Most Likely To Score Read online

  That gives me quiet time to get a head start on the day. At my desk, I pop in my earbuds, and turn on my favorite playlist, starting with Bishop’s “Be My Love.” I dive into my emails, including one from my friend Jess in Los Angeles, who I’ve mentored. She’s coming to town soon and would love to get together. I write back in all caps and with exclamation points then tackle my messages from reporters. With training camp starting in a few weeks, questions are pouring in. Which rookies will get playing time? Will we re-sign our star running back, Harlan Taylor? How has our quarterback, Cooper Armstrong, been looking in the off-season? That last question comes from Sierra Franklin, one of the local TV reporters who also hosted the bachelor charity auction I organized last year. Funny thing about that auction—she met her fiancé that same evening. He worked at the hotel where the auction was held, and they hit it off and are getting married in September.

  I write back.

  Cooper looks amazing, but not as amazing as I know you’ll be in your wedding dress. You’re going to be a beautiful bride! Can’t wait for your big day!

  I clean out the rest of my inbox, and I’m powering through my morning round of press clippings when my boss, Lily, calls me into her office. Leaving my earbuds and phone behind, I head down the hall, knock on her door, and push it open the rest of the way.

  She’s a whirling dervish, radiating fire and excitement. I adore Lily. Her drive and tenacity are unparalleled. She stands at her desk, bracelets jangling on her wrists, wild red hair thick with springy curls, her green shirtsleeves billowing as she stabs the computer monitor.

  “Look,” she shouts, poking the screen again. “Look at this.”

  I step closer, train my gaze to the screen, then pump a fist. “Yes.”

  She sashays over to me on her four-inch platform heels, doing a victory dance and offering her hand to high-five. I smack back.

  She grabs my shoulders for emphasis. “Cover. He’s the freaking cover. Sporting World just sent me a sneak preview. The issue runs in a few days, and you did it.”

  Did I? Or did Jones, with his insanely photogenic style? I simply attended the shoot.

  I give credit where it’s due. “It’s all Jones. He truly knows how to work it.”

  She waves a hand. “These men. They might have God-given talent, but don’t let them take all the credit. You pitched the right guy.”

  I shrug happily. “Fine. We rock,” I say with a proud smile, then I look at the winning shot. An amusing scowl graces his face, and an intense glare marks his blue eyes, making him appear tough as nails, untouchable even, like he is on the field most of the time. He’s pulled footballs out of the air that should have been incomplete passes. He’s saved potential interceptions on countless occasions. And he’s fought off the scariest defensive coverage, scrambling, doubling back, and finding the holes so he could catch and cradle the ball.

  He’s fearless, focused, and fast as hell on his feet.

  Lily drops into her cushy leather chair, sighing happily as she twirls in the seat. “I feel like I could celebrate with a full-fat latte.”

  I laugh as I grab a seat. “Now you’re really going crazy.” Lily is the queen of skinny lattes.

  “This is such a popular issue, and I also love that finally Jones Beckett is in the spotlight for something other than the size of his prick.”

  My jaw itches to drop at her bluntness. But in PR, you learn to keep a smile on your face nearly all the time. I show no reaction, even though she’s totally right.

  “Remember Chelsea?” she asks, as if I could forget.

  I smile sarcastically. “Good old Chelsea, queen of the naughty selfie.”

  Lily laughs, dragging her hand through her copper curls. “And how about Annika Van der Holden?” she asks, referring to one of the models he was seen with, as she continues taking a stroll down Jones’s Most Notorious Press Moments Lane. “Do you remember that shot?”

  Inside, I cringe as the memory of Jones, holding a bottle of champagne and planting a kiss on the twig’s cheek, flashes before me. I mean, the very lovely model. Who wore a vagina-length dress in the photo.

  “I do remember it. I wanted to buy her a new dress, maybe put a coat on her shoulders.”

  Lily smacks her desk. “You and me both. And then there was the shot of him, his asshole agent, Chuck Margulies, and some random topless woman sticking their heads out of the sunroof in a limo. Although, in the topless woman’s case, it was more than her head sticking out the sunroof.” She points to the screen, her bracelets jingling a pretty tune. “But this? This is what we want.”

  Our marching orders for the last few years have been to maintain a pristine image for the team. We’ve had a good run. Our starting quarterback is engaged to the girl he’s loved his whole life, and they’re both huge charity supporters. Our kicker is involved in literacy efforts in the city. While Jones is a generous supporter of charity like most of the guys, his wild-child status, not to mention getting caught in the crossfire in the fiasco with his agent, has tainted his coverage. Maybe the body issue can help rehab that image.

  Which brings me to something I need and want from my boss.

  My pet project, so to speak.

  Our players work on many charitable endeavors, but I’m also allowed to shepherd a project each year. I’ve organized an annual bachelor auction that’s been a huge hit, but with the quarterback now off the market, I might need to shift to a new effort.

  I have one.

  I clear my throat. “There’s something I’d like to work on, Lily. It intersects with what we’ve been talking about. We haven’t done this before, but I’ve been researching, and I think it could be an amazing charity project.”

  “Do tell.”

  When I share the details, her eyes light up. She stabs her desk with a manicured finger. “Yes. Do that. But I think it should be with one guy. One who would benefit most from this.”

  I tense. “And who would that be?”

  She smiles, nodding to the screen.

  Equal parts excitement and nerves flare through me. Working that closely with Jones can’t possibly be good for my libido. I’ll have to double down, triple down on my stony-faced stoicism in the presence of his hotness, and that won’t be easy.

  But working that closely with him might be very good for my job, so I’ll have to find a way. “I’ll put together a proposal for him.”

  I rise and make my way to the door, when Lily calls out, “By the way, the VP of publicity post is opening up in the fall.”

  I blink and square my shoulders.

  “I’d love to see you land the job,” she adds with a knowing smile when I turn around.

  My heart zips through the sky. There’s nothing I want more than to keep moving up, and the chance to rise from director of publicity to VP is tremendous. “It’s open? You think I can nab it?” My question comes out as a squeak. I can’t wait to tell my dad. He’s going to be so excited.

  She smiles broadly. “A project like this can go a long way toward making a case with the GM for why it should be you.”

  I nod enthusiastically as a million ideas for magazine pitches, photo ops, and fundraisers flash through my brain. “I’ll reach out to Jones right away.”

  Screw my libido. He might be the path to a promotion.

  5

  Jones

  The ball arcs majestically, curving through the blue sky then landing with a soft thunk on the green, five feet away from the flag for the eighth hole. I pump a fist and head to the little white orb that tortures me most days on the links. My dirty little secret? I suck at golf. But I love it. Just fucking love it.

  “You get this hole-in-two, and I’m landing you a job on the PGA tour,” Ford says.

  I roll my eyes. “If you can land me a job playing golf, then you should find a gig for one of your golf pros running pass routes.”

  “And maybe you can nab me a job as the closer for the San Francisco Giants,” Trevor chimes in.

  Ford brandishes hi
s golf club at my brother like a magic wand. “Abracadabra. You now have a hundred-mile-per-hour wicked curveball.” He turns and shoots me a serious stare. “For the record, all my magic tricks are legal. Everything is one hundred percent above board in my business.”

  “As it better be.” I head to the ball, lining up the shot.

  My previous agent, and the money manager he worked with, are in prison now for embezzlement. Turned out my agent wasn’t actually investing the money from my contract like I hired him to do. Nope. The bastard furnished false financial statements to make it only look like my money was turning into more money.

  In reality, he gambled it. Then gambled some more. Then used more to pay those gambling debts. The manager helped him cover it all up.

  Poof. Millions of dollars up in smoke.

  That’s a bitter pill to swallow.

  I was wary of signing with any agent again, but my buddy Cooper convinced me, since he’s worked with Ford his whole career. I need someone who is above board, without question. But we’re still learning how to work together, and I’m not sure I trust him, or anyone, for that matter, who isn’t related to me.

  “All I want is to know that the money I earn goes to me and to my family. That’s all I need,” I tell him, since I’m well aware of what it’s like to not have it. When I was growing up, my dad worked as a truck driver and my mom was a nurse. With four kids to feed and a house that was mortgaged to the hilt, money was stretched thin in those years, but they made it all work somehow and still made sure the four of us went to college, thanks to loan after loan after loan.

  Fortunately, I nabbed a scholarship, so my school was paid for. After graduation, when I was drafted in the fourth round, I didn’t earn the highest signing bonus or the fattest contract, but it was more than enough to pay off the loans for my brothers and my sister.

  And my parents’ mortgage.

  And then to buy a new home for them.

  That’s just what you do. When you get that kind of jack at age twenty-three and your parents worked their asses off your whole life, you buy them a new home.

  Despite what happened with my agent, none of the Becketts are suffering. We’re all doing just fine, thank you very much. But still, I don’t like that a whole heap of my hard-earned dough was siphoned off.

  I want to protect what I earn so my family is taken care of, and so I’m taken care of when I can no longer play. One wrong step, one illegal hit, and you can be toast.

  You need to sock your money away while it’s coming in, because the gravy train can end on any given Sunday.

  Ford swings his club like a pendulum. The man is a torrent of energy; stillness is anathema to him. “I hear you loud and clear. You know that’s what I’m already doing on your behalf. But I want to turn things around for you. I’m talking to some brands. It’s high time we start getting you some marquee sponsorships to match your star power.”

  That was another thing that had vanished. Deals my agent lined up for me went belly-up. I was radioactive, right along with Chuck and his money manager. “That’s all well and good, but Margulies promised that, too, and no one wanted to do business with me after working with him. You really think you can pull off sponsorship deals?”

  Ford stops mid-swing then drops his club. “Yes. That is my job, and I take it seriously. And you aren’t with Margulies anymore. You’re with me.”

  “I need you to be clear with me on what they want and don’t want. Margulies set me up with an energy drink company two years ago, and he said they didn’t care what I did. There were no clauses or whatnot. Then boom—a picture of Annika and me leaving a club shows up”—I mime slicing my throat—“and it wasn’t even the shot where she had the bottle of champagne in her hand.”

  “Exactly,” Trevor adds, leaning on his club. “It was a guilt by association thing, and they dropped him, and that’s why we need you to be upfront about this. You need to set the expectations.”

  “I will,” Ford says. “You have my word.”

  “And I need to know everything,” Trevor says to Ford. “That’s why I’m here. That’s why I’m involved this time around. It’s my job to look out for my brother and make sure he doesn’t run into the same shady shit as before. I’m going to vet everything. Be his eyes and ears.”

  Ford spreads his hands to show there’s nothing up his sleeves. “Whatever you need. I want this to be an open book. No back-room deals, no shenanigans, no secrets.” Ford looks to me. “You need me to go through Trevor, we’ll do that.”

  I glance at my brother. He gives me a meaningful look that says I’ve got your back.

  “Let me deliver this hole-in-two, and then you can tell me about these deals.” I tap the ball and bam—it rolls beautifully into the hole.

  Lucky me.

  After we finish up the round, we amble off the course, heading for our cars. Ford tugs off his golf glove at the edge of the parking lot. “Listen, I have a new company I’m talking to. A quick-serve food chain that makes all organic food. Tofu and kale and all that good-for-you green shit you probably love.”

  I grin. “Of course I eat organic. How the hell do you think I’m as durable as I am? No corn chips or fried crap for me.” I flex a bicep.

  “But beer counts?” Ford says with a wink.

  I laugh. “Beer always counts. It’s like a tax exemption. Same for chocolate chip cookies.”

  “Excellent. Glad to see you have your priorities straight. I’m all for making the most of those, too.” Ford tosses the glove into his bag. “In any case, this deal could be good for you. I’m going to keep talking and see what they’re looking for, but listen, it’ll help your cause if we don’t see any more shots of you and half-dressed women hanging out the sunroofs of limos.”

  “I think half-dressed is an understatement.” I heave a sigh. “Also, that was a long time ago.”

  Ford points at me. “And elephants have long memories. If you can keep that party-boy image of yours in the rearview mirror, we can get some sweet deals. Make you a golden boy. America’s sweetheart. Earn back some of the money that was stolen. Be patient, and I’ll make sure you’re taken care of,” he says, clapping my back then shaking Trevor’s hand. “Now, I need to go and do my job, and I will keep you both apprised.”

  Ford takes off, and as I slide into my sleek black Mercedes, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I grab it, and a very pretty face appears on the screen. Long, silky black hair, milk-chocolate eyes, pretty lips like a bow. I snapped the picture of Jillian at an event last year when she was standing at a table in the corner, nursing a club soda and looking pensive.

  “Jones, did you just take a picture of me?” she’d said, when she noticed me holding up my phone.

  “Yes, it’s a free country.”

  “Let me see it.” She made grabby hands.

  “See. You look all serious,” I’d said as I showed her.

  “I look mad.” She parked a hand on her hip. “Take another where I look happy.”

  I shook my head. “Nope. This angry face will make me answer the phone when you call because I’ll think you’re pissed at me.”

  “And that entices you to pick up?”

  “Hell, yeah. There’s nothing as motivating as a woman ready to tan your hide. Just ask my mom. Jones Edward Andrew Beckett, get inside.”

  “Should I use your full name, then, any time you’re in trouble?”

  “Please do,” I’d said, then I winked and walked away.

  But I’d answer Jillian’s call no matter what picture I had for her contact. Trevor gets into the passenger seat as I bring the phone to my ear. “Good afternoon, Jillian, and yes, if you continue to insist over and over, I will take you out to dinner tonight at the fanciest restaurant in San Francisco, and you can make a pitch for why you want me to be your boy toy.” I heave a sigh. “But I must warn you, it’ll have to be a good pitch.”

  Trevor shakes his head, clearly amused, while Jillian laughs on the phone. “Whew. I’m relieved. I already h
ave the new Gabriel’s restaurant reserved.”

  “Please make sure it’s a private table in the back.”

  “As if I’d book anything else for you.”

  “All right, then. Lay it on me.”

  Her voice turns more serious. “Actually, I do have an offer I want to run past you. That’s why I’m calling.”

  My ears prick. “An offer? Fine, if you won’t be my bride, I’m still willing to service your needs every night.”

  “You’re relentless, you know?”

  “I do believe that’s how ESPN described how I chase down the ball. Jones Beckett is relentless downfield, watching his quarterback like a hawk circling prey, ready to swoop out of any formation and use those panther-like paws to catch nearly any throw. That was a nice article. But do panthers catch footballs?”

  “I don’t know, but I do believe they have large paws. Speaking of animals, that’s why I called. I know you like dogs because I’ve seen your beer show with your brother and Cletus, but do you like cats, too?”

  “Making a pussycat purr is my favorite thing to do.”

  She chuckles. “Good. I have a proposition for you.”

  “The answer is yes. I’ll come over to your house, and you can introduce me to your half dozen exotic cats.”

  “Do I look like a crazy cat lady?”

  I shrug. “I prefer not to pigeonhole cat lovers. You might very well be a crazy cat lady in the guise of a sharp, brilliant publicist.”

  She ignores the last comment.

  “Can you meet me tonight at eight?” She gives me a location. Huh. She was serious when she said Gabriel’s. That place is sweet. “And I have a private table reserved. I don’t want diners taking pictures of you.”

  I’m tempted to make a joke, to tell her she can snap any kind of photo of me she wants, but given my track record and her serious tone, I decide to leave that one untouched.