Most Likely To Score

by Lauren Blakely

  I roll my eyes. “No, asshole. He jumps and weaves through poles and climbs ladders like the badass dog he is. I taught him all that this summer, like the badass trainer I am.”

  “You have a secret skill, and you kept it from us.” Harlan runs a hand through his long hair. “I cannot wait to have a field day with this.”

  I hold up a finger. “If you have a field day with this, then I will steal all your clothes from your locker and leave you with nothing but a little pie-baking apron to wear after a game.”

  Harlan seems to consider that. “I would gladly wear an apron and nothing else. I’m not ashamed of my body or my baking skills.”

  “And we are now legally required to prank Harlan with an apron,” Rick declares, drumming his hands on the stand in front of us.

  “And yes, Cletus won the blue ribbon because he is smart and I am awesome. Case closed. I don’t brag about it because I just do it for fun. For a break from the game and all that stuff. I’m not trying to make a name as a dog agility dude or whatever.”

  Cooper holds up his fist for knocking. “And I thought the time you leapt ten feet in the air and nabbed a ball that was en route for interception was quite possibly one of your finest moments. But this might top it.”

  Ford clears his throat. “Gentlemen, I know I’ve interrupted a critical moment as the four of you debate important issues while warding off scurvy, but I need to speak to this man.”

  “Take him away,” Cooper shouts.

  Ford waves for me to join him. “We have business to discuss. And go get your T-shirt. It’s not the equipment manager’s job to pick it up.”

  I nod, oddly enjoying Ford’s directive. I like that the guy cares about little things, like not leaving clothes on the field.

  I trot to the shirt, grab it, and tug it on, then say goodbye to the guys as I leave the field with Ford. He gives me the down-low on the potential deal. I nod, taking it all in.

  “Call me later and let me know if you’re in. I have an idea I need to work on in the meantime to make this deal go swimmingly.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “What’s the idea?”

  “Don’t you worry about it. Let me take care of the details.”

  Cletus parks his little butt on the tiled floor, waiting as patiently as a dog possibly can. It’s one of those sits where he’s on edge but doing his best to be a good boy.

  I scoop some of the Paleo Pet food that’s supposedly made from ingredients Cletus would have captured in the wild ten thousand years ago if, you know, a ten-pound lap dog was capable of stalking deer or elk.

  “All right, buddy. Give me your best Top Chef verdict.” I rattle the silver bowl and set it on his blue place mat with a cartoon bone illustration on it.

  He chows down, finishing off his dish in less than forty seconds then giving me some serious puppy-dog eyes as he wags his tail.

  I scratch his chin. “You might as well just say may I have some more, please, the way you wolfed that down in mere seconds.”

  Let me be frank. Cletus doesn’t disdain a lot of food, being a dog and all. But he seems to dig this chow, so that works for me.

  I hold up my palm, and he lifts his paw in response. “High five.” Cocking his head to the side, he puts his tiny paw against mine, and I get such a kick out of the size disparity that I snap a shot and post it online, tagging it #helpinghands.

  I take him to the small backyard that’s a rarity in the city, and he runs through a few of his favorite obstacles on the mini course I set up. “Good boy,” I tell him as he races up a ramp then down the other side. Afterward, I leash him and we head through the hilly streets of our hood to burn off the rest of his energy.

  Along the way, I check my email. A note from Trevor about when he wants to shoot his show again. An email from my mom saying she can’t wait to see me when I visit for dinner soon. I spot a reply from Garrett Snow, the left tackle who tore his ACL.

  Recovery is taking longer than they all thought. But that’s just the way the cookie crumbles. Or the knee, I should say! Let’s grab a beer sometime? I’m in town.

  I heave a sigh as I write back with a Yes, let’s make a plan, and I’m sorry to hear.

  My mind trips back to the game last season when he was hit hard on a pass rush, landing wrong on his left knee. Trouble was, his injury was exacerbated in the worst way possible. I saw it in replays—I was the one who caught that pass. He was the one who went down in a pile, a reminder that the game is here today and gone tomorrow.

  That’s why I need to make the most of my opportunities. I dial Ford. “I have a verdict.”

  “I can’t wait. Give it to me.”

  “The food is Cletus-approved, so I guess that means I have a Paleo dog.”

  Ford hoots. “Excellent. That also means we have a sponsorship deal.”

  “Yes. We have a deal. I’m in,” I say, since the terms he shared earlier were good.

  “Fantastic. I’ll send the papers today, and you and Trevor can review and e-sign them.”

  “We’ll do it.”

  “Now listen, I told you I had an idea for the deal. Are you ready?”

  I nod. “I’m ready. Hit me.”

  “You know how Paleo Pet loved that shot of you on social the other day?”

  “Yep. That’s what got their attention, and that was Jillian’s idea.”

  “It’s like you can read my mind.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask as we stop at a light on Fillmore and wait for it to change. A woman with light blue hair walks past me and then snaps her head in my direction, perhaps recognizing me.

  She raises her phone, and it’s clear she’s taking a shot. I smile for the candid camera, Cletus waiting at my side.

  “What I mean is this: social media is everything these days. They found you on social, you’re doling out bits and pieces of the calendar on social. Your image is on social. And image is so key these days to sponsorships deals. Brands are cautious as hell. They’ve been burned by things athletes say and do. And since we want to keep you on the straight and narrow, I asked a certain someone to help out.”

  A strange feeling of dread courses through me when the light changes. I head into the crosswalk. “Who’s the someone?” I ask carefully, hoping he doesn’t say a name that starts with J.

  “Jillian.” He says it as if he’s Santa, delivering me a great and wonderful gift.

  My feet feel leaden. My shoulders sag. “And her job is what exactly?”

  “She said she’d help you with your social media. Make sure we keep you on the right path. The thing is, now that you’re getting on the sponsorship gravy train, we really can’t have you riding the gravy train of women. I know that’s one of the best parts of being a pro athlete, and I’m not asking you to keep your dick in your pants. I’m just asking you to keep it off social media. Can you do that for me? Be good, behave, keep up a wholesome image? Jillian knows PR, and she’s more than happy to help.”

  As I walk past a row of pastel-colored Victorian homes, I nod, a little heavily. His directive doesn’t bother me, per se, so I’m not entirely sure why I’m bummed. But I am. “I’ll be a good boy.”

  Though it feels a little bit like I’m a dog who doesn't come when called, and the only way to keep me in check is with a leash. Hell, maybe I am. Maybe I’ve been too bad, too naughty. Maybe I’ve been caught on the kitchen counter, eating the people food one too many times. There’s a part of me that’s a little irked, a bit irritated at what my reputation has come to. I never set out to be a party boy. Hell, I don’t even think I’m some sort of poster child for the wild NFL lifestyle. I’ve definitely reined it in over the last year or so. But I understand that perception sometimes dictates reality. A few bad pictures, a couple of inappropriate shots—along with a bad seed of an agent—and I’m tarnished.

  Ford is simply trying to untarnish me.

  I suppose it can’t hurt to do what he says.

  I suppose that also means it would look bad if I kept flirting with th
e woman who’s supposed to be helping me look like a good boy. Put aside the fact that she’s displayed zero interest in me—even if she were to suddenly, out of nowhere, be awed by my charming-as-a-Chihuahua-meets-a-golden-retriever self, would that be the brightest idea to let something happen?

  She’s going to be the behind-the-scenes director for my new image. If I’m trying to be the face of a brand for the first time in more than a year, I need to make sure I’m conducting all my business aboveboard.

  Which means I probably shouldn’t try to make Jillian my bedroom business.

  That’s why I’m bummed, since this new world order means no more cherry pies for Jillian. Time to turn down the flirting dial with her.

  But the next day when Jillian rings the bell, I’m not so sure I want to be a good boy. The way she looks in that pink dress makes me want to be very bad.

  10

  Jillian

  Standing on his porch, Jones looks me over from head to toe with those intense blue eyes, and my stomach flips like a traitorous creature.

  I set a hand on my belly, as if that will calm me down. But it’s ineffective, and I have to wonder if the guy does this on purpose—gives women those I’m-undressing-you eyes. Whether he knows the effect he has on us and he uses it for fun.

  Then, I want to smack my forehead, because of course he does.

  That’s why I’m doing the calendar with him. That’s why his agent asked me to help him out. Because he has an extraordinary effect on women, he’s a notorious flirt, and he’s too well-known for his antics. We need to make him known for other things.

  Like how he rescued that dog.

  Like how he loves his family.

  Like how he looks out for his friends.

  He raises an arm, resting his hand against the frame of his front door. “So,” he says, taking his time with the word, like he plans to play with it as a cat does an insect, “are you officially my PR person now?”

  A nervous laugh bursts from my throat. “I thought I’d always been your PR contact for the team.”

  He runs his hand through his hair, flashing a lopsided grin then a wink. “Sorry. I meant are you my personal PR person now?”

  That word zips through me like an electric charge. A light gust of wind blows my hair across my cheeks, and I tuck the strands behind my ear, grateful for the temporary distraction courtesy of San Francisco’s windy morning. I shiver lightly from the chill. “Yes, that seems to be the case, and I’m happy to do it.”

  He cocks his head to the side. “Are you like my babysitter?”

  My jaw drops. “What? No. No. No. That’s ridiculous. I’m not a babysitter.”

  He arches a brow. “A nanny?”

  I smirk. “Jones, I would hope you’ve outgrown the need for a nanny.”

  “That’s up for debate, it seems. But maybe you’re my governess?”

  I roll my eyes and gesture to the car at the curb. “I’m not your nanny, I’m not your babysitter, and I’m definitely not your governess. I’m here to help you create the best image possible. I can market, publicize, and help you manage putting the best foot forward,” I say, my tone earnest, my meaning important. “I believe in what I do. I know you’re a great guy, and I want the world to see what I’ve seen in the last couple days.”

  “Yeah?”

  “That’s why I said yes when Ford asked for my help. I’m not interested in being anyone’s au pair. I am very interested, though, in showing this city what good things our team does on and off the field. Including you.” I take a breath and try to read him. To understand what’s beneath the teasing. I think I know what it is. He wants a choice. “But if you don’t want me to help out, I’ll step back and we can stick to just the calendar. I told Ford I’d do this for your new deal, because I want to be the one to help you if you need it, and it’s the kind of help I can give. Since you signed the contract yesterday, and the folks at Paleo Pet are local, they want to stop by the shoot later today. Take some pictures, chat, and so on. I’m happy to be there by your side the whole time, making sure you’re comfortable with everything, and you’re represented in the best way possible. But if those aren’t your wishes, and if it isn’t what you need, then I’ll be hands-off.” I hold up my palms as if I’m backing away.

  In a heartbeat, he grabs my wrists. Possessively. A thrill rushes through me, like a drumbeat pulsing in my veins. I look away from him briefly. I can’t make eye contact when he does this, when he touches me. If I do, he’ll know. He’ll realize I’m just like all the other women who fling panties at him, who chase him down in bars, who line up at the players’ entrance to become his football floozy for the night. I won’t ever be someone’s football floozy, and I can’t let him see for a second that I want some of the same things those other women want from him. Him.

  “Don’t be hands-off,” he says, his voice soft. He runs a thumb over my wrist. “You have very nice hands.”

  I roll my eyes because it’s the only way I can hide that my stomach is flipping and flopping from that one gentle slide of his thumb on my skin.

  “And you have nice eyes that you roll at me as if I can’t tell you’re rolling them.”

  I turn my gaze back to him with a smirk that I quickly wipe away. “Do you want me to help you with your image? If you don’t, say the word, and I’ll respect it.”

  With his hands around my wrists, he stares into my eyes, and it’s unnerving. He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t look away. This must be how he is on the field, watching like a hawk, staring, studying, developing a plan in a split second. The man has such intensity behind those blue eyes.

  They’re darker than usual, then they seem to glitter. Turn playful, even. “Nah. I’m just feeling you out.”

  Feel me up instead.

  I shut my eyes momentarily, willing away the thought. This is how the man reels them in. He’s charming and funny and sweet, and so good-looking it hurts my chest sometimes. It’s dangerous how handsome he is and how much that affects me. I can’t let the way my body reacts to him sway me. We’re coworkers, and I have a job to do.

  I open my eyes, square my chest, and smile my best PR grin. “I’ll make sure it’s fun. I promise.”

  “Anything with you is fun.” Then his tone turns more serious, more earnest. “And listen, Jillian . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I really appreciate you wanting to work with me on this. I’m a lucky bastard to have someone like you helping me.”

  I wink. “Wait till you get my bill.”

  He flinches as if surprised by this news. “Yeah? So it’s a lot?”

  Given how many times he toys with me—hello, towel ploy—I can’t resist a little payback. “Oh, Ford didn’t tell you how much I cost?”

  “No, he didn’t mention it.”

  I purse my lips as if he’s going to be shocked at the number. “You want to know? You think you can handle it?”

  Parking his hands on his hips, he says, “I think I can handle it.” But I detect a few nerves still under his bravado, and they amuse me to no end.

  I draw a deep breath as if this will be tough for him to stomach. Then, I borrow a page from his playbook, lean in a little closer, and whisper, “It’s free.”

  He’s silent at first, then a smirk spreads across his face, and he shakes his head, amused. He slow claps. “Well played, Jillian. Well played, indeed.”

  I toss my hair over my shoulder. “By the way, that was for the Sporting World shoot when you thought I would pick up your towel and stare at your ass.”

  He pretends to peer at his butt. “It’s a nice ass.”

  “Why don’t we get that ass in the car and get out of town for the day?”

  “Let’s do it,” he says, and touches my shoulder. “But I did mean it. Thank you.”

  I smile, a huge, genuine grin. “You’re welcome.”

  As he shuts the door to his home and locks it, my phone beeps. “My father is calling,” I tell Jones, then say, “Hi, Dad,” into the phone.
>
  “Hey, sweet pea.”

  “What’s going on? I’m heading up your way right now,” I say as I walk down the steps.

  “You are?”

  “Yes, I have a photo shoot with one of the players in St. Helena later this afternoon, and then another one in the morning in Yountville, so I’ll be staying in wine country.”

  “And you aren’t going to come by and visit? I’m devastated.”

  “I just saw you last week for lunch. Sheesh, you’re demanding.”

  “Can I help it if I like seeing my little girl?”

  “Dad,” I chide as I reach the town car. “I’m not your little girl.”

  Jones smirks and grabs the handle, opening the back door. Thank you, I mouth.

  “You are, sweet pea, and always will be,” my dad says, as I settle into the black leather seat. “And for that, I suppose I’ll forgive you for not seeing me today.”

  Buckling my seat belt, I laugh. “I’ll come up next weekend again. And when the season starts soon, you’re coming to all the home games.”

  “Damn straight I am. I’m a Renegades fan for life.”

  “That’s the only kind of football fan to be,” I say, and Jones winks at me, giving a thumbs-up as he buckles into the seat next to mine. “So what are you up to today?”

  “I taught class this morning, and now I’m waiting for a new desk to be delivered. Do I know how to party or what?”

  “A new desk is clearly the definition of a fiesta,” I say as the driver pulls away from the curb.

  “When will you be in Napa? In case I feel a disturbance in the Force.”

  “It’s about an hour and twenty minutes.”

  “By my estimate, that gives you a full hour to snooze in the car.”

  Briefly, I glance away from Jones. “Dad, I only did that in cars when I was younger.”

  “I bet you fall asleep now,” he says, then his line goes quiet for a second. “Sweet pea, I need to go. That’s the delivery company. I’ll talk to you later.”

  After I end the call, Jones gives me an I’m waiting look. “What?”