Most Likely To Score

by Lauren Blakely

  Here, even at seven in the evening, the Miami coastline is a brochure for bikinis and stylish trunks, suntan oil and toned muscles. Gentle waves lap the shore, and sleek white boats glide across the water. I can’t deny that the view is quite lovely as I walk along the coastline, returning work calls to the West Coast, making sure I’m on top of my job.

  My last call is with my boss.

  “I’m going to need a bigger fan in my office,” Lily declares as we chat.

  I’m not really sure how that’s an agenda item, but she’s in charge, so I go with it. “Why’s that?”

  “Because these pictures of Jones Beckett are hawt, as in H-A-W-T. I’m looking at the calendar drafts so far, and I might be pregnant from them.”

  Cracking up, I manage to answer, “Be sure to take pre-natal vitamins, then.”

  “Don’t worry. I have an appointment tomorrow with the OB because, holy smokes, the May photo might be giving me twins.”

  I smile. “That’s the one of him and the greyhound mix. He was so lovey with this dog that had been abused, and I nearly melted watching the pooch warm up to him.”

  “Good thing you handled this shoot. I might have been tempted to break my golden rule of no player relations had I gone along.”

  No player relations—that’s a good, solid rule, and I pat myself on the back since I didn’t break it, either. Falling asleep in bed clearly doesn’t count. “Let’s hope men and women buy it in droves. I’ve already started the publicity for it, teasing fans that it’s coming.”

  “And the early buzz is excellent. By the way, how is everything going with Paleo Pet? Even though it’s not part of your regular assignment with the team, I think it will definitely look good when you talk to the general manager for the promotion.”

  “You do?” I hadn’t considered that aspect of the deal, to tell the truth. I said yes because I wanted to be helpful, and because I knew I’d learn new and useful skills. But if it gives me a leg up, that would be a nice bonus.

  “Absolutely. It shows everything you’re capable of doing in terms of massaging, presenting, and turning around a reputation. I’ve been doing some monitoring of what the public thinks of Jones and it’s already on the uptick,” Lily tells me, and I pump a fist. “And when it’s time for you to interview for the promotion in September, I’ll prep you for it. I want you to nail it.”

  And I want to nail Jones.

  Whoa. Where did that thought come from? Oh, right. My primal, animal brain. Time to reset. “Thank you so much, Lily. I appreciate everything you’ve done.”

  When we hang up, I’m reminded that this is what I want, and this is the next step in my career. I’ve been lucky enough to move up quickly in the job of my dreams. Though my mother would say it’s not luck, it’s focus, and she taught me that. While my father and I came first with her, she also balanced work and family with uncommon grace. She was home for me every day after school, but when I was in class she gave her all to her job. Every morning when she left for her psychology practice, she was energized. She liked to say her client sessions were her own form of caffeine. “Find something you’re passionate about. Nurture it. Cherish it, and watch it grow. But always tend to it,” she told me.

  When she and my dad gave me the cherry earrings after I nabbed the Renegades job, she said, “A reminder to keep making your own luck.”

  That’s what I’ve tried to do, by working hard, by giving my best every day.

  That’s one of the reasons I call my dad next—to get him up to speed on the latest at work and to ask for his advice in handling a thorny email I received from a reporter inquiring about training camp coverage. My dad offers his best tips for prickly journalists, and I thank him as a seagull swoops past me, hunting for french fries on the nearby picnic tables.

  “And how is that young man you’re smitten with?” my dad asks after we finish our work conversation.

  “I’m not smitten with him.”

  He chuckles. “You always did make me laugh. Next thing you’ll be telling me he doesn’t fancy you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. He doesn’t like me like that.”

  “Denial is so entertaining. Can you do more of it? I find it amusing.”

  I snort-laugh but hold my ground. “Dad. Stop.”

  “Oh, please. Baby pictures? Who asks to see baby pictures?”

  I furrow my brow as my feet sink into the soft sand. “Everyone? Isn’t that normal, to want to look at baby photos?”

  “Nope. A man who is keen on a woman wants to see baby pictures. I know because I used that same trick with your mother back when I was courting her.”

  I weave around a group of women taking selfies in their microscopic bikinis. “But he’s not courting me,” I point out. “And just because I might have told you once that I thought he had a pretty face doesn’t mean anything will happen.”

  “Want to know what I’m doing right now?” he asks in a leading tone.

  “What are you doing?” I ask carefully, though I know he’s setting me up for something. I duck out of the way of a volleyball whizzing past me. A fit, dark-haired guy in a painted-on pair of yellow swim trunks jogs after it, winking at me as he runs.

  “Sitting at the desk that the man who is keen on my daughter made for me,” my dad declares, sounding thoroughly satisfied with his pronouncement.

  I shake my head, amused at my dad’s persistence. No wonder he was a top journalist in his day. He’s a dog with a bone. But I’m not a queen of spin for nothing. “He helped out. It was that simple. Nothing more to it.”

  My dad scoffs. “He helped out because he’s a nice guy. I’ll give you that.” He clears his throat. “But he’s a nice guy who happens to be quite fond of you. Mark my words. Sooner or later, Jones Beckett is going to make his intentions clear.”

  I swallow, and a spray of nerves hits me in the face. Or maybe it’s the water from a water gun. Oh yeah, that’s it. Yellow Swim Trunks Dude is now spraying his buddy with an orange Nerf gun, and I’m collateral damage in the battle. I wipe the drops from my cheek as Swim Trunks mouths so sorry, but he’s smiling as he says it.

  “I love you, Dad. I’ll look into having you checked into the sanitarium soon,” I say, and I put the conversation inside a box then stuff it in a far corner of my brain.

  But after I hang up, some hopeful part of me wonders if there’s a chance my father is correct. Does Jones have a thing for me? That doesn’t compute. But as I search for the holes in my dad’s logic, my mind flashes to all the times Jones has touched me—from his arm around me as we walked along the craggy shores of Stinson Beach, to his fingers laced through mine in the elevator, to his body curled around me in bed.

  Do those moments mean Jones is keen on me?

  I flip through them once more, hunting for clues. Even though I’ve felt the outline of his erection against my rear, that’s not the moment I keep returning to. It’s the feel of his hand on my hair in the car while I slept in his lap. He stroked my hair. Was that romantic?

  I plop down on the beach, reflecting on what I’d do if he made his intentions clear. I’d say no. Of course I’d say no. Wouldn’t I?

  I nod to myself, answering my own question.

  I’d say, “Thank you very much, but it’s a bad idea to go on a date with you, no matter how sweet and kind and good with animals and thoughtful you are, and no matter how helpful you are with my dad, or how much I love all our conversations.”

  Groaning in frustration, I run my hands through my hair, my head falling against my knees. I wish I didn’t like him so damn much.

  But no matter how deep my affection tunnels, this is an exercise in futility.

  He won’t ever say any of those things.

  But he touched your hair so tenderly.

  A whoosh runs through my body, like a ribbon of desire unspooling from head to toe. Is it possible that he’s into me and I’ve been denying it? Have the signs been there all along, and I’ve never let myself see them?

  I
can’t rely on a father’s opinion. I could ask Andre, but he doesn’t know Jones.

  There is only one person to turn to. I fire off a text to Katie.

  Jillian: Be brutally honest. No smoke up my skirt, hear me?

  Katie: Yes, you can buy me tickets to the new Adele show, and it will, in fact, make me love you more.

  Jillian: Oh good, I was worried you’d be annoyed if I snagged first-row seats. Same apply to Ed Sheeran, too?

  Katie: Do not ever joke about Ed Sheeran tickets. If you had them and kept them from me, I would divorce you.

  Jillian: Yes, your love for him runs deeper than your love for me. As it should. :)

  Katie: As it clearly should. Also, I love you madly and more than Ed—just don’t tell him since I don’t want the future father of my children to know you outrank him. But what do you really want me to be brutally honest about?

  Jillian: Did you mean it when you said you thought there was something up with Jones?

  Katie: How can I make this clear??? YES! YES! YES! Also, does that mean something is happening? I NEED DETAILS NOW!

  Jillian: No. Nothing at all. Just thinking . . .

  Katie: You’re thinking about it? About him? About taking him for a ride around the block? For the record, I’m at my desk, officially squealing as I stop my review of IMPORTANT THINGS like the length of skirts for the spring. Because this is FAR MORE INTERESTING.

  Jillian: Nothing will happen. There are all sorts of HUGE obstacles. Also, care to spill on the upcoming length of hemlines?

  Katie: There is always a way around obstacles. There’s always another path. Haven’t you learned anything watching football? If Jones pulled off that crazy catch where he went nearly horizontal, his hands inches from the turf in that playoff game, you can pull off some equally big play. Also . . . short. Very, very short.

  A smile spreads as I recall that play. I see it in slow motion, him leaping, grabbing, diving, then grabbing the ball as it careens toward the ground. It was a heart-stopping catch.

  Jillian: Good to know regarding skirts. I’ll stick to pants, then.

  Katie: Pants, skirts—whatever you wear, Jones will check you out. I told you he was looking at you!

  Jillian: But isn’t that just what he does? Watch people? He’s like a hawk. That’s his job.

  Katie: He looks at you because he likes looking at you. Same reason you look at him.

  My chest swoops like a pirate boat ride at an amusement park. Up, down, around.

  I stand, brushing sand off my tank dress as I fire off a goodbye text. I turn to head to the poolside entrance to the hotel, when the guy in the yellow trunks jogs over to me, flashes a gleaming white set of teeth, and says, “Hi, I’m Marcus. Want to have a drink with me?”

  Boldness and confidence are quite appealing. So is his toned, trim body and his fantastic grin. He’s probably twenty-two, and even though it’s nice to be hit on by someone six years younger than me, I say, “Thank you so much, but I’m here for work.”

  “Can’t fault a guy for trying,” he says with a huge smile as he jogs backward, his arms out wide.

  No, I can’t fault him at all.

  I float a little bit to my room, buoyed by the date request, as well as by Katie’s insistent proclamation.

  But then, on the elevator ride up, reality hits me. If Jones was going to make his intentions clear, he’d do what Marcus did.

  Ask me out.

  He never has, so I don’t need to waste time pondering what-if scenarios.

  Jones and I aren’t a scenario. We aren’t a thing, and the way we look at each other is meaningless.

  In fact, looking at him is exactly what I try not to do the next morning at the photo shoot. Because I can’t let on that I think about this often. Too much is at stake, and the more I look at him, the more my stupid feelings cloud my brain.

  That’s why I resolve to keep everything light between us. That should be easy since he’s shirtless on the sand, posing with a long-haired dachshund.

  When we’re done with the shoot, Jones ambles over to me, stroking the wiener dog in his arms. “Want to pet my wiener?”

  Playfully, I wag a finger at him, doing my best to keep everything between us breezy. “There will be no wiener petting today.”

  He arches a brow. “But maybe tomorrow?”

  I look away, laughing. The laughter reminds me that we’ve always had a fun professional rapport, one where we freely tease each other. That’s the relationship I need to maintain. Sure, the idea of avoiding him at night during this trip has its appeal. But I’m a grown-up, and I can’t hide from a tough situation. It’ll be good for me to practice focusing solely on business with him.

  I meet his eyes. “Do you want to have dinner tonight? We can strategize next steps with Paleo Pet and how to tackle social as the marketing campaign rolls out, as well as review some of the calendar publicity.”

  See? That sounded so professional. Because it was. I can absolutely zero in on business and just business with the guy.

  “Um.” He makes that sound. That sound guys make before they turn you down. That groan of regret-but-not-regret. “I’m hanging out with some of the guys from the Miami Mavericks. Sorry.”

  My heart skitters to the sidewalk like a top spinning until it falters. I plaster on a smile, hiding my disappointment. “Oh, that’s great. Have fun.”

  As I leave, I believe he’s made his intentions clear after all. He has none for me.

  I scroll through my phone, find Andre’s name, and ask if he wants to have dinner poolside.

  He says yes.

  15

  Jones

  I slam the plastic ball across the net, watching defensive tackle Connor Washington dive for it on the sand, reaching as far as he can with the paddle.

  But he swings and misses.

  “Ah, too bad the little white ball eludes you,” I say, since that’s how we roll. I’ve never played a game of table tennis, Xbox, foosball, or golf with a fellow athlete where we didn’t trash-talk each other.

  “I wouldn’t dish it out so fast,” Connor warns, his dark eyes sparking with determination as he returns a punishing serve.

  He’s right. I miss it.

  I fucking miss it. The ball skids past me, hitting the beach.

  Because my mind is on Jillian.

  Again.

  It has been since I saw her at the pool, lounging in a luscious black triangle bikini, drinking a fruity drink, and laughing with a Henry Cavill look-alike.

  I’ve no clue who he is. And hell, I never gave much thought to her seeing other guys. Which is stupid as shit. Of course she dates. She’s gorgeous and funny and witty and generally awesome. She’s a catch.

  The white plastic orb screams in my direction, and I lunge to the right, smacking it hard. Connor returns it fiercely with a grunt. We trade off like that, back and forth, and the focus exiles Jillian from my mind.

  For a few minutes, until the game ends and I’ve lost. Connor’s teammate Malcolm steps up to the table, pointing his paddle at me. His thick beard points at me, too. “You keep that shitty play going all through the season and we will clean up against your sorry ass in the conference.”

  “I save all my best moves for the field. You watch out when the third Sunday of October rolls around.”

  Connor smacks Malcolm’s arm. “See that? He’s scared of us. He already knows when we’re playing so he can prepare to be whipped.”

  “Assholes.” I laugh. “I know the schedule because I like to be prepared to destroy my opponents.”

  They shake their heads in unison. “We will ping-pong your ass back to the West Coast,” Malcolm taunts.

  I raise my hands to the sky. “Why do I hang out with you clowns when I’m in town?”

  Malcolm makes his way around the table and taps his chest. “Because we’re fun. So fun, in fact, I say it’s time to ditch this Ping-Pong table. What do you say we hit the clubs?”

  I shake my head. “Early bedtime for me. No
more partying.”

  Malcolm lets out a dejected, dramatic sigh. “Man, are you serious? I know places where we can clean up like that.” He snaps his fingers.

  The offer is tempting. I wouldn’t mind a night out, some dancing, chatting up some women. But that’s not what I signed up for this year. That won’t suit the new image, or sit well with the new sponsors. That doesn’t sit well with me, either, because there is only one woman I want to chat up, and she’s off-limits.

  Connor holds up his index finger. “Training camp starts in one week. Then, no GFs, no bunnies, no girls stopping by for blowies.”

  Malcolm wiggles his eyebrows. “One night, JB. How can you resist?”

  Easily, actually.

  I tip my head toward the hotel. “I have a pillow calling my name and a movie to watch. Not to mention a brand-new contract with a pet food company as an incentive to keep squeaky clean.”

  “Nice,” Connor says, holding up his palm to high-five. I smack back.

  “Smart move. You need to keep that shit locked up. I’m going to unlock mine,” Malcolm says, and the ironic thing is, he can, because his deals are different. His biggest sponsor is a vodka brand. That doesn’t mean he can get roasted and show up on a YouTube compilation of blitzed athletes. The contrary. He doesn’t drink when he’s out, and he follows strict rules about where and when he dips his wick with women he meets at clubs. Those are the lines that suit him and his business partners.

  We wander across the sand toward the pool. The sun has fallen below the horizon, and night is settling in. I say goodbye to the guys and head through the pool area to go into the hotel. I spot Jillian in the shallow end, her elbows on the side of the pool, chatting with the Cavill dude.

  That unpleasant sensation stabs my chest again. My jaw clenches and my muscles tighten as jealousy crashes over me.