Most Valuable Playboy

by Lauren Blakely

“We need a guru of superstitions and what they mean,” Rick continues. “We need to make sure it’s all good.”

  “Guys,” Jones says, as he wraps his hands tighter over the back of the chair in front of him. “Here’s what the superstitions are about for us. The rituals are a pact. It means we have each other’s backs.” He draws a circle in the air around us. “Whether it’s the four of us, or whether it’s the eleven guys on the field on Sunday—we do this together. We’re a team.”

  He holds up his fist, and I knock mine to his, then Rick piles on, then Harlan slams his hard against the top. “To the pact,” Jones says, and we echo his words.

  Soon, the guys stand and file out, and I tell them I’ll catch up. I’m alone in the stands.

  I grab my phone and tap out a text to Violet. But before I hit send, I dial her number instead. God bless texting, but sometimes a voice is better.

  She picks up on the second ring. “I’m in the middle of coloring a blonde red and white for Christmas, so make this good.”

  Her voice is worlds better. “You didn’t actually answer the phone while dyeing hair, did you?”

  “Of course. I can multitask like nobody’s business. Just kidding. I’m actually in the back office paying bills. I finished a tint early so I have ten minutes before my two p.m.”

  “I won’t keep you long. But Jillian asked if we can visit the children’s hospital. Would you be able to?’’

  “Of course. I’d love to,” she says, her tone genuine. “I meant it when I said I love helping with kids.”

  “Does next Tuesday work for you? Pretty please,” I ask, making my voice as sweet as pie.

  “Well, since you said pretty please, the answer to Tuesday is yes. That’s my day off next week anyway.”

  I smile. “Have I mentioned you’re a most excellent pretend girlfriend?”

  “Have I mentioned you’re a most excellent pretend boyfriend?”

  “Why, no. You haven’t. Do tell me what an amazing fake boyfriend I make.” I kick back, lifting my sneakers onto the seat in front of me and crossing my ankles.

  She sighs happily. “My salon is packed again today, and every single stylist is booked solid for the next few weeks. Suddenly, everyone wants a cut from here, or a holiday up-do for an event.”

  I run my palm over the back of my head. “Speaking of, my locks are getting shaggy.”

  “You are welcome here anytime,” she says, then laughs. “My God, if you were in the salon, I’d sell out appointments for the year.”

  I sit up straighter. “Yeah? And the landlord would be off your back?”

  “Probably. But you don’t have to do that. I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

  I scoff. “First, you can take advantage of me anytime. Second, you’re helping me with this whole boyfriend–girlfriend deal. If cutting my shaggy hair helps you, I’m all yours.”

  “I like the sound of that,” she says softly, and my heart threatens to kick into overdrive.

  I rein it in. “One more thing. Do you want to sit any place special on Sunday? I can get you tickets with the players’ wives and girlfriends in a suite, which is cool but it’s kind of cliquey. Or I can get you tickets on the fifty-yard line with Trent and Holly and my mom.”

  She inhales deeply. “Gee. I don’t know. Sit with a bunch of women I don’t know, or sit close to the action? I just can’t decide. Okay, if I have to, I’ll be at the fifty-yard line with pompoms.”

  I laugh. “Now that’s a sight I eagerly await.”

  “You have a little quarterback-cheerleader fantasy I need to know about? Because I’ll have you know I don’t have an ounce of cheerleader blood in me.”

  “I know that about you. Trust me. I do.” Violet was never the ponytail and pompoms girl. She was into fashion, indie music, jewelry, and her friends. In high school, I’d run into her tangled up in a group of girls, laughing, listening to their iPods, trading tunes, and looking out for each other. She’d wave and say hello. I’d always give her a hug, wrapping my arms around her, inhaling her hair, enjoying her softness against me. The memory is so visceral.

  Whoa.

  I liked to touch her back then?

  Of course you did, dickhead. She was a babe then, still is, and you like babes. Doesn’t make you the Sherlock of Romance to put that together.

  “Hey, Vi?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Since high school,” I say, firmly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “If anyone asks when I first had a crush on you, that’s what I’ll say.”

  “Oh. Is that so?” she asks, and I can hear the smile in her voice. The invitation, too. Like she likes this idea.

  “We can’t very well have the same answer, can we? So, since high school sounds about right.”

  When I end the call, I don’t need anyone to tell me what our conversation means. It means she’s coming to my game this weekend, and for a guy like me, there’s something a whole lot of awesome about playing in front of the woman you like. Every guy wants to show off for their girl.

  “Hello there, handsome.”

  I startle, sitting ramrod straight.

  “Hi, Maxine.”

  16

  Her dark brown eyes glint with mischief as she flicks a shock of black hair off her shoulder. She sits next to me, closer than the seats should allow. Maxine is a bit like a cat on a laptop—she has no sense of personal space. Or really, no regard for it. Her elbow brushes against me, her knee touches mine, and I inch away.

  I’m a huge fan of personal space.

  “How are you?” she purrs.

  “I’m great,” I say, as chipper and cheery as I can be.

  She studies me, concern etched into her features as she purses her lips, slashed with a wine-red lipstick. “Are you sure? I watched practice yesterday. You seemed a little off. Is everything okay with you and your . . .”

  She trails off, but I know exactly what she’s getting at. She’s hunting for trouble in paradise, so I stick to what happened on the field. “Off? We were off for like five minutes,” I say, thinking she’s referring to the botched throw to Jones.

  “You were better today, though. So smooth and agile,” she adds.

  If she knows my practice improved from one day to the next, that means she’s watching me. Has she planted bugs on me? A dart of worry hits me as I wonder if she heard my call with Violet. I didn’t notice her come over, but a quick peek at her ballet flats tells me she might simply be quiet in those shoes. Maybe she was slinking through the stands furtively for a while. I offer a quick plea to the universe that she didn’t hear the “pretend girlfriend” conversation.

  “I appreciate the compliment, Maxine,” I say, keeping my tone even as I mentally cycle back a few minutes. Did I hear any footsteps when we were chatting?

  Maxine brings a hand to her chest. “I don’t just dole out praise, Cooper. I speak the truth. You threw with precision today. With dead-on accuracy.” Her eyes linger on my arms.

  “Thank you. That’s the goal.”

  “I’ll make sure Jasper is aware, too. I like to let him know when I think someone’s playing well. It’s the least I can do for the team.”

  I furrow my brow, wondering if Maxine has some unwritten role as Jasper’s confidante? Is she a scout, in her own way, sharing observations of the players? I have no idea, and that’s why I need to be careful, and all the more reason why I’m grateful I have the new girlfriend-shield activated around me. It gives me some sort of immunity from Maxine’s come-ons, whether they’re direct like the other night, or of this new praise-your-stats variety.

  And since I have no clue how to respond to these tidbits she’s doling out, I lean on the master tactic of saying nothing with a smile. “I’m glad you’ve been enjoying the season so much,” I say, a Crash Davis-style answer delivered with a practiced grin.

  “Speaking of enjoying the season,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows as if she’s in on a naughty secret, “how is your lovely girlfriend
?”

  In spite of the sheer level of un-fucking-comfortability I feel next to this woman—which incidentally, registers at fifty on the Richter scale—the mention of Violet steadies me. “She’s great. Truly great.” I can hear only truth in my tone. I’m not pretending. Violet is fantastic.

  Maxine smiles with a sigh. “That’s so nice. I do love a love story.”

  I’m about to protest that we’re not in love, but that would be a dumbass move. “Glad you like ours.”

  She rubs her hand on my arm. “I do.” She sighs. “And admittedly, I’m a little jealous.” Her voice sounds strangely sad, even wistful. “But then, all of San Francisco is jealous of her. Do you know how many hearts you broke when the city learned you were taken? The Golden Gate Bridge cracked a little that night.”

  I manage a small laugh. “I hope the bridge stays sturdy. We need her not to fall.”

  “Lombard Street wept unrequited tears,” she adds with a big smile.

  For a flash, I feel like I’m seeing a new side of Maxine. Like she’s not the man-eater I’ve known her to be. As if she’s simply a romantic, albeit with misplaced affections.

  “Let’s hope its tears clean up the street, then.” I glance at the time on my phone, figuring I can reasonably excuse myself now. “I should take off.”

  “I’ll let you go. I know how important it is for players to get some rest.” Maxine runs her hand over her dark curls. “By the way, my hair is getting a little long, don’t you think? I’ve been meaning to find a new stylist. Good thing I know just the perfect place to try. I hear she’s amazing.”

  My stomach craters. She’s been lulling me into a false sense of security with her sweeter side. She’s like a fucking linebacker who appeared out of nowhere to slam me to the ground.

  She blows me a kiss. “Ciao, love. I’ll be watching the game on Sunday.”

  Seems she’s been watching me all along.

  17

  The crowd roars. They slam their feet against the stands, pounding out a cheer that thrums through the stadium and echoes across the field.

  It’s third and nine. There’s no breathing room in this game. Two minutes till halftime, and the score is still tied. We’ve traded leads every possession, it seems.

  I take the snap from shotgun as three receivers race downfield. My heart pounds rocket-fast, but my nerves are cool. My brick wall of linemen buy me time, as they’ve done all day, holding off Dallas. I scan for an open target, but McCormick is swarmed by the secondary. Another receiver is flanked, too. I find Jones, scrambling to break away from the cornerback.

  “C’mon, man,” I mutter.

  I’m waiting.

  Fucking waiting, ready to throw the second he’s free.

  A big-ass lineman busts through, but the center slams into the guy’s barrel body, protecting me as I launch the ball the instant Jones peels away from the coverage.

  He doubles back, and those beautiful hands are ready. The ball soars, and he pulls it down pristinely, cradling it then carrying it for twelve yards before he runs out of bounds, avoiding a tackle.

  I pump a fist and point downfield. We run, line up for the first down, and we’re all business the rest of the way. I hand off to Harlan, who powers his way around the defense, gaining eight yards, and putting us squarely in field-goal range.

  But hell if I want to go for three right now. I glance to the sidelines, briefly making eye contact with the coach. He gives a nod, and even though that’s his go-to gesture for nearly everything, I know this time it means go for six. A new wide receiver comes in, bringing the play with him.

  After the snap, I’m in the pocket, and I throw easily to an open McCormick, who takes off like a cheetah. The rookie hauls ass twenty-five yards into the motherfucking end zone.

  The crowd erupts.

  My heart jackhammers.

  I run to McCormick, clapping him on the back and congratulating him as we trot to the sidelines.

  “You rock, man.”

  “No, you fucking do,” the rookie says, with the same baby-faced grin that Cam Newton sports.

  “Beautiful,” Greenhaven grunts as I grab some water and Einstein does his job with the extra point.

  That gives us a welcome seven-point lead at halftime. I take off my helmet, turn to the stands, and my eyes find my family. My mom waves a number-one foam finger, and her boyfriend, Dan, plants a kiss on her cheek. Ford shakes his hips back and forth, calling out something unintelligible that’s clearly a compliment. Next to them, Trent and Holly are hollering happily, arms raised in the air. I give them all a huge thumbs-up.

  My gaze drifts beyond my best friend to his sister, the girl I’ve known for most of my life, who’s smiling up a storm and cheering like this is the best day ever.

  And so far, it’s pretty fucking good.

  I give her a tip of the proverbial cap then a lopsided grin. The smile that returns my way is priceless, like a shot of pure happiness in my body.

  Ford drapes an arm around Violet and says something to her.

  I turn away and head to the locker room with the team.

  Violet: Oh my God. He’s taking me into the lion’s den.

  * * *

  Holly: Do you have your retractable claws ready to go?

  * * *

  Violet: No, but he makes it seem like I need them. He says the players’ wives are dying to meet me, and I need to be on my toes.

  * * *

  Holly: I have no doubt they want to know who’s about to become the new leader of the pack in one fell swoop. That’s probably what they think.

  * * *

  Violet: Stahp. Just stahp. I’m nobody.

  * * *

  Holly: Oh, Vi. I love you and all, but if you’re the quarterback’s girl, you’re on track to become everybody.

  * * *

  Violet: This is crazy.

  * * *

  Holly: They all know you might become the new Queen Bee.

  * * *

  Violet: Will they want to dethrone me then? Steal my stinger? Wait, do queen bees have stingers?

  * * *

  Holly: No, they’re full of eggs that then become larva, so it’s kind of a bad example.

  * * *

  Violet: Here goes nothing.

  * * *

  Holly: Just smile and wave . . .

  Holly: Are you alive? Celine Dion already sang.

  * * *

  Holly: They’ve taken you. They’re making blood

  sacrifices with you.

  * * *

  Holly: You’ve left me. You’ve officially left the little people behind, and now you’re eating sushi and canapés and crudités in the players’ wives suite.

  * * *

  Holly: Incidentally, if they have any yellow tail, bring me one. I love yellow tail.

  * * *

  Holly: And mini cupcakes.

  * * *

  Holly: But they probably don’t have that. Unless they’re made of air, and I don’t want an air cupcake. Back to the original plan. Bring me a sushi roll.

  * * *

  Holly: If I ever see you again.

  * * *

  Holly: Okay, halftime is nearly over. Celine is done, Lady Gaga made a special appearance, the marching band for all the high schools in the universe performed, and you’re gone.

  * * *

  Holly: It was fun being friends. Sniff, sniff.

  * * *

  Violet: The sushi was to die for! I stuffed my bra full of tuna rolls just for you.

  * * *

  Holly: Bitch.

  * * *

  Violet: But seriously! They were all so nice. The center’s wife is so sweet. She invited me over. The guard’s wife had her baby with her, and he was totally cute, and I even cuddled and held him. McCormick’s girlfriend from high school was there. She is crazy about him! And the tight end’s fiancée was amazing. Admittedly, I was nearly blinded by her ring. It’s about the size of my head. No lying.

  * * *

 
Holly: I know that’s not a lie. Those ladies have ring bling!

  * * *

  Violet: Ford made it seem like the lion’s den, but I didn’t feel that way at all.

  * * *

  Holly: Did they ask about Cooper? Did they give you the relationship third degree?

  * * *

  Violet: Yes. How long we’ve been together, when I knew I liked him, how we started dating, what I thought of the game. It was easy to answer everything.

  * * *

  Holly: Because you have the answers ready!

  * * *

  Violet: I sure do.

  * * *

  Holly: You always have . . .

  Rick chews the pink gum, spits it out, and brushes his teeth on the sidelines. Then, the defense holds off Dallas in the third quarter, but their line nearly kills me. I manage a few handoffs and a couple of short passes, but we don’t push past the fifty-yard line.

  Dallas gets possession, and they march downfield with precision. My chest tightens, and I pace along the sidelines, eager to get back in because they seem on the cusp of something big. But we hold them to a field goal chance, and then something beautiful happens. They miss it, the ball going wide past the goalposts. That sends a bolt of energy into the crowd.

  We take the field, pumped. I do my job, like I’ve done since I was five. Since I was ten. Since high school. Since college. Since the start of the season. Drive downfield, throwing pass after pass from the pocket, my wall of Mack Trucks protecting me.