Most Valuable Playboy Page 3

  This is finally my chance, and I can’t jeopardize it.

  Besides, players get hit on. It’s a fact of life in pro ball, and one I can’t complain about. Any of the guys could walk into a bar and come out with numbers, panties, and a woman on each arm. It’s just the way it goes. Hell, I’m about to walk on stage and play to that very mentality. I drag a hand through my hair, trying to shake off Maxine’s attempts to turn me into her boy toy. Best to put her out of my mind. “I’m good.”

  I square my shoulders. Just deal with it. That’s what I’ve always done. Face life’s challenges with a smile and don’t fucking complain.

  3

  “Sold! To the woman in the pink dress for thirty-four hundred dollars. Enjoy your night with the kicker.”

  Rick waves to the crowd and heads backstage, holding out a palm. “Pay up, fuckers. I went for more than a six-pack.” He taps his head. “Brains and beauty for the win.”

  Jones and I smack his palm, laughing, as Harlan heads to the stage.

  The auburn-haired sports reporter Sierra Franklin is hosting the auction. She brings the mic to her mouth and gestures grandly to Harlan as the rest of us watch from the wings.

  “Let’s give it up for the Renegades running back. He’s one of the leaders in the league in running touchdowns the last two years, but he also is known for his foosball skills,” she says to the ballroom full of women decked out in little black dresses, or in tight jeans and sky-high heels with sexy tops sloping off shoulders. A few wear Santa hats and wave sprigs of mistletoe above their heads. A couple of men can be spotted in the crowd, too. “When Harlan’s not busy tearing it up on the turf, you can find him flicking the poles at a local foosball league. Plus, just look at all that hair.”

  Harlan shakes out his long, golden-blond hair.

  Sierra claws at the air. “He’s like a beautiful lion.”

  Someone from a table in the front cheers, and another woman roars like a lioness, then shouts, “I want the king of the jungle to be mine.”

  I nudge Jones and whisper. “King of the Jungle. Damn, that’s good. We need to use that, stat.”

  He holds up a fist for bumping. “You know it. And he does have a lovely mane, Coop.”

  I laugh. “So lush and pretty.”

  “I must get his shampoo recommendation.” Jones runs a hand over his own short, dark hair.

  “You be sure to share.”

  From our spot backstage, we watch as Sierra opens the bidding on Harlan and his golden mane. The cheering woman from the front lifts her paddle to offer three hundred dollars, while the gal who imitated the queen of the pride weighs in with four hundred. Quickly, the bidding escalates. As the women shout increasingly bigger numbers, Harlan preens on stage, but that’s the name of the game.

  Jillian paces near us in the wings. She’s a ball of tension, mouthing the numbers to herself, adding up the take for charity. Jones crosses the few feet over to her. “You’re doing good,” he whispers.

  She flashes a smile and lets out a breath. “Thank you. But I’m still counting on you for a big haul.” She taps his chest.

  “Don’t worry. It’ll be unreal,” he says.

  “The team management is matching the bids for the players. We can bring in so much tonight for the hospital. It would be an amazing thing to do for them, and it helps the team’s image.”

  The Renegades already have a pristine image, since the management and coach run a tight ship, but Jillian wants to keep it that way.

  “We will do everything we can to keep up the pace,” Jones says.

  Sure enough, when Jones heads to the stage after Harlan scores a winning bid of thirty-three hundred dollars, the man eats it up. Jones removes his jacket, letting it hang on his shoulder so everyone can see his broad frame. That’s fair play. I used that move last year. The pose just works. Violet once said that a well-tailored suit is to women what lingerie is to men. If the ladies love suits as much as I love pretty, lacy little things on the fairer sex, that’ll be good for the fundraiser.

  “Jones Beckett is known as The Hands, and with good reason. Look at those hands,” Sierra says with a whistle of admiration.

  From my vantage point, I see Jones hold up his massive paws. The dude was born to catch. His hands are ginormous, and they can wrap around a football. They’re also like a homing beacon for a long, beautiful pass downfield.

  “And the fingers. My God, those fingers,” Sierra adds, fanning herself as the crowd goes apeshit.

  Someone leans close to my ear, and I tense instantly, worried it’s Maxine. Then I relax when she says softly, “What is it about bidding on men that turns women into animals?”

  It’s Violet.

  “You tell me,” I say quietly.

  She laughs. “I think it’s the role reversal. The idea that for so long women have been ogled and now they finally get to turn the tables. It’s the Magic Mike effect.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That movie had a huge turnout of women in groups in its opening weekend. Women went with friends and sisters for girls’ night out. It’s not that different from when women go to strip clubs. They travel in packs, and they have fun with each other. It’s not sad and depressing. It’s female bonding.”

  “Then maybe a pack of ladies will bond together to bid on me. I did ask Holly to have her friends toss some bills my direction.”

  She nudges my side. “Stop it. You don’t need my sister-in-law’s friends. You’ll be fighting off the women.”

  “Yeah, that’s the issue, as I’ve just learned,” I say with a heavy sigh, more open with her, since she’s not programmed to hassle me like my buddies are.

  She raises an eyebrow in a silent question. But the noise from the front drowns us out when a bidding war for Jones escalates quickly. Numbers fly back and forth at light speed. Finally, the winning woman lands a date with Jones for forty-four fifty. Damn, that’s a sweet number, and well above last year. Jillian cheers and gives him a hug when he returns backstage as Sierra chats with the audience, tossing out questions to the crowd.

  Violet grabs my elbow. Her eyes are serious. “Is everything okay? Did something happen with Maxine? You mentioned her before you left the suite.”

  Sierra calls out to me, and I step toward the stage, my voice going deadpan as I answer Violet quietly, “I wouldn’t use the term okay to describe my interaction with her.”

  “What happened?”

  I hate complaining. I hate being this guy. But I would do just about anything to escape Maxine. “Let’s just say I’d rather ride the bench again than have her win.”

  Now, it’s my turn.

  I turn around, stroll onto the stage, and wave to the crowd. The ballroom is stuffed full of people with happy shining faces and eager generosity. It warms the cockles of my heart to see so many here to help us give back. Yeah, I don’t know what cockles are, either, but mine are toasty, and our fans are amazing.

  I give Sierra a peck on the cheek. Her eyelids flutter, and she clasps her hand to her cheek. “I’ll never wash this cheek again,” she says to the crowd, and laughter bounces across the big room. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, for the pièce de résistance, this year’s starting quarterback at long last, and the winner of the Most Valuable Playboy auction the last three years in a row. After all, who wouldn’t want to take this handsome and talented man out for a night on the town? Everyone loves the quarterback.”

  Someone scoffs. “He wasn’t the quarterback the last few years.”

  With a wink, Sierra expertly pivots to the positive. “And now we’re lucky to have him at the helm.”

  I lean into the mic. “And it’s an honor to have stepped into the shoes of a legend. I will keep doing everything I can to make the fans proud.”

  Sierra smiles approvingly.

  A high-pitched voice from the middle of the room shouts, “We love you, Coop! Win this weekend.”

  “I’ll do my best,” I say with a smile.

  “You always do,
” Sierra says.

  Someone else boos, and I see it’s a guy in the crowd wearing a Jeff Grant jersey. “We want Grant the Greatest back.”

  I give a grin, since this is all par for the course. “I bet he’d be hard to talk off his fifty-foot yacht, where he’s enjoying a well-earned retirement.”

  “He is indeed,” Sierra says, smoothly steering the event like she has all evening. “So let’s get to know Cooper Armstrong. How does that sound to all of you?”

  More cheers than jeers erupt so I take that as my cue to remove the jacket. That earns me some hollers of “nice vest!” I glance to the wings, and Violet gives me a thumbs-up, mouthing vests are hot.

  “Cooper is six-four, with light brown eyes and dark brown hair. And, are his cheekbones to die for, or what?” I flash a smile, enjoying her compliments. “In addition to his sixty-three percent pass completion rate so far this season, Cooper can make a mean chicken stir-fry, a fantastic jambalaya, and he’s also been known to wow dinner guests with his penne pasta.” Sierra pauses to wiggle her eyebrows. “There’s just something sexy about a man who can cook, am I right, or am I right?”

  “You can cook for me anytime,” a woman shouts.

  “I’m quite talented in the kitchen,” I add with a wink.

  “A man who can throw like that and cook? I think I might need to toss my hat in the ring.” Sierra throws an imaginary hat, and I decide it’s time to roll up the sleeves. Give ’em forearm to get ’em going. I peel back my cuffs, folding them up, revealing the arms they all like. Why yes, there’s a reason I’ve won the last few years. I play to the crowd. “He also was a superstar in karaoke last year and loves to go on karaoke dates at the local bar.” She brings her hand to her heart. “Cooper, can you sing a little Bon Jovi for us?”

  “Why, I never thought you’d ask, Sierra.” I take the mic and give them the first line of the greatest karaoke song ever, about a guy named Tommy who used to work on the docks.

  Sierra points the mic toward the audience, and they enthusiastically sing the next line about the union on strike.

  I smile, feeling for the first time like I might escape Maxine’s clutches after all. Everything’s going well so far, and the crowd is fantastic. Maybe Maxine was all talk. I don’t even spot her in the sea of people.

  “And now, let the bidding begin,” Sierra declares.

  Trent blows me an exaggerated kiss from his table. Holly waves, too. She was his high school sweetheart, and now she’s his wife. She cups her hands over her mouth and shouts, “Ten bucks for The Coop.”

  Sierra chuckles, then chides them. “Don’t we think he’s worth more than that?”

  Trent lifts his index finger. “Fine, we’ll take him home with us for twenty dollars. He can do yard work.”

  Sierra gives me a serious look. “What do you think, Cooper? Can we get more than twenty dollars for you?”

  I scratch my chin and shrug, giving my best self-deprecating smile. “Hard to say. I did mow lawns in high school, though, so I might have to ask for thirty dollars, just on account of my ability to make the green grass in a garden look so very pretty.”

  Sierra wiggles her eyebrows. “And somehow, a man this handsome makes everything sound like innuendo.”

  I flash a smile.

  “Fifty bucks. But we want a money-back guarantee,” Trent says.

  Holly thrusts her hands in the air, shouting, “He’s coming home with us as the new lawn boy.”

  Sierra peers at the crowd. “What do you say? Would anyone like to bid on an actual date with this star athlete?”

  I shake my head, because hell, I’d love if Trent and Holly won with a fifty-dollar bid. I’d gladly fork over the rest to raise money for the charity.

  Then, I hear someone say, “Three thousand dollars.”

  My blood goes cold at the husky sound. Maxine has powered her way to the front of the crowd, planting herself in the middle of the action.

  Sierra arches a brow. “That’s quite a jump.”

  “He’s worth every penny,” Maxine purrs, her voice bursting with determination.

  My insides coil tightly.

  I can do this. I’m chill. I’m cool. I can fend off Maxine. I’ve done this my whole life—let things roll off me. No father? No problem. No money? Not an issue. No game time? Slap on a happy face and fucking learn everything until it’s your turn.

  I can deal with a handsy, horny, won’t-take-no-for-an-answer woman.

  Especially since others are getting into the bidding now. A brunette in a crisp gray business suit raises her paddle and offers three thousand two hundred fifty dollars. A lady with blue hair and pearls trumps her by one hundred.

  Maxine matches them dollar for dollar. She raises her arm, bidding more and more.

  A guy in jeans and a black turtleneck jumps in. He looks vaguely familiar. Maybe he’s a well-known tech entrepreneur. “I’ll take him for three thousand five hundred dollars.”

  I’d take him at this point, and I’m not into dudes. But Harlan was chill when a man won him, and I could deal with having dinner with this guy, talk about sports and stats and shit. But Maxine wants more than dinner, and I don’t want to keep turning her down over and over, in case her brother decides he doesn’t like me dissing his sister.

  The man keeps vying with her as Sierra plays auctioneer, counting off their bids, while others chime in from time to time like a county fair crowd bidding on my rump roast. The man ups the ante to four thousand, and I bet Jillian is jumping for holiday joy as she adds up the moolah.

  The business suit woman raises a hand, offering forty-one hundred.

  Maxine’s eyes laser in on me, and she slashes an arm through the air. “Five thousand dollars,” she says, jacking the price up by nine hundred and staking her claim. I shudder inside.

  The guy’s eyes widen, and he holds up his hands. “I’m out.”

  My stomach plummets when the business suit woman shakes her head.

  “Going once?” Sierra asks, scanning the tables, looking for perhaps one last big spender. My eyes scan the crowd, too. Hell, maybe I’ll find an escape hatch. A trapdoor to drop into and disappear like in a magic act. Maybe Trent will learn to read my mind. Trent, I’ll cover you for anything you bid. Just raise that hand, name a price, and save me.

  My best friend’s expression is merely curious now as he watches Maxine and Sierra, waiting for the verdict. My opportunity to play yard boy slips through my fingers.

  The look in Maxine’s eyes is pure satisfaction as she waits for the final word. She winks at me, as if we have a secret. Holy shit. She thinks I want this. She thinks I want her to win me.

  A flash of chestnut brown hair in the back catches my attention. A flurry of silver. It’s Violet, hands in the air, wildly flapping over her head in the middle of the ballroom. She brings her finger to her nose. And she’s tapping it, like fucking Santa Claus coming down the chimney, and Harlan tapping his nose to signal his agent, and all the greatest solutions in the universe at once.

  My heart goes crazy.

  It hammers in my chest. This is like finding an open receiver a second before you’re sacked.

  “Going twice,” Sierra says, trailing off as she waits.

  I raise my arm and tap my nose, too. Violet is the only one who knows I need to get out of this jam. She’s the only one I mentioned it to. And she’s the only one now who can save me.

  “Ten thousand dollars.”

  Holy shit. Violet does not mess around with my money. Her eyes widen, as if she’s surprised she bid that high.

  My gaze finds Trent. He’s staring at his sister, slack-jawed.

  Sierra’s smile is bright and wide. “Ten thousand dollars. Do we have ten thousand, one hundred?”

  The room is hushed. Maxine’s expression is blank. She must be shocked. She probably didn’t expect anyone to vie with her to this extent.

  I tap my foot, willing Sierra to close this quickly. Just slam the door shut, please, fucking please.

&n
bsp; “Going once. Going twice.”

  I say a silent prayer. I cross my fingers. I hope.

  Maxine blinks, opens her mouth, and I steel myself for a disgustingly high counter bid.

  But there’s only silence. No words come. Violet has shocked her speechless. This type of bid wasn’t in Maxine’s playbook.

  Sierra raises her arm. “And a night with the quarterback is sold for ten thousand dollars.”

  Talk about a Hail Mary.

  4

  In the movie Bull Durham, the veteran catcher Crash Davis taught a newbie pitcher what to say in interviews. Phrases like play it one day at a time. Just happy to help the team. I want to give it my best and Lord willing, it’ll work out.

  Forget that it’s a movie about baseball. My point is, there’s nothing a baller ever needs to say to the press that hasn’t been covered by the Crash Davis School of Public Relations.

  I channel the fictional legend when Sierra declares she’s gobsmacked.

  “Simply gobsmacked.” Sierra shakes her head like she still can’t fathom this turn of events. She places her hand on my arm. “That’s the highest amount anyone’s ever gone for.”

  And I’ll be paying it all myself. Gladly.

  “I’m just happy to be able to help,” I say.

  “That’s more than helpful. That’s astonishing. In fact, we have a representative here from the Children’s Hospital, Connie Wolfson.”

  Sierra calls a woman onto the stage who strides out from the audience in a prim royal blue suit. Connie shakes my hand, then says, “I’m so grateful. Where is the lovely lady who bid so high on you for such a good cause? I must thank her personally.”

  Yes, me, too. She’s a savior.

  I knew hair stylists were heavenly, but I think Violet might have earned sainthood status today. I’m so jazzed up about this turn of events that I feel buzzed and light-headed as Violet weaves through the crowd, women and men parting like the Red Sea for her. She looks dazed, like maybe she can’t quite believe she pulled this off, either. Trent appears about the same, too, rubbing his eyes, shell-shocked. As Violet walks past Maxine, the woman in red narrows her eyes and folds her arms over her chest.