Most Likely To Score

by Lauren Blakely

  “That’s a shame. Why don’t I check them out with you?” Jones suggests in a serious tone, going along with the ruse.

  My pulse quickens to rocket speed when I hear him drop the football to the floor with a thunk.

  Dear Lord, he’s naked right now. One hundred percent naked.

  Eyes up, eyes up, eyes up.

  “I’ll just grab my towel,” he says, and I breathe a massive sigh of relief. He won’t be standing next to me in his naked glory after all. God bless towels so very much.

  I glance up from the viewfinder and keep my gaze on Christine, whispering, “These shots are to die for.”

  Christine gives a knowing smile. “No doubt. I might need some for my personal stash,” she says under her breath.

  I nudge her. “Naughty girl.”

  “One of the perks of the job.”

  Jones strides over to us, and I’m so glad he has that towel around his waist. As he moves next to me to check out the pictures, his bare arm a mere millimeter away making me catch my breath, he shifts something to his shoulders.

  I gasp when I realize what he draped on them.

  His towel.

  His freaking towel is on his shoulders.

  Jones Beckett, object of my dirty dreams, is in my personal zone, without a stitch of clothing on.

  Christine appears unfazed. I want to know her trick.

  I draw a quick, quiet breath, calling on all my reserves as the three of us crowd the camera, admiring this man’s ability to pose. “You’re the ultimate ham,” I tell him, keeping the mood as light as I can.

  May he never know he’s killing me with his nearness.

  “Oink, oink,” Jones snorts.

  Christine laughs. “I’m sure she means pig with great affection.”

  “I accept her compliment one hundred percent. Pigs are fine creatures,” he says. I glance up briefly from the small screen, and a bolt of heat runs from my chest down my body as his gaze meets mine. His blue eyes are the color of a lake under the summer sky. His jaw is strong and square. His hair is dark and cut short.

  For the briefest of seconds, I’m so damn tempted to let my eyes wander down his pecs to his belly, then lower still. I’m only human. I can’t help it. I want to see what was hidden behind the football. But I’ll be either disappointed or ecstatic, and since I’ll never be able to conduct a thorough investigation of any of his parts, it’s best to do what I’ve practiced for many years. I lift my chin, look away, and review the photos.

  Flipping through every gorgeous shot.

  “I’m going to go back up this card now,” Christine says when we’re through and excuses herself to huddle with her laptop in another section of the studio.

  It’s just Jones and me, some lights, and some equipment. A black cloth hangs on the back wall. All noises echo. I flash him a professional smile and swallow past the dryness in my throat, fixing on my professional demeanor like it’s a well-tailored skirt. “Great work today. I’m so glad you could make time to do this issue.” As one of our marquee players, the man is in demand, so I need to make sure he knows how grateful I am.

  “No need to thank me. It was all my pleasure.” His eyes darken as he stares at me with something like heat in them, a fire that makes no sense to me. “I hope it was yours, too.”

  I blink. “I’m sorry. Excuse me?” I’ve no idea why he’s acting this way. Why he’s dipping his words in the innuendo fondue more than usual.

  He shrugs happily, tugging the towel off his neck. “Just saying, I hope it’s not too hard for you to have to be here.”

  “It’s not too hard at all,” I say, taking my time with each word, so I don’t overstep, or read something into nothing. He sounds like he’s flirting, but that’s his MO. The man has been known to toy with me on many occasions. He’s a fun, lovable wiseass, and I need to do my best to always remember that about him—this is a game.

  “It’s not?” He raises an eyebrow, then his gaze drifts downward. “Hmm. I thought it was.”

  With a deadpan tone, I say, “Nothing hard about being with you. In fact, I’d say it’s a veritable barrel of monkeys.”

  He laughs, running that towel over his head, even though his hair isn’t wet. “You know what they say about barrels of monkeys.”

  “No, what do they say, Jones?”

  “They get into monkey business.” He turns, tosses the towel to the floor, and strolls away.

  Mayday, Mayday. The plane’s going down. I’m about to get a full serving of perfect booty in my ocular zone. I snap my gaze to my cell phone. Dear God in heaven, thank you for making phones. Thank you for giving us devices that are useful for distraction at moments like this. As I scroll through my messages as if they’re the height of fascinating, I try to figure out what he’s doing with his towel games.

  Is he baiting me in a brand-new way?

  The wheels turn in my brain then pick up speed. Yes. That has to be it.

  He’s playing reindeer games with me, using a towel and his naked body as the game pieces.

  Which makes sense. He’s a baller, and these guys are competitive in every single pursuit. But little does he know this valedictorian, summa cum laude girl has 206 competitive bones in her body, too.

  I won’t bend down. I won’t look down, either.

  I stare straight at the back of his head and call his name. He swivels around, a question mark in his eyes.

  I point to the floor. “Jones. You need to pick up your towel.”

  “Can you—?”

  I shake my head. “Not a football’s chance in hell. And please, don’t ever insult my intelligence again.” I smile. “I’ve been with the team since the guys invented the drop-the-towel game.”

  He squares his shoulders, heaves a breath, and walks right up to me, as if he’s challenging me to stare at his naked physique.

  My chin has never been higher. I might as well be watching the ceiling. All I can see is his face.

  When he reaches me, he whispers in a husky, dirty tone, “How’s the air up there?”

  I smirk. “It’s clean. Pure as the driven snow. Now, be a good boy and pick up your towel.”

  Then I turn around, and I swear all the breath nearly rushes out of me with relief. I need to get the hell out of the photo studio.

  I’ve had a crush on this man since he joined the team. I might be able to act like a robot thanks to extensive training, but I’m only human. A female human, and my blood is heated to Mercury levels right now.

  Must. Cool. Off.

  I head to the door in desperate search of a bucket of ice water to stick my whole head in, when my brain snags on something I forgot.

  I curse under my breath then square my shoulders, calling out to him, “Jones, I need a picture of you for the team’s Facebook page. As part of the body issue promos.”

  I swear I can feel his satisfied Cheshire cat grin forming behind me.

  “You want me in the full monty, too?”

  “Put the towel on, jaybird. I’m not posting a nude photo, and I’m not scooping Sporting World and showing you holding a ball. Just a simple shot of you here at the photo studio. So put the towel on, and smile for the fans who love you.”

  “If you insist.”

  I count to ten, since Lord knows he’ll drag out the time it takes to sling a towel around his waist. Then, five more seconds for good measure.

  I turn around, and he’s decent. I raise my phone, and he preens for the camera, doing walk-like-an-Egyptian poses.

  He’s such a clown, I can’t help but crack up. “You’re a certified goofball,” I say, laughing.

  “Just trying to entertain the crowd.”

  “Your crowd of one.”

  “And that one deserves a great show,” he says, then flashes me a grin. The brightest, most winning smile I’ve seen.

  When I post it to our feed later, I know hearts will melt and panties will fly off tonight.

  But not mine.

  They definitely won’t be mine.
>
  3

  Jones

  I have other hobbies besides needling Jillian with nudity. For instance, I enjoy embroidery, I really dig knitting, and I love collecting stamps.

  Just kidding.

  I have nothing against those hobbies, but the things I’d enjoy most in the off-season are all the activities I can’t do. Mountain biking? No way. Paintball. Hell no. That could lead to one hell of an NFI—non-football injury—and I know some serious nimrods who have earned complete and absolute dipshit status from firing off pellets of paint and pulling Achilles tendons in the process.

  And how about the idiots who ride ATVs over dirt hills, only to crash, crack a fibula, and end up on the injured reserve? No, thank you.

  Knock on wood, I’ve lived a mostly injury-free life for the last five years in pro ball, and I intend to keep it that way. I’ve only missed two games, and both were due to minor muscle strains.

  Durable is my middle name.

  That’s why, since today I’m not playing the one sport that’s allowed—golf—I’m parked next to my big brother in my spacious kitchen, my dog, Cletus, in my lap. The camera is rolling, and there are two glasses of beer on the island counter in front of us.

  Yeah, we drink and spit for our hobby. Not Cletus, though. Water all the way for the little guy.

  Trevor raises a glass of brew and adopts an adventurer’s tone. “I found this delicious brew while trekking through Nepal.”

  “Is that so?” I arch a skeptical brow as he waxes on, spinning an apocryphal tale of climbing through the mountains to come across an enclave of Sherpas crafting brews.

  I scratch my chin. “And you brought it all the way across the world to me? Wow. You must really love me.”

  “Only the finest for my little brother.”

  “Aren’t you so damn sweet?” I raise the glass, take a sip, let it swirl around on my tongue, and then spit it in the bucket we nicknamed Pliny for his favorite beer. But this isn’t just a spit for show. This beer is nasty.

  “That tastes like ass,” I declare, crinkling my nose. Cletus raises his chin, giving me a curious stare with big brown eyes that are two sizes too large for his tiny head. He’s a little mutt—a little Chihuahua, a little Min Pin, a little dachshund, a little trouble.

  Trevor rolls his eyes. “Why do you say that? Have you actually tasted ass?”

  I crack up. “Can you even say ass on your show?”

  “It’s the In-ter-net. We can say anything.” He taps the glass. “So, why would you say this marvelous beer tastes like a donkey’s heinie?”

  “Did I say donkey?”

  “Naturally, I assumed you meant a jackass’s ass. My bad.”

  “Look,” I say, laying out my beer assessment like we do every week for his show. Our banter is off-the-cuff, of-the-moment. “It stinks like a sunflower, and it tastes as if it’s been sitting all day in the heat of the swamp. I believe that officially makes it swamp-ass swill.”

  Trevor nods as if he’s reluctantly accepting my answer. “Fair enough. But wait. I have more.” He gestures like some sort of magician as he reaches below the counter for another brew or two. “What other beauties have I brought today for sampling?”

  Yeah, he’s a little over the top. It’s part of his shtick. The oldest of the four of us, Trevor is a former brewmaster who now hosts a popular online video series about tasting beer. He’s a bona fide beer expert, and besides being a pro baller, that’s about the coolest job you can have. He has a more serious video show, too, a taste-testing one, that’s beloved by beer experts and beer lovers alike. This is the one we do for fun, where we goof off. Both shows make bank, though, since he’s a genius when it comes to business. He knows all the ins and outs of turning his passion into a money-maker, thanks to a degree in finance.

  After we test a few more beers, spitting them all out in the bucket, Trevor flashes a smile at the camera. “That’s all in today’s edition of Two Bros Who Like Brew. I’d like to thank our regular color commentator, my one and only little brother. Jones, as always, your opinions are born of immense depth and great knowledge of the field of beer. Truly, your insight astounds me.”

  I point at him as Cletus yawns in my lap. “As does yours when it comes to football. Like the time you told me how I should run almost out of bounds then back in to catch a forty-five-yard pass from Cooper Armstrong while avoiding defensive coverage.” I shake my head in amusement at that ridiculous bit of Monday-morning quarterbacking from him.

  “Ouch. He questions my knowledge of the game, folks. You witnessed it firsthand.”

  We say goodbye, then he signs off and hits the stop button on his digital camera.

  “More than one million views of the last episode. Damn, I am so funny.” He blows on his fingers, too hot to handle. Cletus yaps at him. “Even your dog agrees with me.”

  “I’m pretty sure that was a bark of disagreement. Right, little dude?” I look at Cletus, who tilts his head to the side, clearly a yes. “All right, you’re a good boy.”

  I set him down, reach for a tiny biscuit, and ask him to spin. My brown and white ten-pound dog executes three perfect circles, so I give him the treat. Cletus has won awards in dog agility trials because he’s so fucking awesome he blows all the competition away. His jumps are magnificent, and his pole-weaving is a thing of beauty. Natch, I taught him everything he knows.

  He rushes off with his treat, squirreling it away in one of his many dog beds. He has a couple in every room, but I swear he’s not spoiled.

  I stand to my full height. Trevor looks up at me, shaking his head. “Seriously. Are you ever going to find your real dad?”

  It’s a running joke.

  I’m seven inches taller than Trevor. One of the tallest receivers in the NFL at six feet, five inches, I don’t fit into my family. No one else comes even close to six-foot, not our other brother, David, and not our dad. My sister, Sandy, is a foot shorter, and our mom is the shortest of all, a little less than five four.

  I laugh. “What can I say? I’m a freak of nature.”

  “Freak is right.” Trevor rubs his hands together then adopts a more serious expression. “Thanks again for doing my show with me.”

  I smack his shoulder. “You know I love it. You don’t have to thank me.”

  “I know, but I appreciate your time. You’re in demand.”

  I scoff. “You’re family. There’s no pressure on my time from you. I’m just glad you’re back in town,” I say, since he used to be based in New York.

  “Me, too. Also, you are in demand. Speaking of, are you ready for tomorrow? Time to roll up our sleeves and plan your next steps with the new agent.”

  I groan and scrub a hand over my jaw. “I hate that word. Agent basically means thief.”

  Trevor pats my shoulder and nods sympathetically. “Yeah, but Ford is one of the good ones. He’s not going to screw you out of your money.”

  I scoff. “They all do, don’t they?”

  “Not all of them.” He tips his forehead to the door. “I’ll swing by in the morning, and we’ll talk to him on the course.”

  I might have made some questionable choices. I might have partied too hard and too long. But I never screwed anyone who didn’t want it.

  Can’t say the same for my old agent.

  4

  Jillian

  I’m not lacking in confidence. But this crush? C’mon. I’m a smart girl. I know better.

  Guys like Jones don’t date girls like me.

  And by girls like me, I don’t just mean Asian girls. Though I do.

  But mostly, I mean girls with serious jobs. I’m the director of publicity for the team. That’s not what Jones is looking for in his arm candy of choice.

  Jones Beckett has dated go-go dancers, cheerleaders, and models, as well as a soccer star and an actress best known for baring all. He doesn’t date girls with office jobs who aspire to have a VP after their name. He dates girls who are vice presidents of hot racks, executives in charge of the l
ap dance, and heads of the department of perfect tits and ass.

  He’s been photographed with one beautiful babe after another.

  But every now and then, the ladies photograph him. Like the morning after the team’s Super Bowl win two years ago. That’s when a buxom blonde named Chelsea tweeted a selfie with Jones sleeping in her bed. Her face in the frame with our snoozing star receiver, she captioned the pic so cleverly with her newly acquired knowledge: “It’s true what they say about a size of a man’s hands.”

  Yep. Our player had become more famous for swiping right than for his game-winning touchdown pass.

  I wouldn’t call it a PR disaster, because what single pro baller doesn’t want to celebrate his Super Bowl win in that kind of biblical fashion? But it became a feeding frenzy for the media outlets, hounding us for details on Chelsea. Who was this woman who had Jones Beckett in her bed?

  SHE WAS A WOMAN ON TINDER.

  That’s it. That’s all.

  The cat was out of the bag. Jones used Tinder. Whoop-de-doo. That was how he became the poster boy for the hookup app for a few months. That is reason #1089 why I don’t take my unrequited crush on him seriously. For starters, I’m one in a long line of women who have a crush on him.

  Second, Jones isn’t just a player. He’s a playa.

  That’s why a crush is a crush is only a crush.

  Besides, even if I were to let myself entertain it more—which I won’t—all I have to do is remind myself that none of the girls he’s dated look like me. They look like they are from California, Texas, Mississippi.

  Blonde. Blue-eyed. All-American.

  I’m from here, but my blood comes from China. My very American, very Californian parents adopted me from the city of Wuhan in the province of Hubei when I was nine months old. So, while I’m 100 percent Cali girl, I also have eyes a little narrower, lashes a lot straighter, and hair that can’t be any color but black.

  In any case, I’m better off devoting my dating energy on guys more like me—men with jobs in buildings rather than ballparks. Truth be told, though, it’s been a year since I dated anyone seriously. My job is my focus. I love it madly, and that’s why I don’t mind showing up at the office at seven thirty on most mornings, like I do several days after the shoot.