.

  Man, those were two of the worst games of my life. The fans let me have it. The sports talk radio guys tied my noose and were ready to hang me. The local reporters lamented the retirement of Jeff Grant all over again, calling me the Big Flop, the Multimillion Dollar Bust, and The Insurance Plan That Didn’t Pay Out.

  I found my footing after that, adjusted to the speed and intensity of the game, and stopped googling myself. That’s when we won nine of the next eleven games, putting us in playoff contention. Our biggest rivals, the Los Angeles Devil Sharks, already secured the division, and that’s why we’re hunting for a wild-card slot.

  This morning at the training facility where we practice, we run through the playbook, and since Greenhaven graduated from the school that favors the passing game, that means my right arm is in motion all morning long. Throwing to one of our wide receivers. Firing long bombs to the tight end. As the fog starts to break, I gun a pass to Jones. He reaches high while on the run and grabs it, as if he’s poised to win a leaping competition, but the ball spills from his fingers when out of nowhere, the cornerback slams into him.

  I curse, frustration crashing into me. But the offensive coach barks orders for us to do it again. There’s no time to be pissed. No space to be annoyed.

  “Do it better this time.”

  I bear down, focusing on the perfect timing, and when I launch the ball, Jones snags it and gets out of bounds before the cornerback can hit him. He pumps a fist subtly.

  Greenhaven doesn’t like self-congratulatory gestures.

  We go again, running drills, running routes, ten more times, twenty, thirty. Run it till you can do it from muscle memory, till it feels like taking a breath. That’s what the plays should be. So damn natural and easy. By the time the sun shines high overhead, peeking through the fog that’s burning away, Greenhaven grabs his megaphone and tells the team to run a few laps. I’ve jogged twenty feet when he pulls me aside.

  “Armstrong,” he says gruffly.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Dallas is tough. Their line is the fiercest in the league.”

  I nod, knowing that from observing them, and all the other teams, over the last few years. I studied every second of every game I didn’t play in. I’ve been assembling a plan of attack against every defense in the league for years. I know how to read coverage pre-snap and make split-second decisions. With Dallas, that also means moving at the speed of sound.

  “You need to get rid of the ball quickly. Think fast. Think on your feet. Nothing less.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He clamps his hand on my shoulder. “One more thing. I already told the Mack Trucks. I don’t want to see you sacked.”

  He means the Renegades offensive line, the guys whose job it is to make sure I have time in the pocket. Greenhaven convinced Jasper Scott to strengthen the offensive line several years ago, trading for many Mack Truck men. “You’re only as good as your quarterback, but the quarterback can only be good if he has a great line,” Greenhaven had said.

  Jasper had listened to Greenhaven, approving every request to shore up those positions. When Greenhaven wants players, chances are he gets them, since the man knows what it takes to win. There’s another reason Greenhaven despises sacks. He wants his legacy to live on not only in the number of rings he wears, but also in the number of concussions his men don’t suffer. That works for me. Fewer sacks equals fewer chances for my skull to whack against the inside of the helmet.

  “That sounds good to me, sir.”

  He nods, a sign that I’m dismissed. But he doesn’t let go of my shoulder. “By the way, congrats on the nice haul last night,” he says drily.

  I didn’t expect the coach to give a flying rat’s ass about the auction, or to know final tallies. But then, I shouldn’t be surprised, because this is the man who sees everything. He has a photographic memory of every play in every game. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Glad to see you men raising money for a good cause,” he says in that solid, steady tone that reveals nothing. And yet, his words say everything. He has a zero-bullshit policy. He’d rather his players be upstanding citizens, giving back, representing the city proudly, than driving drunk, smashing cars, and knocking up underage chicks. A few of the teams in the league have racked up some pretty impressive stats in al
l of those areas. Greenhaven wants the opposite. Cool, calm, stable soldiers of the game.

  “We’re just doing our part and grateful to be able to,” I say, Crash-Davising it all the way.

  He lets go of my shoulder, and perhaps now I’m truly excused. I make a move to rejoin the guys, but Greenhaven adds, “And it’s always nice to see a woman provide a stabilizing effect on a man.”

  I stop in my tracks, my muscles tightening.

  Holy shit.

  He doesn’t just see everything. He has an opinion on it, too.

  “Yes indeed, sir. I couldn’t agree more,” I say in my best cool and calm tone. I blow out a long stream of air and trot back to the field. As I join the guys, I try to figure out what it means that our coach knows the finer workings not only of every opponent’s offense and defense, but also of our fucking love lives. What’s next? Is he going to know if I jack off in the shower tomorrow morning?

  By the time we finish running, my muscles are sore and my lungs are spent. We watch game film for an hour, and when the practice mercifully ends midafternoon, all I can think about is doing a whole lot of nothing the rest of the day. Maybe take a nap. Cook a good, clean dinner with protein and vegetables, then watch game film to work on a plan of attack for the field, and study the playbook once more.

  But when I turn on my phone after I’m showered and dressed, it’s clear none of that is on the agenda for this evening. I swear it feels like my phone has been weighed down with calls from my agent. I stare at the screen, scrolling through one message after another from Ford Grayson. The dude is one relentless motherfucker. I’m surprised he doesn’t jump out of my mobile device like a goddamn jack-in-the-box. In the midst of his notes, a voice mail notification pops up, but hell if I know how to work that thing. Does anyone even know how to retrieve voice mails anymore? It’s probably a credit card spammer anyway. I spot a text from Violet asking me to call her later.

  I text back letting her know I’ll do just that, then I call Ford as I leave the locker room, hair wet and sticking up from the shower. “What’s going on, Ford? You lose your balls and need me to find them?”

  “Oh,” he says with a hiss. “I am so going to make you pay for that comment.”

  “You’ll make me pay and you’ll take your three percent.”

  “Damn fucking straight I will. I might even ask for special dispensation to raise my rates to five percent for you on account of you being so goddamn hard to reach,” he says, firing off each word like a bullet. “It’s like getting an audience with Ethan Hunt once he’s gone rogue.”

  “Please. Ethan’s got nothing on me. Anyway, what’s going on?” I ask as I walk down the hall.

  “What’s going on? What’s going on?” I can feel his frustration radiating off him in fumes. His voice climbs an octave. He already speaks at the speed of light.

  “Aww, you’re still upset with me. That’s cute,” I say, since I love to yank his chain.

  “Don’t fuck with me, Coop. Don’t fucking fuck with me. Also, speaking of losing shit that matters, did you lose your ever-loving mind?”

  I rap my knuckles against the side of my head, so loudly I’m sure he can hear. “Still here. Anyway, you need to relax. Want me to take you to the duck pond to settle you down?” I tease, since I know that’s where he goes when he’s ready to blow his gasket over whatever dickhead move whatever dickhead GM he’s dealing with is trying to pull.

  “I’ve already been. It’s duck mating season, and even that didn’t make me less pissed at you. I need to see you right the fuck now.”

  “What is duck mating season like? Are there feathers just flying everywhere?” I ask as I near the heavy doors that lead to the player’s lot.

  He ignores me. “You didn’t return my calls last night.”

  I stop in my tracks as I reach the end of the hall. “Shoot, man. I’m sorry. Last night was crazy. The auction and all,” I say, but the truth is, I wasn’t in the mood to chat after what went down.

  “When the whole town is buzzing with you suddenly being attached and your contract is coming due, that is shit I need to know.”

  I laugh. “Everyone seems to know. Greenhaven even mentioned it.”

  It’s like a teapot whistles on the other end of the phone. I hear Ford suck in his breath through his nostrils. He might start to hyperventilate. “I’m a tree. I’m a calmly rustling tree. I’m one with the universe,” he says, in a deliberately placid voice.

  “You okay, Ford?”

  “One with the universe . . . mmm.”

  “Ford?”

  “Oh, sorry. Excuse fucking me. I was practicing my yoga mantras so I don’t whack you upside the head when I see you in two minutes.”

  I glance at my watch. “You’re ambitious. Did you have jetpacks installed on your feet?”

  “I drove. I’m outside the field.”

  “You’re here?”

  “You say that like it’s a surprise I tracked you down. Did I or did I not track you down in the first place?”

  “You did.”

  Ford Grayson is a determined bastard. We give each other a hard time because this man has my back completely. He sought me out during my final season of college ball. I swear, the second I walked off the field after our bowl game—we won, thank you very much—he was waiting for me. He made sure I signed with no one but him. I love the man. A few months later, I went in the first round of the draft, and he landed me a sweet deal with the Renegades. That deal is the reason my mom lives in a beautiful three-bedroom home overlooking the water in Sausalito with her dogs and boyfriend.

  Oh, and that deal is why I never have to work again if I don’t want to.

  But I want to.

  I love what I do as much as I love breathing. It’s life. It’s sustenance. It makes my bones hum.

  “And I did again. I’m at your car,” Ford tells me. “My assistant, Tucker, is here. He’ll drive mine home since you and I are going somewhere so we can have a little chitchat right now.”

  “That sounds ominous.”

  “Ominous doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

  8

  Ford tosses a chunk of white bread to a duck at Mallard Lake in Golden Gate Park. The waterfowl swims faster through the pond and dips his green head below the surface to grab the snack. He raises his beak, downs the bread, and quacks his appreciation. My agent fires off another piece, and a quartet of ducklings paddle through the water, fighting happily, it seems, to tear it to shreds.

  I stroke my chin. “It’s not really duck mating season, Ford.”

  “You have brains and beauty.”

  “Speed, too,” I say.

  “They were busy in the spring. The babies were born in July, I think,” he says, dipping into the brown paper bag he holds and tossing one more hunk of bread into the water as if he’s lobbing a curve ball. He played in the minors before an injury curtailed his baseball career.

  “Are you calm now?” I ask, gesturing to the placid water. The small pond is edged by a quiet path and a smattering of flowers.

  Ford slaps on a smile, his straight white teeth gleaming. The man looks like a million bucks, from the tailored black pants, to the white shirt with green checks, to the polished shoes. Not a blond hair on his head is out of place. His hair wouldn’t permit it. “Like a Zen beast.”

  He chucks another piece then inhales deeply before he turns to me, setting the bag on the grass. He’s a gesticulator of the highest order, so he needs his hands free to talk. “Okay, I’m ready now. Tell me again what went down last night.”

  I raise one eyebrow. “Everything?”

  His blue eyes nearly bug out. “Everything. I’m your priest, your shrink, your Sherpa, your wife—”

  I lift up a hand. “Just quit while you’re ahead.”

  He waggles his fingers at himself. “Give me the deets.”

  I share a solid CliffsNotes version with him, from Maxine, to Sierra, to Violet, finishing with, “That’s why everyone thinks Violet is now my
girl, since otherwise, Maxine would want to play with the produce.”

  “Fuck,” he says, seething as he spins in an angry circle, stomping his foot. “Maxine is trying to fondle the fruit?”

  I laugh. “Yeah. Seems she wants to unpeel my banana.”

  He scrubs his hand over his whole face. “I’m not happy about this.”

  “No kidding. The banana isn’t hers.”

  “And you know how Jasper is when it comes to his sister.” He pauses and spits out the word. “Oblivious. The sun rises and sets with Maxine.”

  “Right, but disaster averted, so can we just move on? I have enough on my mind with the prospect of playoffs and, oh yeah, that other matter of not knowing whether I’m getting an extension.”

  “In theory, we can move on.” He takes a beat, stares at me, then delivers his edict. “But in practice, you’re better off pretending with Violet. For now, while I negotiate.”

  I blink. He can’t be serious, can he? How the hell does he think I’m going to pretend to be with a girl who’s just a friend? I point out the obvious. “But it’s not real.”

  “Wah. Wah. Wah.”

  I park a hand on my hip. “Did you just mock me like I’m being a baby?”

  He grabs his imaginary violin and plays a sad tune. “I did. Is that so hard, to pretend you’re with her?”

  I give him a you-can’t-be-serious look. “Pretend we’re together for real?”

  “You did it on stage last night. I’m presuming you’ve got some fucking stamina. Keep that shit up.”

  “I have more stamina in one night than you will ever have in a lifetime.”

  “Brains, beauty, and humility,” he says, smacking my back. “God, I love you. Listen, this is your time. Earlier in the season, the GM would have dropped you like a hot potato. They were going to let you become a free agent with the way you were playing.”

  I heave a sigh, hating the reminder of those first two games. “I know.”

  “But I knew you had it in you to turn it around, and you did. You did it with a workman-like focus on the game. You did it by doing your goddamn job. Things are different now, and we need to strike just the right balance to get the best possible deal. You keep throwing like this, and no way will they let you go to free agency. You’re playing like the field general they want you to be, and if you keep it up through the last two games, they’ll want to lock you up. And that’s what we want. But it’s a dance, Coop.”