Most Likely To Score Page 17

  Jones: Dangerous?

  Jillian: I told her you’re the most intoxicating mix of rough and tender.

  Jones: In bed?

  Jillian: In bed and out of bed.

  Jones: And do you like that mix? I think you do . . .

  Jillian: You know I do. You’re sweet and sexy. You’re funny and kind. You’re jealous and caring. You listen. And you also make my toes curl, my knees weak, and my—

  I send before I finish the last word. My fingers went too fast.

  Jones: What was the last my . . .?

  You make my heart flutter. But I can’t say that to him yet. Once those words make landfall, you can’t take them back. I’d be putting that fluttering heart on the line.

  Jillian: My belly flip . . .

  There. That’s safer.

  Jones: I wish you were in my bed right now.

  See? He likes the sex talk, too, and as I contemplate a naughty reply, he’s typing back.

  Jones: That’s because the most dangerous thing to me is how much I like it when you’re curled up in my arms and you fall asleep with me at night. Because that means you’ll be in my arms when I wake up.

  Jillian: That’s my favorite way to wake up.

  As I stare at the phone, the problem is clear. Miami wasn’t a fling. Miami wasn’t a no-strings-attached dalliance for either one of us. That trip across the country was the start of everything, and I want to take him back and make him all mine again, with no consequences, no risk, and no fallout. I want it all, without anyone getting hurt.

  The next morning, I crunch on some toast and sip some hot tea as I work on the lineup for my Fire-Breathing Dragons. After I adjust my starting pitcher rotation, I check my email.

  A message from Kevin greets me. I click it open, and it’s the usual from him—an interview request. Can Cooper come on my Sunday preview show?

  I’m about to reply that I’ll check with the quarterback, when I see his postscript.

  P.S. See you at Sierra’s wedding this Thursday! Be sure to say hello to Shelly and me! We can toast to Sierra together!

  I groan loudly. I forgot he’d be attending the wedding.

  I might be over the guy, but this is precisely why he irritates me.

  Because he thinks I’d want to say hello to him and the woman he cheated on me with.

  “You sure know how to pick ’em, girl,” I mutter.

  My spine straightens. Wait. Just because Kevin is a dickhead doesn’t mean I have bad taste in men.

  Of course not. Jones is nothing like Kevin.

  My taste is not an issue.

  But perhaps my judgment is. I did fall for a man I can’t have.

  Maybe I don’t know how to pick them at all.

  23

  Jones

  Cletus leaps through the air, chasing a Frisbee, landing like the agile dude he is with the disc in his mouth. The camera zooms in on me and I give my 100 percent honest assessment. “That’s why I won’t feed my little guy anything but the best.” Next shot, Cletus retrieves a ball as I finish my ode to the dog food. “When your dog is worth the very best, that’s when you give him Paleo Pet.”

  Ford points the remote at the TV and hits stop theatrically. “Bam. That is a dog food commercial if I’ve ever seen one. And look at Cletus. He loves watching it.”

  My agent gestures to my pooch, who I brought to Ford’s office the day after the game for the “premiere” of the television spot. Wagging his tiny tail, Cletus stretches out in a downward dog.

  He’s also showing off for Jillian, pawing at her legs, but she seems distracted. She’s still staring at the screen even though the TV is off.

  Cletus whimpers, and that gets her attention. She reaches down, scoops him into her lap, and strokes his soft brown and white fur.

  “What can I say? He’s a ladies’ man?” I wink.

  Trevor eyes me. “Something you’re not anymore.”

  “Oh yeah.” Ford stretches across the desk and high-fives my brother before turning his attention to Jillian. “Liam gave the okay to tease this on social media before it runs on Lifetime in a few days,” he says. “Can you handle?”

  Jillian nods crisply, back to her usual sharp-as-a-tack demeanor. “Absolutely. I have a plan for how to magnify this online.”

  “Excellent. Liam is thrilled with how it’s all coming along,” Trevor chimes in, since he’s been handling a lot of the details with my sponsor.

  “We all are. And don’t you forget, you have a dinner with him later this week,” Ford says, pointing at me.

  “Dude. I know. You put it on my calendar.”

  “My job is to remind you, too. We’ll all be there. And soon, we’ll be having a dinner with the quick-serve restaurant because that deal is coming together with Organic Eats.”

  Trevor pumps a fist. “Great work, man.”

  We make our way out of the office. In the elevator, it’s the four of us as Ford rides down. Jillian is quiet again, a faraway look in her eyes. I wish I could take her hand, haul her next to me, and ask her what’s bothering her.

  I wish I could talk to her the way I want.

  Like she’s mine.

  I wish I could stop being so damn dishonest in front of these guys who I like and respect. In front of my brother, in front of my agent. I want to tell them the truth—that the woman standing across from me makes me want to say goodbye to the former ladies’ man forever.

  More than that, as she heads to her car, before she speeds off to the office, I want to drop a kiss on her cheek and tell her to drive safely. But I can’t.

  I head home with my dog, and after a long run, I crash on the sofa. He jumps on my lap and curls into a ball.

  “What is wrong with me? It was just sex, right?”

  Cletus lifts his snout, as if to say, “Keep going.”

  “You know what I mean. I’ve seen you hump the stuffed monkey from T.J. Maxx. Don’t deny it.”

  Cletus waits for me to say more.

  “You go crazy for that monkey. You guys are definitely having a no-strings-attached deal.”

  He doesn’t say anything, but we both know he’s a horndog. Except, as he rubs his little head against my arm, I don’t think I’ve fooled him. I definitely haven’t fooled myself. I know it wasn’t just sex with Jillian. I miss her, and texting her last night wasn’t enough. Texting her only made me want to see her again.

  I pick up my phone to call my brother, to finally ask him how I can sort this out. But there’s a message from Jillian glaring at me. It’s not a text. It’s from her work email.

  I have a reporter wanting to talk to you about your new deals. It would be a good idea if we could prep. Would you have any time to meet with me today? My office?

  Hell, yeah, I’d like to go to her office.

  We take care of the phone interview quickly, handling it with ease, chatting with a prominent business reporter at a national magazine about my new partnership.

  When we hang up, Jillian flips a pen around from her thumb to her forefinger, over and over. Her usual vibrancy is still missing. Raising my chin, I say what I wanted to say earlier this morning. “You don’t seem like yourself today. You seemed distracted at Ford’s office, and here, too. Is everything okay?”

  Surprise flickers across her eyes. “I didn’t think I was that easy to read.”

  I offer a small shrug. “Maybe you’re not. But maybe I’ve learned how to read you.” Her lips curve in a small smile. “I’ve seen you when you’re much more animated. Kind of funny, because I know how guarded you can be, too. But you didn’t seem guarded this morning. You seemed distracted, like something was bugging you. I hate the thought that something has thrown you.”

  “It’s stupid,” she answers quickly, as if she’s trying to dismiss what’s on her mind.

  “Stupid or not, do you want to talk about it?”

  She drops her pen on her desk. “My ex never noticed if I was distracted. He never asked if I wanted to talk about bad days. Why do you have to be
so sweet?”

  “Would you prefer me sour?”

  “I would prefer we weren’t so clearly ice cream and hot pepper that tastes surprisingly good.”

  I laugh. “I’d like to try that combo.”

  “Me, too,” she says with a heavy sigh. Once she blows out all the air in the world, she squares her shoulders and speaks in a rush. “Kevin’s going to Sierra’s wedding this Thursday, and he emailed me asking me to come say hi to him and Shelly, the skank he cheated on me with, and honestly, it made me wonder if I’m just kind of . . .” She slows down, the last words coming out dejectedly, “Bad at relationships.”

  I furrow my brow. “How does that make you bad at relationships?”

  She shrugs sadly. “I don’t know. Like I said, it’s stupid.”

  I hate that she’s down on herself, especially because of that guy. “Kevin is a dickhead douche ass-wipe who doesn’t like room service and thinks he can still be your buddy. That doesn’t make you bad at anything.”

  “Except judging character?”

  I stare pointedly at her. “His mistake. His fuckup. Not yours. Don’t let him get you down.”

  “You’re right. I shouldn’t let him bother me.”

  I point at her, nodding firmly. “Precisely. That jackass cheating on you makes him bad at relationships and unworthy of you. You not wanting to make small talk with him and his skank makes you normal.”

  She laughs lightly. “I guess his note made me feel foolish. But it also made me think about this other guy, too. This guy I really like . . .”

  My ears prick. “The ice cream and pepper guy?”

  “Yes. But I can’t be with him, so that’s a bit of a bummer. I suppose that’s what bothers me more, to be honest.”

  My heart hurts a little. I want to reach across the desk and squeeze her hand in mine. “Would it make you feel any better if you knew he was bummed, too?”

  She leans back in her chair. “We’ll be bummed together.”

  Together.

  That last word rings in my ears.

  It’s what I want. To find a way to be together with her. I don’t have any grand plans, I haven’t concocted some brilliant scheme for the long run.

  But for the short term? I have one hell of an idea.

  I drum my fingers on the wood of her desk as the wheels turn in my head. Faster, picking up speed, because this wedding is a chance for something else entirely. Something that’s not about her ex and his stupid comments.

  Something about us.

  A plan forms as I imagine Jillian wearing a sexy dress, black heels, her hair all done up. She’d be stunning, like she is every time I see her. “Did I ever tell you about the time I was invited to Sierra’s wedding, too, and forgot to RSVP?”

  She lifts a brow in curiosity. “I don’t believe I’m familiar with that tale. Go on.”

  “If memory serves, an invitation arrived a month or so ago, and I did this thing I often do with mail.”

  “You forgot about it?”

  “Yes, but now I’m not forgetting about it. I’m thinking Sierra likes me. Sierra’s a cool chick. Sierra probably wouldn’t mind if I said I was so very sorry for the late response, but that I’d love to attend her nuptials.”

  “You would?” Her voice is breathy.

  My gaze locks with hers. “I would love to attend. I hear one of the other guests is someone I’ve been trying to steal a moment with here or there.”

  “I’m going with Katie. She’s my plus-one.”

  “Even better.” The train rattles faster down the tracks. “I’ve no doubt I can convince Harlan to go with me.” I smile wickedly, pleased with my plan. “Me with my friend. You with your friend. No one would think I was only going to see how pretty you’d look all dressed up. And maybe to sneak a dance with you.”

  Sparks dance across her eyes as they glitter with the thrill of a secret date in the most unlikely of places—a place where no one would suspect us. We’d be hiding a tree in a forest, and a date like this is much safer than a late night rendezvous at her place or mine, someplace where a photographer, a fan, a paparazzo might see one of us slipping in or out.

  Lowering her voice, she speaks ever-so-softly. “I want a stolen moment with you. I want a dance with you. Do you think it’s a good idea, though?”

  I inch closer, placing my elbows on the edge of her desk. “I think not having a dance with you is a bad idea.”

  I’d like to grab her, kiss her across the desk, haul her next to me. I’d like to slam the door and get my hands all over her.

  But our hazy, flirty moment severs when someone knocks on the door. I straighten in the chair, pushing farther away from her desk.

  Lily strides in, her flaming red hair and big personality lighting up the room. One of her hands is positioned behind her back. “Jones! That was an epic catch yesterday. I saw it all over the highlight reels last night and today, too.”

  “Just doing my job.”

  “And love the J. Love it, love it, love it. It’s the perfect mix of cocky and cute.”

  “That’s me. The two Cs.”

  “I heard you were here, so I have a surprise.” She whips her hand from behind her back to brandish a calendar. “It’s a sample of the calendar for our approval, and it’s stunning. The two of you did amazing work,” Lily says, pointing from Jillian to me.

  Jillian hurries around to the front of the desk, and the three of us crowd together as Lily flips through the pages of me with pussycats and puppies. Jillian’s hair falls loosely over her shoulders, like a silky curtain, and I curl my fingers into fists to refrain from touching it. With her this close to me, it’s a five-star feat of resistance that I somehow don’t bend my nose closer to sneak a whiff of her shampoo.

  As we flick through the pictures shot in Miami, Jillian’s breath catches, and one syllable seems to escape in a faintly sultry, “Oh.”

  Lily cocks her head, her eyebrow arched in question.

  A splash of pink races across Jillian’s cheeks. “Oh, these are so fantastic,” she says, her tone as cheery as can be.

  Lily taps the November photo. “Yes! Fantastic! These are my favorites. You look so happy, so relaxed.”

  I chime in, speaking the full truth. “I was very happy.”

  Jillian’s eyes flutter closed for a brief second. “They’re all great.”

  When we reach the December shot, Lily shuts the calendar. “I want to have a little party in a few weeks to celebrate. Maybe a fun little photo op at a local restaurant. What do you say, Jillian?”

  Jillian nods, her tone crisp and cool. “Yes, that sounds like a great idea.”

  Lily leaves and Jillian turns to me, her shoulders sagging, letting out a deep exhalation. “I felt like I was caught stealing.”

  “But you weren’t,” I say under my breath.

  “I know, but it felt like we were close. And I don’t know how much longer I can pull this off.”

  I can’t argue with that.

  24

  Jillian

  It’s official. I’ve worn a hole in the carpet in my office from pacing from the window to my desk. It’s a five-foot-long stretch, and the effort is all the more amazing considering it only took a day.

  For the last twenty-four hours, I’ve mastered the art of pacing, along with stressing, along with worrying. I’ve also considered entering myself in a lip-synching contest because I’ve spent so much time mouthing words silently as I pace. For instance, consider these potential winners.

  “Lily, I need to tell you something crazy . . .”

  “Well, it’s kind of a funny story . . .”

  “Guess what? That player who’s known for being a playa? I want him to play with me.”

  Ugh.

  I sigh so deeply, the sound of my frustration burrows underground. They are all sucktastic. None fit the bill for broaching a touchy topic with my boss.

  Touchy with a capital T.

  But I meant it when I told Jones I’m not sure how much longer
I can pull this off. How many secret dates, stolen moments, or hallway encounters can my nerves sustain?

  Or my conscience, for that matter.

  That’s the bigger issue, and in the last several hours it’s been an insistent drumbeat, telling me to do something, say something.

  I don’t know if Jones and I will ever amount to anything, but I admire Lily. I respect Lily, and I don’t want to keep lying to her.

  It feels all kinds of wrong. Lily taught me better. She mentored me better, and whether Jones and I can ever be together isn’t the concern gnawing at my heart. What’s eating away at me is the fact that I don’t want to be a person who sneaks around.

  I want to find a way to come clean, no matter what awaits with him—if anything—on the other side.

  I sink down in my desk chair, swiveling to the window and the view of the San Francisco skyline, the cresting hills of Pacific Heights, the choppy dark blue water of the bay, and the brilliant rust-colored bridge that majestically spans the seas.

  I’m lucky to have this view.

  I’m lucky to have this job.

  I’m lucky to have this wonderful life.

  Am I going to risk it all for a guy?

  How could a man be worth it? Is it even possible that this feeling in my chest—this sense of champagne and wonder when he’s nearby—is worth gambling what I’ve worked so hard for?

  My throat catches, and I swallow down another lump as I reach for a framed photo on my desk—a picture of my mom and dad lifting wine glasses at the camera as they shot a selfie in Florence for me.

  They went to Italy a few months before her heart attack, rode bikes across Tuscany, visited the Uffizi Gallery in Florence. When they learned of my very first promotion with the Renegades while traveling, they shot this photo for me. Running my thumb over the glass frame, I want to ask my mom what to do.