Most Likely To Score Page 8

  He gestures for me to keep talking. “Tell me about your dad.”

  “You want to hear about my father?” I ask, my brow knitting in curiosity.

  He crosses his arms. “Yes. Contrary to my party-boy reputation and the word on the street about the size of my hands, I have a big heart, too, and I want to know about Mr. Moore. You said he teaches?”

  I can’t help but smile at the way he makes light of himself at the same time he earnestly seems to want to know about me. My heart warms like someone turned on a lamp and it’s glowing, brightening the room. “Yes, he’s an adjunct professor at a community college in Napa, teaching digital journalism to freshmen. He loves it. I think he was antsy being retired and needed something to do with all his energy.”

  “That’s awesome. Good for him to find an outlet like that. Do his students love him?”

  “I get the impression they do. They seem pretty engaged.”

  “And it sounds like he’s chosen wisely when it comes to sports. Did I catch on correctly that he’s a Renegades fan?”

  “He goes to every home game.”

  “I love him already. You’re pretty close to him? You see and talk to him regularly?”

  “Yes, I try to visit him at least every other weekend. We’ve always been close. He’s the person I’ve turned to for career advice over the years. He’s never led me astray.”

  A huge smile crosses Jones’s face. “Love that. Just love it. That’s how it should be, you know? Being able to lean on and depend on your parents, your brothers, your sister.” He tilts his head and scratches his chin. “But I’m curious about something. What did he think you’d do on the drive up?”

  I grumble, “Sleep in the car.”

  “You managed the ride to Stinson the other day without napping. But that was a much shorter drive.”

  I wave a hand and fix on a grin, giving my best perky face. “I won’t fall asleep. I’m wide awake.”

  But in thirty minutes, I’m yawning as we pass the San Rafael exit. As we cross to Novato, my eyes flutter shut.

  True to form, I wake up forty-five minutes later in wine country with my head in Jones’s lap.

  My head is in his lap.

  I don’t move. This might be a dream. I blink. The world is sideways, and Jones’s hand is in my hair. He’s actually running his hand across my hair. Gently. Casually. Sweetly.

  It feels better than it should.

  It feels so incredibly good. Like comfort I didn’t know I needed. Like friendship I wasn’t sure we had.

  I close my eyes, and pretend to sleep until the car pulls into the lot at the winery. This is all I will ever get of him, and I want to savor these last few minutes with his hands on me.

  A curious orange kitten scampers over a wine barrel then climbs to the next one above it, balancing beautifully. He’s like the king of the jungle—or the king of the winery where we’ll shoot today’s picture for the month of March. The winery is attached to a hotel, and we’ll be spending the night here.

  As the humane society rep watches the furry-faced creature, my phone beeps with a text message. I slide it open to see a note from Liam McHenry, the guy who owns Paleo Pet and is overseeing the new deal. He’s arriving any minute, he says. I excuse myself to wait for him out front.

  When a pickup truck pulls up, and a tall, trim, and surprisingly handsome sandy-haired man steps out, I’m surprised he’s Liam. But the license plate—MEOW ARF—is a big tip-off.

  I’m surprised because I expected Liam to have a driver. That’s what I’m accustomed to when guys from big sponsors show up. I figured he’d be sporting a tailored suit, too, rather than jeans and a crisp button-down.

  His smile shows off straight white teeth. “You must be Jillian. Ford Grayson raves about you.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Liam.” We shake hands. “And a little bird told me Cletus raved about your dog food.”

  Running a hand through his hair, Liam laughs. “Man, we are thrilled about Jones. Love that guy. Love his commitment to excellence. To healthy eating. To being the best in every single game. He just delivers on the field, doesn’t he?”

  “You can’t argue with fifteen hundred and two yards for the season and fourteen yards on average per pass,” I say, sharing Jones’s stats from last year. “Not to mention his love of animals. He’ll be a great face for your brand.”

  “I’m stoked, Jillian. When I found out about him and Cletus, I knew he was the guy I needed to take us to the next level.” Liam rubs his hands together. “He’s such a fan favorite already, and we really want to make sure the moms who buy our dog food love him the way we love him.”

  That sparks my curiosity. “Your consumers are mostly moms?”

  “That’s what our research has shown. They’re the ones who seek out the specialty pet food, since they’re usually already into organic food for their kids, and so many dogs and cats these days are just like family.”

  I make a mental note to remind Jones that Paleo Pet sees itself as a family-centric brand. “You need to come see Jones’s co-star today, then. This little kitten will melt your heart, and we can also take a shot of just you and Jones to post on social—something to show you’re now in business with him.” A picture like that can help spread the word about the sponsorship and continue to present Jones in a new light. A true win-win. The calendar teaser shots, though? Those I keep for the team feed.

  I gesture to the door of the winery. Liam quickly strides ahead, holding it open for me. “I’m glad we’re working together, Jillian.”

  “Me, too,” I say, not because Liam is handsome, but because he’s straightforward, confident, and laid-back.

  And fine, it doesn’t hurt that he’s easy on the eyes.

  When we reach the room with the barrels, Jones glances over then does a double take when he sees Liam with me.

  As if he’s surprised for some reason.

  But then the look on his face turns to a scowl.

  I have no idea why he’d be upset with a sponsor, but I’ll have to remind him later to keep on a happy face.

  11

  Jones

  What is this feeling in my chest?

  It’s like a ball of steel lodged in my sternum. I’m tight, a little tense, a bit frustrated.

  It’s not exactly like when we’ve lost a big game, but this is damn close to how I feel when I’m home in January watching the playoffs on TV rather than competing in them. In fact, this is like when I watched our rivals, the Los Angeles Devil Sharks, hoist the Vince Lombardi trophy over their heads last year when they won the Super Bowl.

  “Meow.” From his spot on top of the wine barrel, Smoky bats at my shoulder again with a white paw that was burned in the fires a few months ago. The little dude is now nearly recovered, thanks to the local rescue that found and saved the stray, putting him in a foster home till he’s able to be adopted. I give the cutie a kiss then return him to my shoulder for another shot, as per the photographer’s orders.

  “Perfect! A five-pound kitten perched on a two-hundred-fifty-pound athlete,” the photographer coos as he snaps a shot.

  Briefly, I glance over at Jillian, waiting for her to correct the guy. She knows my stats like the back of her hand and nearly always fires off corrections. But she doesn’t shout he’s two hundred fifty-eight since she’s too busy charming my new sponsor.

  That’s when I know what this emotion is.

  Jealousy.

  Raw, bitter jealousy.

  What the hell? I’m not a jealous guy when it comes to women. Never have been. But then, I’ve never really had the opportunity. Truth be told, I’ve never had a problem winning a woman over, and I’m not aware of a time when I lost out to another dude. Maybe I’ve had a lucky streak, or maybe it’s the gift of being a pro baller. Either way, that’s how it’s been.

  I sure as hell don’t like this feeling when it comes to women, and I despise it when it comes to Jillian. As Smoky clambers over my shoulders while I lean against the wine barrels
, I can’t stop sneaking glances at Liam and Jillian, chatting in the corner. When I tune into their conversation, they’re not even talking about pet food or sports. They’re talking about school because it turns out he went to Stanford, just like her.

  Fuck.

  My ego is a little bit crushed. Now I have to contend with a brainiac CEO who has the good fortune to be a ringer for Ryan Gosling. Clearly, I have no choice but to ham it up. I kiss the orange kitten on the nose, inducing oohs and ahhs and huge smiles from everyone here at the shoot.

  Including Jillian.

  Take that, brainy boy. I’ve got a kitten and I’m not afraid to use it. I smooch the little fellow once more as the photographer encourages me to keep it up. As we move through different poses and set-ups, heading outside to the vineyard for the final round, I might walk a little taller, I might strut a little prouder, and I might generally do my best to make sure the camera—I’m only doing this for the camera—is having a field day with the pussycat and me.

  When the shoot ends—complete with social media pics for the new deal—the kitten stretches in my arms, shuts his eyes, and purrs.

  “You’re a natural charmer,” Liam remarks with an easy smile.

  “Smoky’s the one with all the moves.” As I stroke the critter’s soft head, it occurs to me I could take a clue from him in how to let go.

  Be chill. Be cool. Liam is my new business partner, and I can’t be envious of him, especially since there’s no real reason to be. After I hand off Smoky to the humane society rep, I join Liam and Jillian at the outdoor table on the patio, sliding quickly into chatting about the partnership, upcoming plans, and the next steps with the deal. The entire time, I’m the casual, laid-back guy he hired, not the jealous asshat I was in my head a few minutes ago. As we segue away from business and riff on the toughest defenses in the league, Jillian’s phone rings.

  She picks up and listens then says, “Well, that doesn’t sound very helpful, Dad.”

  A pause comes next, and I eavesdrop on her conversation even while Liam asks a question about the Baltimore secondary.

  “I know you’re terrible at putting things together,” Jillian says. “It’s not something you learned at journalism school.”

  My ears prick with interest, though I still manage to share my thoughts with Liam on that team’s new cornerback.

  Jillian continues, “I’ll come do it.”

  That gets my attention even more.

  “Dad. Let me help you, or at least let me use TaskRabbit and send someone over.” A quick silence follows. “Dad. It’s what they do.”

  I clear my throat, reach across the table to set a hand on her arm, and smile. “I’ll put your dad’s desk together.”

  Her eyes light up. “You will? Are you sure?”

  I nod. “Absolutely.”

  Liam laughs and holds up his hands. “Better him than me. I am not handy.”

  I puff up my chest. “Fortunately, I am.”

  She tells her dad she has a better solution, and he seems to agree to it. I relax for the rest of the conversation dissecting the pass rush, because I have something Liam doesn’t have.

  The chance to help Jillian where she needs it most right now.

  I pat the top of the desk then knock it with a fist. “Sturdy as a three-hundred-fifty-pound lineman,” I say to Aaron Moore. “Wait—this desk is way sturdier.”

  Jillian’s tall, gray-haired father smiles from behind his horn-rimmed glasses as he surveys the newly assembled oak desk in his office. “My, that’s some fine work. And to think Jillian said you were just a pretty face.”

  “Dad!”

  I peer over my shoulder to catch a glimpse of red splashed across her cheeks, as she lounges in a leather chair in the corner of his office. But there’s no denial from either one of them, and I won’t deny, either, that I’m digging the fact that she told her dad she thinks I’m handsome.

  Her dad winks at her then turns to me. “Thanks for doing this. Think it’s cool for me to tell all the guys at the wine bar tonight that the all-pro receiver put together my desk?”

  I smile as I set the screwdrivers in the tool set. “I’d expect nothing less. But only if you mention my pretty face.”

  “Jillian? You don’t mind if I mention to the other fellas that you think Jones Beckett is pretty?”

  Her jaw drops. “Dad! Are you trying to hit a new record for embarrassing me? You do know I work with Jones? As in professionally?”

  Aaron drops his voice to a stage whisper. “Don’t worry. I’ll tell all the other widowers that she said you were a cutie-pie.”

  With a shit-eating grin, I nod. “Deal.”

  He extends a hand. “But seriously, I can’t thank you enough for helping. Ever since my Vivian passed away, I’ve had to tackle all this fixing stuff on my own, and I’m terrible at it.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Your wife was the handy one, sir?”

  He nods proudly, gesturing to their home. “She was. She kicked my butt around the house. Knew how to fix a furnace, rewire a dryer, hang a door.”

  “Damn,” I say with an appreciative whistle as I snap the tool set shut. “That’s impressive.”

  “You’re telling me.” He points to his daughter. “She taught this little lady how to fix a broken sink and how to install a new electrical outlet.”

  “You don’t say? Jillian, you’ve been holding out on me. I had no idea you were so handy. And you didn’t even offer to help me with the new desk.” I pout.

  She tips her chin at her dad as his golden retriever mix slumbers at her feet. “He refuses to accept my help.”

  Her dad jumps in. “She’s my daughter. I can’t let her do that stuff for me,” he says then winks. “Plus, I mostly wanted bragging rights with the guys when she said you’d do it.”

  Jillian points to me. “Besides, you seemed all too happy to fix the desk, which gave me time to answer this pile of emails from reporters wanting to know about you and Paleo Pet, so there.” She takes a beat. “And I made some trades on my fantasy baseball team that’ll put even more distance between my Fire-Breathing Dragons and everyone else.”

  I shoot her a smile, laughing at the name of her fantasy, as I inch the desk a little closer to the wall. “I was happy to do it.” I swipe one hand against the other. “There you go. Jones Beckett, Furniture Assembly Specialist, at your service.”

  “You’re a good man. How can I thank you?” her dad asks.

  I rub a hand along the back of my neck and peer into the hall. The walls are lined with photographs, classic school shots of Jillian from over the years. “I’d really love it if you could show me some pictures of Jillian. Including, but not limited to, shots where she has braces, missing teeth, and terrible haircuts, since then I’ll forever have something to hold over her.”

  Her brown eyes widen. “Jones. You’re a troublemaker!”

  Her father nods enthusiastically, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I’ll show you the whole lot, but bear in mind even with missing front teeth and a haircut she gave herself when she got bubblegum stuck in her bangs, she was still the loveliest kid ever. A ray of sunshine, too. We always used to say we were so damn lucky because we were matched with the happiest kid ever. She smiled all the time. Still does.”

  As if on cue, she demonstrates, and it looks all-natural. It’s the genuine kind that comes from deep within as she listens to her father tell stories.

  “She has a great smile,” I say to him, but I’m looking at her.

  And she’s looking back at me. For a moment, our gazes hold, and I swear something flickers between us that wasn’t there before. She’s lingering longer, looking deeper, keeping her eyes on me more than she has in the past.

  I’ll take that, even though I shouldn’t want it at all.

  But I can’t unwant it, not now, not even in front of her dad.

  He ushers me down the hall, giving me the tour of each school photo hanging on the wall, from her first-grade shot with a bowl
haircut, to her second-grade one with two missing teeth, to a seventh-grade image when she wore braces with light blue rubber bands.

  In every single shot, she flashes a bright, cheerful grin. “I sometimes wonder where that smile came from. I wish I could take credit for it,” Aaron says, tapping a frame.

  “I bet you can, sir. You’re a good father. You bring out that smile by giving her a home and loving your kid.”

  “That’s always been easy, from the first day I met her.”

  He waves me along, showing me some high school shots of her skiing, winning a medal for taking first place in a race, then her graduation shot, with Jillian wearing a cap and gown. “Valedictorian,” he says, pride rich in his tone.

  Jillian follows behind, and when I catch her gaze, she mouths to me, He’s such a dad.

  But she’s not making fun of the guy. She’s simply acknowledging that he’s doing what he’s supposed to do—show off his kid. Near the end of the row of pictures is one last shot that looks to be from her senior year of high school. Her long black hair falls straight over her shoulders, her eyes sparkle, and there’s a confidence in her smile that says she knows she’s going places in life.

  Her father heads to the living room, where the dog has migrated, now snoozing on the couch. “Down, Merlot. Make room for the people.”

  The dog obliges, sliding off the couch and resuming his nap on the floor as her dad grabs a photo album from a shelf under the coffee table. He pats the couch, and I sit next to him, with Jillian on the other side. She peers at the album then groans. “Cue the embarrassment soundtrack now, please,” she says as he flips open to her baby pictures.

  I laugh instantly as I check out the shots of her dressed like a Michelin Man toddler for the winter, complete with rosy red cheeks. “In China, they tend to always think babies are cold,” he explains. “They dress them warmly year-round. When we were there adopting her, it was September, and Chinese women would stop us on the street to say ‘lucky baby’ and ‘baby is cold.’”

  Jillian wraps her arms across her chest and shivers in an over-the-top fashion. “Evidently, I was freezing all the time.”