Most Valuable Playboy
Most Valuable Playboy
Lauren Blakely
Contents
Copyright
Also By Lauren Blakely
About
Dedication
Author’s Note
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Epilogue
Another Epilogue
Also by Lauren Blakely
Acknowledgments
Contact
Copyright
Copyright © 2017 by Lauren Blakely
Cover Design by Helen Williams. Photography by Scott Hoover
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 contemporary romance 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, especially if you enjoy sexy, hilarious romance novels with alpha males. 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
Standalone Male-POV books
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
Most Likely to Score (January 2018)
Wanderlust (February 2018)
Come As You Are (April 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)
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
Hands down, my favorite thing in the world is to score. Touchdowns.
Don't let the fact that I'm the leading pick in the Most Valuable Playboy charity auction fool you. These days, I'm only a player on the field. I've kept my pants zipped all season long -- and it has been long -- because nothing's more important than leading my team to victory every week. Except maybe escaping from the team owner's recently-widowed and handsy-as-hell sister who's dead set on winning more than a date with me.
Enter Violet and a well-placed Hail Mary.
She's my best friend's sister with a smile as sweet as cherry pie and a mind that runs quicker than the 40-yard-dash. After Violet saves the day with the highest bid, I don't even give her a two-minute warning before I kiss her in front of the whole crowd and then announce that she's my girlfriend. Which would be fine except my agent tells me we've got to keep up the act while he's negotiating my contract. Violet takes one for the team and pretends to be mine, but our boyfriend-girlfriend scrimmage quickly turns into a full contact sport, and I want it to go into overtime. The problem is -- I've been riding the bench for years. How can a guy like me, who finally has a chance to prove his worth on the field, convince the girl she’s most valuable to his heart?
Dedication
Thank you to Gale for letting me use the name of your hair salon in this book! You’re a goddess, Gale!
Author’s Note
Since fan loyalties for sports teams can be strong, I thought it best to use made-up names for the teams in the NFL in this story. ☺ Enjoy!
Prologue
Always a bridesmaid.
No Action Armstrong.
Ball Cap Boy.
Mr. Clean.
The Unused Insurance Plan.
Oh wait. Here’s one more, a personal fave.
Best Butt in the NFL.
Those are just some of the nicknames I’ve been given in the last few years. They don’t bug me. Not one bit. They’ve all been true, especially the last one. You should see my ass. You can bounce a quarter off my cheeks.
Here’s the thing—when you spend the first three years of your career warming the bench for the best player in the league, you can’t get a chip on your shoulder. You have to stay sharp and be ready for that moment when you swap out a ball cap for a helmet and get your pants dirty.
My time has finally come this season, and so far, we’re winning.
But tonight isn’t about what happens between the opening kickoff and the end of the fourth quarter.
Tonight is about the one game I’ve always dominated.
For the last few years, I’ve been the highest ticket item in the players’ annual charity auction, and I can’t help enjoying that.
Because the guy I’ve backed up has been called a lot of things—a legend, the greatest ever, a titan of the game—but the one I most enjoy is “second-best-looking quarterback on the Renegades.”
Hey, I didn’t give him that name. The media did, deciding the dude who played second-string—me—had a prettier face. Before this season, I’d seen a grand total of 120 minutes of playing time in my first three years, but I’ve taken home the top honors in the charity auction, where some of the loveliest ladies come to bid on the players they want to take out for a night on the town.
Ah, the memories of those dates have warmed my heart, and other parts, on the sidelines when the games were dull. Evenings in limos, testing the strength of the leather backseat, nights in hotels that lasted way past dawn, mutually and blissfully ignoring the no physical contact between the winner and the player rule.
Yeah, I’ve enjoyed the fuck out of being paraded on stage in front of hundreds of women, their slender arms lifted in the air, raising their bids higher on me than all the other guys. It’s been my one chance to shine, even to stand out.
Those days are behind me, though, now that I’m finally leading the team down the field every single Sunday. I still expect to rake in top dollar for the charity I gladly support, but this time, I won’t be living it up and letting loose after hours. I have a reputation to protect, and a season on the line.
The trouble is, the woman who has her eyes on me at the Most Valuable Playboy charity auction wants my full enchilada, and it’s not on the menu anymore.
Guess that means it’s time to call an audible on the line of scrimmage.
1
My hair is sticking up.
In my defense, it’s always sticking up.
I have what’s known as permanent bed head. Which can be awesome, if I want to look like I just strolled out of a most excellent roll in the hay, complete with a sexy stranger running her hands through my dark brown strands.
It’s less awesome for pulling off the part of a classy athlete dressed to the nines. I’m decked out in a tailored charcoal-gray suit and parked in a leather chair in a suite at the Whitney Hotel in the heart of San Francisco, along with a bunch of other guys from the team.
Violet’s trying to curb my bed head. Her long fingers thread through my hair, aiming for a reverse roll-in-the-hay effect. “I swear, Cooper, you’ve had the most stubborn hair your entire life.”
I wiggle my eyebrows. “It takes after me. I can’t be tamed, either.”
She rolls her amber eyes, her long chestnut hair spilling over her chest. “That’s right. You’re a wild mustang. Impossible to domesticate.”
I neigh.
She stops, sets her hands on my shoulders, and gives me a sharp stare. “Can you count with your hooves, too?”
I drag a wing-tipped foot along the carpeted floor one, two, three times. “I can go all the way to ten.”
“You let me know when you make it to twenty, Mister Ed. That’s when I’ll truly be impressed,” she says, with the smile I’ve seen for the last twenty years. I’ve been friends with Violet since we were kids and I moved to her hometown, a few blocks away from her house.
I rub my palms together. “Excellent. I have a goal to shoot for. You know I love goals.”
She laughs. “I do know that.”
Give me a task, and I’m nose-to-the-grindstone focused. I’ve been that way my whole life. Run a mile in under six minutes? Sure thing. Throw a ball downfield twenty-five yards? Let’s do it. Win a scholarship to a top-tier school? Consider it done, and done with a smile.
Violet stretches her arm behind her, silver bracelets jingling as she grabs some hair gel in a black tube from the chrome coffee table. “We need to domesticate your lovely locks, Cooper. I don’t have a riding crop with me, but I think this gel will do.”
I give the tube a skeptical stare. “You’re not going to put a ton of goop in my hair, are you?”
She adopts a serious expression. “Absolutely. It’s a brand-new product I’ve been testing at my salon. It’s called Goop for Guys. It’s so perfect for you.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “But I won’t tell anyone you have to use . . . product to look so pretty.”
“More like pretty ugly.” A deep voice booms the insult across the suite. Jones is the king of put-downs, and one of my closest friends on the team. At the moment, he’s lounging in a chair, scrolling through his phone, and wearing a custom-fitted dark navy suit.
The team publicist, Jillian, organized the event and chose the tailored suit theme for this year’s auction, our annual holiday fundraiser for the San Francisco Children’s Hospital. Her exact words were, “Suits are like catnip to women, and to men, too, and I want my team of pretty kitties to raise even more money this year.”
That’s a tall order, but most of the dough comes from the entrance fee—a donation to simply walk in the door. We’ve already circulated amongst the crowd, chatting with fans in the ballroom, finishing the mingling session while the speakers played “It’s Raining Men.” That song presaged the final event of the night—the auction itself, also affectionately known as the annual parade of Renegade Man Meat, when the single men on the team strut their stuff.
I glance over at Jones, picking up the insult volley. I eye his midsection suspiciously. “How’s your girdle fitting you tonight? Is that why you look so nice and trim?”
He pretends to adjust it. “Yeah, I borrowed yours.”
“It’s a comfort fit. I can see why you’d need it.”
“You can wear it next. A blushing bride always needs one.”
That’s what the guys call me now. Bride. But hey, I’ll take it over bridesmaid since it comes with the starting job after three long years on the sidelines.
Violet shakes her head as she flips open the tube. “The two of you—”
“Are clever, brilliant, and handsome devils? Why thank you,” I say, straightening my vest. I went three-piece, all the way. If Jillian wants us to wear suits to rake it in, I’ll damn well do my best to bring home a four-peat. I’ve been the recipient of the highest bid the last three years, and since I love streaks, I want to keep it up this year, too.
For the kids.
I want to win for the kids. The hospital does amazing work, and I gladly support it.
Plus, bragging rights do rock.
That’s all that will be rocking this year. I need all my focus on the field, which means no full-benefits package with this date, even if the opportunity should present itself. I spent the last three years idle on the bench but busy after hours. This season is a whole different beast now that I have a record and reputation to think about. We’re closing in on a wild-card spot in the playoffs, and these days the only scoring I plan to do is on the field.
Violet tips her chin at my attire. “I like the vest. You rarely see anyone wearing a vest here.”
We live in casual country, home of the hoodie, and land of the jeans. “Is that your way of telling me you’re a vest woman?”
She laughs then lowers her voice. “I’m an everything woman.” She lets that comment hang between us, and for a moment, my head is in a fog. Everything. What sort of everything does Violet Pierson like? Everything in bed? And why the hell am I thinking these thoughts about her? Violet’s not only my friend, she’s also my best buddy’s sister. “And you’re going to clean up, my friend, since there are few things hotter than an athlete dressed in a suit.”
“Yeah?” I ask, meeting her eyes as she squeezes the goop onto her hands, and my mind continues to wander down the everything yellow brick road. Every position, every night—is that her sort of everything?
“Of course. You have a great face, a nice body, and that top-notch suit fits like a glove,” she says, listing these attributes like they’re hardwood floors, a quiet dishwasher, and a front-loading washing machine. Violet meets my eyes, and her tone is cheery. “Don’t worry. I’m only saying nice body in an empirical sense.”
I put on the brakes, since it’s not very sex
y to be described like an appliance.
“Right. Of course.” I nod, wiping the everything thoughts from my brain, too. “It’s a completely objective compliment.”
“Totally clinical.”
I adjust the vest anyway. Just in case it empirically looks better this way. Or clinically, for that matter.
She runs her gel-covered hands through my hair. “Let’s at least try to tame you for the cameras.”
The auction is being carried live on local TV, and that’s why Violet is here—to give us a little touch-up before we go on air. She’s a hair stylist, which happens to be one of my favorite professions in the world.
One afternoon during my sophomore year of high school, the grizzled old dude who’d cut my hair forever was out, and his twenty-two-year-old granddaughter filled in for him at the barbershop. I glimpsed the angels in heaven when she leaned in to cut the front of my hair, and I’ve been a big fan of haircuts ever since.
But I’m not checking out Violet like that, even though her breasts are precariously close to my face as she styles the mop on my head.
I’m absolutely not thinking of the angels I’m seeing.
I can’t think of her that way.
She’s Trent’s sister, and he’s been my best friend for twenty years, since all the way back in elementary school. That places her firmly in the not-allowed-to-even-consider-whether-she-might-be-hot category. I’ve never thought of her as a babe, not once in all the years I’ve known her. Which is all the more impressive considering she has a rocking body, lush chestnut-brown hair, and big amber eyes. Oh, and she has a wicked sense of humor. But I don’t think of her as smoking hot, even tonight when she’s wearing those black jeans, the kind that look as if they’ve been painted on, and that silvery tunic thing that clings to her chest.