Most Valuable Playboy Page 10

  * * *

  Violet: I open at eight, and there’s a morning spin class calling my name. Anyway, the womanspeak translation is this—I’m practicing what to say in case anyone quizzes me about us at the game on Sunday. Those are my answers for what I suspect will be the top three questions.

  Interesting. It’s hardly six a.m. and she’s already texting me.

  Don’t read into it, dickhead. She’s covering her bases.

  As I pick up the pace, zipping past a hipster coffee shop opening its doors, I text her back. Yup, I’ve become that idiot who’s running while staring at his screen in the inky-blue dawn. And I don’t care.

  Cooper: Is this a game of Jeopardy? Clearly, the last one is what was your favorite play your boyfriend made this season? By the way, excellent choice. One of my favorite plays, too.

  * * *

  Violet: Yes, and anything kid-related is the answer to what is your favorite charity to support? since I figure that’s a question anyone dating an athlete would need to have an answer to. Plus, it’s true.

  * * *

  Cooper: That’s my answer, too, so we’re in sync. But I think you’re mixed up on since second grade. I met you when I was in second grade and you were in first, so since second grade can’t be your answer to how long we’ve known each other.

  I scratch my head as I slow at a light. A street sweeper trudges along as I jog in place. The light changes, and I run, replying before she can finish hers. And now I’m that idiot who’s running, and texting, and grinning like a fool. And I still don’t care.

  Cooper: Got it! Must be the first time I pulled your pigtails. That’ll melt the hearts of anyone asking you.

  * * *

  Violet: I never wore pigtails. But it’s my answer for anyone who asks when I first had a crush on you. How is that for a totally adorable answer? ;)

  As I run, I stare at the winking emoticon, like I can turn the symbol upside down and find some hidden meaning. I study it, searching for her true intention, until I nearly trip on a cracked section of sidewalk.

  I regain my footing, reminding myself that her answer is a joke. Like Sierra at the auction, she’s weaving the story everyone wants to hear—the hometown girl crushing on the guy who made good. It’s a story that’ll go down easily, something the press, the fans, and the player’s wives will eat up with a spoon because there’s nothing cuter than childhood sweethearts.

  Cooper: It’s perfect.

  * * *

  Violet: By the way, I don’t actually think anyone will ask, but in the movies, when a guy or a girl has a fake boyfriend or girlfriend, they always need to get their stories straight. Got any other questions for me as I prep?

  I choose a true one. Something I absolutely want to know.

  Cooper: Yes. Truth. Do you really sleep in my jersey?

  As I turn onto the next block, her reply dings. There are no words in it. It’s a multimedia image, and it takes a frustratingly long time to load as I blast by a row of Victorian homes.

  Then it lands.

  I stop running.

  I can’t do anything but stare. There’s a shot of her from the neck down in bed. She wears a long blue shirt with the number sixteen on it, the fabric hitting near the tops of her thighs. Her legs are bare and beautiful, stretched out on rumpled red sheets.

  God help me.

  I’m dying to know what she’s wearing under that shirt, but this image will feed me for days.

  The phone dings with another reply. It’s a shot of the empty bed, and the words: And now I’m up. Time to spin.

  I text her goodbye, and when I return to my house, my heart pounds harder, but I don’t think it’s from the run. I head to the kitchen, pour a glass of water, and down it as I click open the photo again. And I stare, and I stare, and I stare.

  I might possibly salivate over those legs. So toned and creamy white. My God, even her toes look pretty with bright green holiday polish on her nails. And those red sheets. I want to run through the city, across the bridge, and down the hills. I want to bang on her door, scoop her up in my arms, and spread her out on those sheets.

  Then kiss every square inch of those legs.

  And that keeps me occupied quite nicely in my shower. But then, as I run a towel over my wet hair, I ruminate on the questions she prepped for. What will my answer be if someone asks how long I’ve liked her? Violet has her finger on the trigger of her phony answer. I suppose my fake reply would be the same. Since second grade.

  But my real answer? The one I keep locked tight in my chest would be this—since last night. It’s been at least since last night that I’ve known how very much I like Violet Pierson.

  Real like. Real emotion. Real fucking scary.

  My heart beats harder, wishing she had a real answer that matched mine.

  But my heart pounds in a whole new way when I run into Jillian that morning at our training facility and she shouts, “You’re in big trouble.”

  14

  Her heels click across the concrete floor as I head to the locker room.

  I clench my teeth. Jillian must have found out that Violet and I are a sham, and now she’s going to lay into me for lying to her.

  But am I lying? I flash back to this morning and the texts, to last night and the kisses, and there’s nothing made-up about the way my best friend’s sister has staked a claim on my mental real estate in the last forty-eight hours.

  I turn around. “Why would I be in trouble when I’m so good?”

  “This,” Jillian says, her eyes narrow and accusatory as she brandishes her cell phone at me.

  The tension prickles over my shoulders, but I’ve dealt with linemen who want to kill me. Though, in all fairness, Jillian’s eyes right now are as intense as the Dallas defense.

  I step closer to see what’s on her screen.

  It’s the selfie from last night at the fountain.

  She flicks her thumb to another shot on my new Instagram account. This one is of Einstein and me after he kicked a game-winning field goal earlier in the season. I chuckle to myself. Of course Ford would work another of his clients into the shot. But the dude is brilliant. Ford had his assistant post a picture of me from a few months ago, lacing up in the morning with the running shoes from the sneaker company I endorse, and then a shot of me playing basketball with kids at a local community center.

  But Jillian fixates on the kiss, stabbing her finger at the screen.

  I scrub a hand over my chin. “Yeah, it seems I might have kissed her last night. Am I in trouble now for kissing?” I ask, batting my eyes innocently.

  She taps the toe of her red pumps and wags a finger at me. “You’re in trouble for telling me it was none of my business that you and Violet were involved, and then going and posting a kissing selfie.” She pokes my chest with a perfectly manicured silver nail. “And that was the cutest kissing photo ever.”

  She might as well be floating right now.

  “Did you mean ‘evah’?”

  Jillian laughs.

  “Also, I’m not the one who said it was none of your business,” I say, pointing at myself. “That was Jones who said it the other night.”

  Like he heard his cue from offstage, the man who defended my privacy after the auction rounds the corner of the corridor, appearing behind Jillian. When he sees me talking to her, he slows down and pads quietly, like a cartoon mouse sneaking behind a cat.

  She huffs. “Then Jones is in trouble, too.”

  Jones narrows his eyes and brings his finger to his mouth. I adopt the stoniest expression ever in the history of stony expressions.

  “He should be punished,” I say.

  “Absolutely,” Jillian says, while Jones whips out his imaginary flogger and smacks his own ass. I’ve been bad, he mouths behind Jillian’s back.

  The corner of my lips twitch. “Anyway, sorry I didn’t tell you all the details. But you know how it goes.”

  Jillian brings a hand to her chest, and I swear I see hearts and flowers flutt
ering above her head. “I’m dying to know more. Off the record. Just for me.”

  Might as well serve it up. “We’ve been friends forever, and she’s great. She’s funny, supportive, smart, kind, and she keeps me on my toes. How could I not be into her?” When the words come out, there’s not a false note in them.

  Even though Jones wraps his arms around nothing and kisses his air-girlfriend.

  A huge smile takes over Jillian’s face. “Oh, this is just too perfect. And that’s why I’m so excited to share some good news with you.” She lowers her voice to whisper, “Since you’re my new favorite Renegade.”

  Jones points to himself, doe-eyed, and pretends to cry.

  “You mean Jones isn’t your favorite Renegade?” I ask, figuring it’s a perfect time to give Mime Jones as much shit as I can.

  Her brows knit in confusion. “Jones? No. Why?”

  “Oh, just because he’s such a swell fella,” I say with a too-big smile.

  Jones points to her and then to himself, mouths she wants me, then flicks out his tongue.

  She gives me a look as if that’s the craziest idea. “Swell? Jones? Maybe you mean swollen head. But enough about him. I wanted to find you because the hospital from the auction called and invited you to take a short tour of its new facilities, and I thought, wouldn’t it be perfect for you and Violet to stop by, show your support, and see the kids? What do you say? Can you go with her?”

  I smile. “Of course. I’ll have to check her schedule, but Vi and I love helping charities for kids.”

  And that’s not a lie at all, either.

  Jillian squeals. “You’re the best! You’re such a good guy. Unlike Jones. Who is right behind me, pretending to be a complete pig, and I suspect also making obscene gestures and being generally grotesque and offensive.”

  Busted.

  I crack up as Jillian swivels around and points at the man who now holds his big hands in the air like he’s being arrested.

  “You’re a total troublemaker,” Jillian says.

  “I take that as a profound compliment,” he says, intensely serious.

  She marches up to him and parks her hands on her hips. “How did you think I didn’t know you were here?”

  Jones laughs and shrugs. “Maybe because you don’t have eyes in the back of your head?”

  She taps an earlobe. “I have ears, Jones.”

  “It was fun regardless,” he says in a flirty tone.

  She shakes her head, though she’s clearly amused with his antics.

  “Let me know the details, Jillian, and we’ll be there. Meanwhile, I’ll get this asshole out to the field, where he can make trouble with some balls.”

  “You can’t resist throwing your balls to me, can you, Coop?”

  I drape an arm around him. “I only throw to you so much because I know how much you love balls. Say it. Say I love balls.”

  “You love balls.”

  I shake my head and pat his chest. “You’re the one who loves balls. Say I, Jones, love balls.”

  “I will never say that.”

  I stroke my chin. “Let’s see. I’m pretty sure McCormick would love to become my go-to guy for the pass routes,” I say, naming a new guy on the team. I meet Jillian’s eyes. “McCormick would love to catch some balls, don’t you think?”

  She nods seriously. “No doubt the rookie would enjoy some action from you.”

  Jones growls at me. “Fuck you, you control-freak quarterback.”

  I laugh. “All quarterbacks are control freaks.”

  He turns to Jillian and holds his hands out wide. “I love balls.” His voice booms, and he embraces the challenge. “I fucking love balls, and I’m not afraid to say it.”

  But I don’t let him off easy. I clamp my hand on his shoulder. “Jones, you look so good catching all those balls. Why do you look so good catching them?”

  He squares his shoulders. Taps his sternum. “Because I love balls.” Then he grabs his crotch. “I fucking love my balls.”

  Jillian’s smirk is officially priceless. “Have fun playing with your balls, Jones.”

  We head to the field and practice our passing routes, where Jones shows off exactly how much he loves catching balls.

  15

  “Looking good, Cooper.”

  I snap my gaze to Greenhaven after we finish a light practice—no pads for today.

  He’s only called me by my first name once before. Since I signed, I’ve always been Armstrong. That’s it. Plain and simple. “Thank you, sir,” I say, still curious about the change in names.

  But he gives no indication as to what it means, only a quick, crisp nod. Then, another first. He cracks a smile. It’s barely there, just a hint of a grin, and it disappears quickly on his gruff, weathered features. “Looking forward to Sunday?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He walks the other way, across the grass. For a moment, I watch him, his bulky figure cutting a solitary path up the field, crossing the fifty-yard line. I first talked to him the day I was drafted. As is the custom, the scouting director made the phone call to tell me I’d been picked in the first round, then said he’d put the head coach on the phone.

  Talk about nerves. I was flooded with them, knowing I was getting an audience with the man.

  When Greenhaven picked up, he said, “Congratulations, Cooper. We couldn’t be more pleased to have you as a Renegade.”

  “I’m thrilled, sir. Absolutely thrilled. This is a dream come true.”

  It was the culmination of everything I’d ever hoped for, and it was the start of a whole new future.

  Only, it was the start of the longest wait of my life. Jeff Grant had been injured the season I was drafted, and the team picked me expecting Father Time was winning the battle with the star. But Grant was legendary for a reason. He recovered faster than anyone expected and returned even stronger, defying the odds for three endless years. During that time, I was Armstrong to the coach, and Grant was Jeff.

  That’s a small thing, and it didn’t bother me. There’s a pecking order on a team, and you have to do your time. I hadn’t done mine yet.

  Greenhaven has used my surname all season long, too.

  Until now.

  Maybe this means nothing. But maybe it means more. Maybe it means I’m his guy. Not just for a few games, but for longer. For a couple years, maybe even for several. Perhaps enough to make me the face of the franchise. The prospect makes me a little giddy—not gonna lie. That’s the dream among dreams come true. I turn the other way to head inside. I’m nearly tempted to text Ford and tell him what Greenhaven just called me.

  But I don’t.

  Because it feels like something that’s between player and coach.

  And honestly, if I did, I’d sound like a pathetic ass trying to decipher a text message from a lover.

  What does this mean, Jones? Does this mean she likes me, Harlan? Can you tell if she’s into me, Einstein?

  I roll my eyes at the prospect.

  Nope. I won’t be that guy. Instead, I’m going to enjoy this moment for what it is. Mine.

  As I reach the goalposts, I stop and turn to the stands. They’re empty, of course, and this isn’t even where we play games. But I imagine the stadium on Sunday. It’s sold out, packed with cheering crowds. That’s who I’m most grateful for. You play for the owner, you play for the team, you play for the coach, but at the end of the day, we’re all playing for the fans.

  Once inside the locker room, I grab my phone from the top shelf. But before I can text Violet about Jillian’s request, Harlan smacks me on the back.

  “C’mon, you lazy-ass passer. Time for steps.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  I follow him back outside, where we’re joined by Jones and Rick. We trot to the stands, and section by section, we run up the steps, down the steps, till we cover the stands.

  Spent and exhausted, as we should be.

  The four of us flop down in the second row. I grab the hem of my T-shirt and wi
pe the sweat off my forehead. It’s fifty-five degrees in December in San Francisco, and I’m sweaty as hell from the workout.

  “Are we ready now?” I ask.

  Harlan drags a hand through his long hair. “I’m ready.”

  Jones taps his ankles. “My stinky game socks are not in the wash.”

  “And I’ve got a brand-new bag of bubblegum. My little sister picked it up for me since she loves pink bubblegum,” Rick says, his dark eyes flashing confidence as he imitates kicking a ball.

  They stare at me. I roll my eyes as I jerk my fist up and down. “I’m all good.” Then, I lean forward, parking my hands on my knees, and stare out at the open field. “You guys don’t really think that’s why we’re playing well, do you?”

  Rick laughs. “Who knows? We haven’t lost a game since Pittsburgh more than a month ago.”

  “But Coop has been a monk since the season started,” Harlan says in his drawl. “I haven’t cut my hair in months, and we did lose a few games.”

  “But we’ve won way more than we’ve lost, though,” Rick says. “So, is it the superstitions, or something else?”

  “When you have a ritual you believe in, you do it even if you lose,” Jones answers, his deep voice full of certainty. “Wade Boggs ate chicken before every baseball game, win or lose, rain or shine. He’s a Hall of Famer now. He didn't alter the routine. Serena Williams bounces the tennis ball five times before every serve, no matter what. And for us, we have a winning record, so we keep doing it.”

  Rick raises a finger, his voice inquisitive, as if he’s in class. “So, does it extend to the post-season? If we make the post-season.”

  Like we’re synchronized swimmers the four of us lean forward and rap our knuckles on the back of the seats in front of us. “Knock on wood,” I murmur, even though it’s plastic.