Most Likely To Score Read online

  Most Likely To Score

  Lauren Blakely

  Contents

  Copyright

  Also By Lauren Blakely

  About Most Likely To Score

  Prologue

  1. Jones

  2. Jillian

  3. Jones

  4. Jillian

  5. Jones

  6. Jillian

  7. Jones

  8. Jillian

  9. Jones

  10. Jillian

  11. Jones

  12. Jillian

  13. Jones

  14. Jillian

  15. Jones

  16. Jillian

  17. Jones

  18. Jones

  19. Jillian

  20. Jillian

  21. Jones

  22. Jillian

  23. Jones

  24. Jillian

  25. Jones

  26. Jones

  27. Jillian

  28. Jones

  29. Jillian

  30. Jones

  31. Jillian

  32. Jones

  33. Jillian

  34. Jones

  Epilogue

  Another epilogue

  Also by Lauren Blakely

  Acknowledgments

  Contact

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2018 by Lauren Blakely

  LaurenBlakely.com

  Cover Design by © Helen Williams

  Photo: Wander Aguiar

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. This ebook is licensed for your personal use only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Also By Lauren Blakely

  Big Rock Series

  Big Rock

  Mister O

  Well Hung

  Full Package

  Joy Ride

  Hard Wood

  One Love Series dual-POV Standalones

  The Sexy One

  The Only One

  The Hot One

  Standalones

  The Knocked Up Plan

  Most Valuable Playboy

  Stud Finder

  The V Card

  Most Likely to Score

  Wanderlust (February 2018)

  Come As You Are (April 2018)

  Part-Time Lover (June 2018)

  The Real Deal (Summer 2018)

  Far Too Tempting

  21 Stolen Kisses

  Playing With Her Heart

  Out of Bounds

  The Caught Up in Love Series

  Caught Up In Us

  Pretending He’s Mine

  Trophy Husband

  Stars in Their Eyes

  The No Regrets Series

  The Thrill of It

  The Start of Us

  Every Second With You

  The Seductive Nights Series

  First Night (Julia and Clay, prequel novella)

  Night After Night (Julia and Clay, book one)

  After This Night (Julia and Clay, book two)

  One More Night (Julia and Clay, book three)

  A Wildly Seductive Night (Julia and Clay novella, book 3.5)

  The Joy Delivered Duet

  Nights With Him (A standalone novel about Michelle and Jack)

  Forbidden Nights (A standalone novel about Nate and Casey)

  The Sinful Nights Series

  Sweet Sinful Nights

  Sinful Desire

  Sinful Longing

  Sinful Love

  The Fighting Fire Series

  Burn For Me (Smith and Jamie)

  Melt for Him (Megan and Becker)

  Consumed By You (Travis and Cara)

  The Jewel Series

  A two-book sexy contemporary romance series

  The Sapphire Affair

  The Sapphire Heist

  About Most Likely To Score

  It should have been a simple play…

  She needed a football player to step up and be the star for a charity calendar. I needed a sharp and savvy publicist to manage a brand-new sponsorship deal. I scratched her back. She scratched mine. And oh hell, did Jillian ever drag her nails down my back on one hell of a hot night. Okay fine, it was several hot nights on the road.

  Now we’re back in town and it’s time to set the play clock back to when we were simply player and publicist. Given the way the last few years have gone, I can’t risk this deal, so it’s hands off for us once again. Trouble is, I want more than than just another night with her.

  What’s a guy to do when he’s always been most likely to score, but the woman he’s falling for is just out of bounds?

  I don’t date players. And I definitely don’t sleep with players. And I absolutely don’t fall for a certain player when I get to know him and learn he’s more than just sexy — he’s clever, funny and has a heart as big as his . .. well, you get my drift.

  But my job is at stake, and I can’t afford to lose that as well as my heart. The problem is, I think I’ve already lost that game.

  What’s a girl to do when the clock is running out, but the man she’s falling for is off limits?

  Prologue

  Jones

  I can lay claim to some pretty impressive stats, and for the last few years as a star receiver for a winning NFL team I have, but my favorite one to share is this—ten and three-quarter inches.

  Pretty big, huh?

  You don’t get into the double digits too often.

  That’s nearly as long as a football.

  And that makes me a one-of-a-kind guy.

  C’mon.

  I’m talking about my hands.

  And yes, other parts are close to a foot long, too.

  But they don’t call me The Hands for nothing. These hands have won championships. These hands have caught circus catches in the biggest games. These hands are a beautiful target for game-winning passes. I know exactly what to do with these hands.

  Especially when it comes to enjoying the soft, sweet flesh of a woman. A touch here, a touch there, and I can have her melting beneath me. They’re a multi-purpose asset, and these hands—and other parts—have come out to score quite often after hours. There’s no better way to enjoy a career as a pro baller, as far as I’m concerned.

  Except when it comes time to clean up my act.

  Turn over a new leaf. Start fresh. Remake myself into a good, upstanding citizen and kick those party-boy ways to the curb. Fine, I can do that. I can absolutely do that.

  And hell, do I ever need to after some of the shit I’ve had to deal with in the last few years.

  But a little help would be nice, and there’s only one person I can turn to. One luscious, delicious, fantastic person. None other than the woman I’ve been lusting after for years.

  Damn shame we’re
going to be spending so much time in close quarters in the next few weeks, especially since everything needs to remain hands-off.

  That is, until it doesn’t . . .

  1

  Jones

  I’m buck naked.

  I often am.

  I’m not an exhibitionist. I simply find I don’t have a need for clothes most of the time, unless I’m on the field or at a public appearance. Obviously.

  Pretty sure I was one of those naked kids. You know the type. Runs around in the sprinkler in his backyard in the buff. Streaks down the hallway with nothing on. Oh wait, that was me in college, too, and I did that stunt on multiple occasions. So often in fact, I was nicknamed Flash. I was fast. Still am. Like a motherfucking silver bullet.

  Right now, I’m all in with the birthday suit attire, the costume for the annual Sporting World body issue.

  Okay, perhaps I’m exaggerating. I do have one thing on—my Adam’s fig leaf comes in the form of my hands holding a strategically-placed football to cover the goods.

  The pigskin is doing its part to make this photo printable in the magazine, though all the shots of star athletes in this issue are in the nude. A tennis player will lob a ball, the racket covering her breasts and her lunge obscuring other not-safe-for-work parts. A swimmer will glide through crystal waters, the angle ensuring it’s not a triple-X centerfold shot.

  The photographer with the ponytail and lip piercing snaps pictures of me and asks for a smile.

  I oblige.

  “Love it,” Christine says emphatically, her lips and that metal hoop in the bottom one the only parts of her face visible since the lens covers the rest. “How about a little tough-guy look now?”

  Because tough guys hold footballs in front of their junk.

  “This is my best badass pose,” I say, narrowing my eyes and staring at the camera like I’d stare at the secondary of the Miami Mavericks.

  “Oh yes, more of that, right, Jillian?” Christine shouts to the other person here in the studio with us.

  That person is Jillian, and she hasn’t looked my way since I strolled in here and dropped my drawers. Damn shame.

  From her spot leaning against the far wall, the team publicist answers in a crisp, professional tone I know well. “Exactly. We love his tough-guy face.”

  She doesn’t even look up from her phone.

  I keep working it for Christine, doing my best to make sure my blue eyes will melt whoever is looking at the picture when the magazine hits newsstands and Internet browsers in another few weeks.

  It’s an evergreen kind of issue, since the body edition is one of the most popular. Gee, I wonder why. I’ve no doubt this shot of me with a football for my skivvies will quickly surpass the previous most-searched-for image of yours truly—the game-winning catch I made in the end zone in the Super Bowl two years ago.

  But, to be fair, there’s another shot of me that’s searched for maybe a tiny bit more. I like to pretend that shot doesn’t exist.

  “The camera loves you,” Christine croons as the snap, snap, snap of the lens keeps the rhythm.

  “The feeling is entirely mutual,” I say, pursing my lips in an over-the-top kiss.

  Christine laughs. “You are my favorite ham in all of sports, Jones. That’ll be a perfect outtake for our website.”

  “That’s a brilliant idea,” Jillian chimes in. “Make sure to send me a copy for social, please.”

  “Absolutely,” Christine answers.

  I sneak a peek at the dark-haired woman by the wall, that silky curtain of sleekness framing her face as she smiles a bright, buoyant, outgoing grin at the photographer then drops her head back down.

  Damn.

  Jillian Moore is one tough nut to crack.

  I’m nearly naked in front of her, and she hasn’t once looked my way.

  As the woman behind the lens shoots another photo with my favorite ball covering my favorite balls, Jillian doesn’t even spare another glance.

  I’m going to need a whole new playbook to get this woman’s attention.

  2

  Jillian

  I won’t look down.

  I repeat my mantra over and over, till it’s branded on my brain.

  This might very well be my biggest challenge, and I mastered the skill of eyes up many years ago.

  But now? As I stand in the corner of the photo studio, I’m being tested to my limits.

  I’m dying here. Simply dying.

  The temptation to ogle Jones is overwhelming, and if there was ever a time to write myself a permission slip to stare, now would be it. An excuse, if you will. For a second or two. That’s all.

  The man is posing, for crying out loud. He’s the center of attention. The lights shine on his statue-of-David physique. Michelangelo would chomp at the bit to sculpt him—carved abs with definition so fine you could scrub your sheets on his washboard, arms that could lift a woman easily and carry her up a flight of stairs before he took her, powerful thighs that suggest unparalleled stamina, and an ass that defies gravity.

  I know because I’ve looked at his photos on many occasions. In the office. Out of the office. On my phone. On the computer.

  In every freaking magazine the guy’s been in.

  It’s my job to be aware of the press the players generate.

  But it’s not my job to check out his photos after hours; however, I partake of that little hobby regularly. He gives my search bar quite a workout.

  Still, I won’t let myself stare at him in person, not in his current state of undress. My tongue would imitate a cartoon character’s and slam to the floor.

  If I gawk at him, I’ll start crossing lines.

  Lines I’ve mastered as a publicist for an NFL team.

  It’s something my mentor taught me when I began as an intern at the Renegades seven years ago, straight out of college. Lily Eckles escorted me through the locker room my first day on the job and said, “The best piece of advice I can give you is this: don’t ever look down.”

  I’d furrowed my brow, trying to understand what she meant. Was it some wise, old adage, perhaps an inspirational saying about reaching for the stars?

  When she opened the door to the locker room, the true meaning hit me.

  Everywhere, there were dicks.

  It was a parade of appendages and swinging parts, sticks and balls as far as the eye could see.

  The truth of pro ballers is simple—they let it all hang out all the time, and they love it.

  So much so that the running joke among the female reporters who cover the team is that with the amount of swagger going on in the locker room when ladies are present, the TV channels should all be renamed the C&B networks.

  But when you work with men who train their bodies for hours a day, and then use those same physiques to win championships, you can’t be a woman who ogles them in the locker room.

  Can you say tacky, trashy, and gauche?

  It’s not easy, but after all these years with the Renegades, I’ve learned how to handle the locker room games.

  The guys will drop pens.

  The guys will drop bandages.

  The guys will drop trou.

  Astonishingly enough, there’s never a need to pick up a pen, a bandage, or a players’ pair of pants for them, but they’ll ask. Oh yes, will they test anyone with a pair of breasts.

  Many women fail.

  I’ve witnessed this initiation of every female reporter who’s set foot in the locker room on my watch. Last year, a new gal from an online outlet let her big eyes stray across the entire offensive line. Not only did she get an eyeful of skin and meat, each of the three-hundred-pound-plus linemen did a little dance and shimmy for her. Her face turned beet red, and the next time she appeared in the locker room, all the guys went full synchronized monty, singing, “Take it all off.”

  She laughed and tried her best to interview them.

  But their answers were straight out of the bullshit handbook and became even more ridiculous the more she
giggled as they talked. She never earned another assignment to cover the team. They didn’t take her seriously after she checked them out.

  I love my job, I want to be respected, and I absolutely want to be taken seriously.

  That’s why I won’t even risk looking at Jones’s ridiculous body, not now from my spot against the wall in the studio, and not even when the photographer, who I know well from having worked on tons of Sporting World spreads with her, lowers her camera and calls me over. “Come see these shots, Jillian. Pretty sure they’re the definition of cover-worthy.”

  That piques my interest. There are never any guarantees which athlete will make it from the pages all the way to the cover, and with a dozen elite stars from all sorts of sports tapped for the shoot, the odds are slim. But the chance to have one of my guys on the cover would be quite a coup for the team. For me, too, since I pitched him for the issue. Not only does he have the body, he has the personality to shine through.

  I join her and peer at the back of her Nikon as she toggles through shot after shot of the sexiest man I’ve ever seen. My mouth goes dry. A pulse of heat races down my body as I ogle him in the viewfinder. Fine, I’m not unbiased, but I dare anyone to disagree that he’s cover-worthy.

  “Are any decent? Or do you think we need to shoot the whole round again on account of me being so unphotogenic?” Jones calls out, that deep, rumbly voice tingling over my skin.

  “That’s true. You really do take awful pictures,” I say drily, since he knows he takes nothing of the sort.

  “That’s what I figured. They’re all hideous, no doubt.”

  I glance at Christine. “You can find a way to Photoshop these and make him look decent, right? Maybe halfway normal?” I ask, a desperate plea in my voice.

  Christine laughs. “I’ll certainly do my best, but I can’t promise anything. I’m not a miracle worker.” She winks in his direction, making sure he knows we’re kidding.