Most Likely To Score Page 14

  I furrow my brow. “That must suck for the parents. I remember when I was younger and schools had to close. My parents scrambled without any day care.”

  Jillian nods thoughtfully. “It’s a real problem for working parents, especially with little kids.”

  “Do you know if Andre figured out what to do? If there’s anything to do?”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t. Do you have something in mind?”

  The cogs are turning. I tap my temple. “I do, actually.”

  I tell her my idea, and she beams. “You’d do that?”

  “Of course. It’s hard to be a working parent. That’s one of the hardest things in the world.”

  She flashes a sweet smile and reaches for her phone. “Let me call him.” Before she unlocks the screen, she clears her throat. “Do you need to go?”

  I narrow my eyes. “Are you kicking me out?”

  Her hair whips back and forth as she shakes her head. “No, but I don’t want to be presumptuous.”

  I flop back down on the bed, full monty–style, and park my hands behind my head. “You can presume all you want with me. For instance, presume I want to give you more orgasms. Presume I want to spend the night. Presume I haven’t remotely had my fill of you.”

  As she makes her call, I down the rest of the water and flick on ESPN, checking out baseball scores and pre-season reports as she talks to her friend. She covers the phone a few times and asks me questions. I nod and tell her yes, yes, and yes.

  When she’s done, she sets a hand on my chest. “You have the biggest heart.”

  “Tell me something else that’s big.”

  She laughs, spreading her fingers over my pecs. “You’re so ridiculous.”

  “But it is big.”

  Reaching for my dick, she squeezes it. “You know it is.” Letting go, she tiptoes her fingers up my belly. “I might need to take you for a ride again. I presume you can go for a third round.”

  I scoff. “Yes, you really ought to take me for another test drive.”

  She wriggles her eyebrows, and I lean closer, pressing a quick kiss to her lips. When we separate, I run my fingers down her bare arm. “Hey, what did you want to talk about before? I got a little distracted by your pussy in my mouth. A good distraction.”

  “Yes, and I was distracted by petting your wiener.”

  I pump a fist in victory. “I knew the wiener was irresistible.”

  A soft laugh falls from her lips before she goes quiet for a moment. She motions from me to her. “But seriously. We need to talk about this. About what it means.” She pauses and raises her chin as if she’s toughening up. “What it doesn’t mean.”

  I don’t like the sound of the second half, but I know she’s right. “Okay, talk.”

  She exhales. “I’m not going to massage words. We both know this is incredibly risky for my job and for your deal. You’re aware of that, but it has to be said.”

  “It’s not like we’re banging in public.”

  “Of course not, but secrets are hard to keep these days. Brands drop athletes like hotcakes for the slightest transgression. For a wrong word, for an old comment dredged up. Paleo Pet signed on for single Jones, and then Ford brought me on to help.” She holds up a finger, her eyes laser sharp. “But Paleo Pet didn’t sign on for the Jones who sneaked into his publicist’s room in Miami and screwed her all night long.”

  I drag a hand over my jaw. “Fuck,” I mutter, hating how this time with her would be seen.

  “Right now, you’re the wholesome, dog-loving, squeaky-clean guy. You don’t want to be the guy boning his colleague. Such a scandal. That’s how it would be framed if it got out. As a workplace scandal. There’s no other way for the gossip press to spin it.”

  I cringe at the way she puts it so bluntly.

  She runs her hand along my arm, her voice softening. “You can’t be too cautious when you’re playing that kind of high-stakes game. We could be caught. I’m pursuing a promotion, and I’m trying to rehab your image, but I just did exactly what we’re trying to avoid.”

  I furrow my brow. “That’s not entirely true. No one said to go on a sex diet. Just to be careful.”

  “Fine, true. But I’m your publicist.”

  “Does the team have rules against you dating players?” I ask, genuinely interested. I’ve no clue if she’s crossing some sort of formal line in an HR handbook.

  She shakes her head. “No, there isn’t a specific rule against it. The only fraternization rules involve getting involved with direct reports and vice versa. I can’t date my boss or any of the PR supervisors who report to me. We’re not forbidden from dating players, though.”

  I curve up my lips. “Well, that’s good, right?”

  “Yes, technically, but there’s so much more at stake. Even if I’m not violating a rule per se, think about how it would look, especially while I’m up for a promotion. While you’re trying to land new deals. While we’re working on those deals together. Here I am, trying to craft a good-boy image for you—one you rightfully deserve—and meanwhile, I’m on my hands and knees as you slam into me.”

  Against my better judgment, I groan, “I like you on your hands and knees.” But then I turn more serious. “But I hear you. It’s risky.”

  “It’s dangerous.”

  Scrubbing a hand over my jaw, I ask, “Do you think it shouldn’t happen again?” Part of me is hoping she’ll laugh and say, No, take me again now and tomorrow and over and over.

  “Do you think it should happen again?”

  “I want it to,” I answer honestly, because as far as I’m concerned, everything is in the open tonight. I don’t want to play any more games with Jillian, and I won’t toy with her emotions, or my own. Given the way I’ve stored everything until now, like a pressure cooker that only needed the smallest spark of jealousy to spill over, I’ve no interest in keeping my feelings private. “I know you might find this hard to believe, but I like you. Really like you. If I could, I would date you. I would take you out. I would romance you. I would do all the things I haven’t done before.”

  Her breath flutters over her lips, and her eyes shine. She wiggles her body closer to mine. “Really?”

  “Would you want that?” I ask softly.

  She nods, that flash of vulnerability back in her brown eyes. “Of course I want that.” Taking a deep breath, she looks away, swallowing tightly. “But we can’t have it.”

  My shoulders sag. My chest is heavy. “We can’t, can we?” I say with a sigh, an acknowledgment that she’s right. That Trevor was right. That I need to focus on football and business only. That Jillian needs to do the kick-ass job she’s always done, without a guy like me complicating her life. Trevor’s words blare in my ears, the reminder of my track record. I’ve never had a relationship last longer than a month, and I detest the thought that her reputation could be called into question if she dated me. I care about Jillian far too much to let her be a question mark everyone has about me.

  Her fingers trace my chest. “If we did that, we’d have to sneak around, and sneaking around is lying. No good can come of it.”

  “Then we agree that this can’t happen again?”

  She screws up the corner of her lips, clearly thinking. “As a publicist, I’m always looking for angles, so maybe we agree that when we go back to San Francisco, we can return to being player and publicist.”

  I grin wickedly, liking her clever mind. “Your angle is sharp. And since we return in two days, that means tomorrow I can get you on your hands and knees again so I can fuck you like the animal you say I am?”

  “Jones . . .” It comes out like a purr.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  She nods. “Yes, then we go back to how it was.” Her expression turns apologetic. “I love what I do, and I don’t want to chance losing it. My career has always been important to me. It was that way for my mom, too. I learned it from her.”

  I can’t help but smile when she mentions her mom.
I love that she’s such a family gal. “Why was it that way for her?”

  “She always said that true contentment comes from what you do. She’d say don’t go looking for happiness in a man or in a relationship. Find it in your work. Find it, and when you do, it’ll feed your soul.”

  “Does publicity feed your soul?”

  “This might sound weird, but it does. I love sports, and I love using the platform the team has to do good. Sometimes, athletes get a bad rep,” she says, and I huff, knowing that reality too well. “But in most cases, the public just needs to see the other side. And with so many young people looking up to athletes, it’s great to show them doing amazing things for the community. I love that I can do that. I love that the great work you do on and off the field can inspire some young boys and girls to work harder, to be better, to be the best they can be. That does feed my soul, in a way, and I think I’m good at it.”

  Running my fingers through her soft locks, I nod. “You’re not just good at it. You’re great at it.” I slow my strokes, making sure she meets my eyes. “I love knowing there’s a piece of your mom driving you on, even when she’s not here.”

  Jillian whispers, “Me, too.”

  “You miss her, don’t you?” I ask.

  She bites the corner of her lips, nodding. “I do. I’m used to it, but I do miss her.”

  “How could you not?” Dropping my hand from her hair, I loop my fingers through hers.

  “But sometimes, I think she lives on.”

  “In what way?”

  “In my superstitions. My good luck charms. She was like that. She believed you make your own luck, but she also loved all the symbols of luck, too. She was so very American, but she really embraced the Chinese culture and introduced me to it. She wanted me to grow up knowing it, even if I wasn’t there anymore.”

  “I love that. She wanted to honor where you came from.”

  “Exactly. They didn’t go over the top and send me to Chinese school and all that, but they found little ways to bring it into their lives.” A smile crosses her face, and her eyes twinkle. “Like, they gave me dollar bills in little red envelopes during Chinese New Year. I liked that a lot.”

  I chuckle. “That is a most excellent cultural celebration. Another good luck symbol?”

  “It is. My people love their luck.”

  “Hey, my people love their luck, too.”

  “You mean the Becketts?”

  “Yeah, but mostly me. I love hearing about all your lucky symbols, since I’m the most superstitious guy around. I’m going to have to eat a pomelo a day during the season now that you’ve hooked me on them,” I tell her, and she smiles in a way that makes my heart thump harder.

  “Were your parents superstitious?”

  “Not really. But my dad has his own theory about luck. He’s very much of the mindset that luck means sometimes you lose and sometimes you win. Growing up, he tried to teach me to keep an even head about winning or losing, to remind me that success on the field is about talent and effort, but also luck. The way the ball falls, how a foot lands, how the wind blows.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  I lean back and rub a hand over my jaw. “I want to. But I also think if I’m not out there busting my ass every second, then I’m not serving my team or my fans or myself. That’s probably why I follow different superstitions about the game. I give a hundred and ten percent on the field—that I can control. But I can’t control the wind, and I can’t control the refs, so I have my little rituals.”

  “You do serve the team every day. You give it your all. I love watching you play. I can tell football feeds your soul.”

  She’s right on the last count. The game absolutely commands my heart and my head. But I like the other thing she said, too. I raise an eyebrow. “You like watching me play?”

  She nods.

  I take a deep, satisfied breath. “That makes me want to make a big circus catch for you. To be on the field and raise my hands in a J so you’ll know when I dive for a ball, I’m doing it for you.” I bring her fingers to my lips and kiss them. “Still can’t believe you didn’t know I wanted you.”

  “I didn’t think I was your type.”

  I scoop my hands under her waist and tug her on top of me, meeting her gaze. “Jillian, my type is you. If we didn’t work together, I would be doing everything possible to get you to keep seeing me every night.”

  “You would?” Her cheeks seem to glow.

  “I would.”

  “Stay the night?”

  “You want to sleep on me again, don’t you?”

  “I do.”

  After we brush our teeth, since the hotel has extra toothbrushes in each room, and slide under the covers, she whispers something to me that makes me wish this wasn’t ending. “I like you so much. I have for so long.”

  And I wish I could have her completely.

  As dawn rises, she stirs in my arms. I kiss her cheek, run my fingers down her arm, and breathe her in. This is what I will miss most.

  Waking up with her.

  19

  Jillian

  Twin shrieks of ten-year-old glee echo in the cavernous indoor pool area. Fourth-grader Charlie splashes vigorously as his classmate Emma raises her arms up high. “Me, me, me!” the girl squeals.

  The man of the hour lifts a beach ball high above his head from several feet away in the deeper water. Taking aim, Jones tosses it toward the kids. Emma catches it and shouts once more in excitement as she splashes onto her back. When she pops up, she turns to the deck and waves at her mom, who stands next to me.

  The trim, tired woman in a haggard ponytail smiles at her young daughter, snapping a picture of her playing in the pool at the end of the day.

  “Okay to post online?” the mom asks me.

  “Absolutely.”

  Emma dolphins her way to the side of the pool. “Mom! This is the best day ever.” The girl dunks her head underwater, pushes off, and swims to find another ball, presumably to launch at Jones.

  “She wants to be a kicker,” her mom says, gazing admiringly at the young girl. “Crazy dream, I’m sure.”

  “You never know. Perhaps she can be the first female kicker in the NFL someday.”

  The mom nods, a dreamy look in her eyes but a disbelieving note in her voice. “Maybe someday.”

  It’s unlikely, but you never know what might happen.

  “Thank you again for all this.” She waves at the pool and behind her to the rest of the rec center.

  “It was all Jones,” I say, giving credit where credit is due.

  This was his brilliant idea. After I called Andre last night, he put things in motion to make this day happen, but Jones is the one behind it with his generosity. He rented out an entire rec center and invited the kids at the shuttered elementary school summer program to spend the day here playing board games, shooting hoops, and cavorting in the indoor pool. We arrived as soon as the morning’s calendar shoot ended, since he had free time during the day. Jones has joined in on most of the activities, including a rousing game of Candyland, in which a group of fourth-grade girls banded together to utterly destroy him as they reached Candy Castle well before he did.

  “This was a godsend, I tell you,” the woman says, adjusting the strands of hair that have fallen from her elastic band. “I answer phones at an auto-repair shop, and I had no more time off. When I heard about the problem with the school being closed, I was completely backed into a corner. I needed this”—she pauses, as if hunting for the right word—“gift.”

  “I’m glad it feels that way.”

  That was Jones’s hope, but he did more than simply let the quandary tug on his heartstrings. He solved the problem. I’ve spent the day here with him, hanging out with the kids, joining in as well—my hoops game is strong, and I led the girls to a victory over the boys, thank you very much—and making sure the kids had food and snacks, courtesy of Jones’s pizza party order.

  The day is winding down, and most
of the parents have picked up their kids, snapping photos of them with the athlete. Though I could have invited local press today, I chose not to, in part because we’d have needed release waivers from the parents. Even so, one of the keys in publicity is to know when to turn on the cameras and when to shut them down. Press wasn’t the point of this effort, nor did I want to turn this into a photo frenzy. But at the same time, we decided the kids and parents were welcome to take photos. In the age of social media, everything eventually ends up online, but I did want the photos from today to come from the parents rather than from reporters.

  Though I’m pretty sure a few of the kids have Instagram and Snapchat, too, since I saw an Instagram pic of Jones, filtered so he was wearing a pair of panda ears as he languished by Gumdrop Mountain. Next to him in the shot were Malcolm and Connor, who fought valiantly to buy Park Place from a pair of industrious boys in a heated game of Monopoly, since Jones convinced his Mavericks buddies to stop by for a few hours. But mostly, it’s been the former party-boy Renegade entertaining the kids on an unexpected day off.

  When I see him like this, it’s hard to imagine he ever had a questionable rep.

  As I watch Jones swim to the steps of the pool with Charlie, the last kid to be picked up, I’m reminded again of what’s at stake if we were to be found out. So very much. Even though part of me is deliciously tempted to carry on clandestinely with him, to invite him over for a midnight tryst at my home back in San Francisco, to ask him if he wants to meet up somewhere, someplace, maybe out of town in another chichi hotel—that all feels like an illicit affair.

  An illicit affair is precisely the opposite of what he needs right now.

  I wish we could carry on out in the open, like he said he wanted to last night. Date me, romance me, take me out. My heart flutters just thinking of that.