Most Valuable Playboy

by Lauren Blakely

  Nope.

  That’s why I talk to her like a buddy. Or an appliance, for that matter.

  “Just don’t make me look like a douche,” I say.

  Jones chimes in from his post on the couch. “Yeah, he can do that just fine on his own.”

  Violet glances over at him then back at me as she finishes. “Yes. Fine being the operative word. I’d say Cooper looks quite fine indeed.” She gives me a wink.

  Ha, take that, Jones.

  She shifts her gaze to the couch and our kicker, Rick. I’d like to say he’s our secret weapon, but everyone knows the broody-eyed Stanford grad has the best foot in the league. That right toe of his has hurled the pigskin more than forty yards when he’s needed to, and he’s only missed one field goal so far this season. Harlan’s here, too, his suit jacket hanging over the back of his chair. He’s our star running back, and even though I prefer to throw the ball, I’ll hand off to him, too. He’s escaped hordes of humongous linemen with his quicksilver feet.

  These guys have seen a hell of a lot more action than I have, since they surrounded the Renegades superstar Jeff Grant, who retired last year. Despite the ribbing, they’ve welcomed me as the new quarterback, due in part to the fact that it’s December, we’re sporting a 9–4 record, and we have a real chance to clinch a wild-card spot in my first season as the starter.

  Violet parks her hands on her hips, surveying the guys in the room. “Look at you boys. Such pretty Renegades.” She waves a hand dismissively. “Don’t mind me. I’m just getting into the spirit of objectification for tonight.”

  “You want to bid on me, don’t you, Vi?” Rick calls out, flashing her a gleaming white smile that contrasts with his dark skin.

  “It’s all I can think about,” she says with an over-the-top purr. She leans close to the chrome table, rooting around in her purse. She finds her wallet, flips it open, and shows him a few tens. “Will that be enough for you?”

  “We’re running a discount on Einstein,” Harlan says, scratching his stubbled jaw. “You can have him for a ten and a six-pack.”

  When we found out Rick had earned a perfect score on the Wonderlic, the cognitive test we have to take before the draft, we naturally had no other option than to nickname our resident brainiac kicker after the world’s most famous genius.

  “Hell, I’ll throw in your favorite bottle of wine if you take him off our hands now,” Jones adds.

  Rick rolls his eyes and flips us the bird. “Watch me clean up tonight, just like I have to clean up all your messes on the field when you guys can’t get it in.”

  “I always get it in,” I say, because I can’t resist. He went there first. I turn to Harlan. “Think you’ll find a nice guy to bid on you this year?”

  He scowls and taps the side of his nose. Two years ago, a prominent local businessman placed the winning bid on our running back. Harlan, not being a homophobe, went on a platonic date with the guy. The next year, Harlan’s bids came from nearly all dudes, so during his time on stage he tapped the side of his nose, and his female agent got the message to place the winning bid.

  “Violet, why don’t you save those bills and bid for me?” Harlan asks in his Southern drawl. “I don’t care if I go for less than the others.”

  She laughs and glances at me, raising her hands, like scales. “Hmm. I can’t decide. Cooper, should I bid for Harlan or you? You or Harlan? Are you as cheap as the others?”

  I scoff, lifting my chin. “I’m a premium kind of guy. But if you wanted to bid on me, I’d foot the bill for it.”

  What the hell just came out of my mouth? I’m not angling for Violet to bid on me or anyone else. I like the come-what-may thrill of the auction. It’s worked out pretty well for me in the mutual attraction department three years running, including last year when local news anchor Lourdes Mariano won me, and that black-haired vixen was as unbuttoned in the limo as she was buttoned-up on air.

  I can absolutely live with my decision to stay laser-focused on the game. But I’m a competitive bastard, and I want to emerge victorious.

  “If you’re paying, I’ll be sure to bid sky-high,” Violet says, then she points at Harlan. “You’re next in the hot seat.”

  Harlan taps the arm of the chair. “It is indeed hot.” He doesn’t take his eyes off her when he says that, and my shoulders tense as she moves in front of him.

  I try to ignore his flirty comments as she works on his long hair, but out of the corner of my eye, I notice him inch closer to Violet. Closer than he needs to be. A strange burst of annoyance spreads in my chest as she combs his hair, smoothing and neatening it.

  “Can you cut my hair sometime?” His eyes lock on hers. “What’s the name of your salon?”

  “You are welcome anytime at Heroes and Hairoines,” she says.

  I snap my gaze to the running back. “You know your speed comes from your hair.” I couldn’t give two fucks about the length of his hair, but I don’t want him pulling up a chair in her salon.

  “Dude. You haven’t cut it all season, and we’re winning,” Jones adds, his blue eyes intense, since he’s the keeper of our superstitions, and the four of us have plenty.

  “No shit. I’d wait till the end of the season,” Harlan says, raising his hand to his hair. “Can’t fuck with our luck when we’re so damn close to a playoff slot.”

  “Don’t jinx us.” Jones crosses his fingers. “And don’t cut your hair, man.”

  Harlan makes the sign of the cross on his chest.

  Jones points at Rick. “Einstein chews that pink bubblegum his little sister gave him before every quarter now to make sure we kick ass.”

  Rick raises his chin and nods, agreeing. “And I brush my teeth on the sidelines, too, once I’m done with the gum.”

  “Do you use bubblegum toothpaste too?” Jones asks.

  “Hell yeah. I added that in once Coop started kicking ass in game three. I amped up the whole ritual then, and it’s working.”

  Jones tips his chin at me. “Plus, Cooper has kept the snake in its cage.”

  I point to my crotch. “That’s why we’re winning, I’m sure.” I’m not actually as superstitious as he is, but Jones is my go-to guy on the field, so I respect his feelings.

  The look in his eyes is intensely serious. “You gotta honor the power of the rituals. Don’t mess with them. Don’t fuck with them. Just fucking trust them. Michael Jordan wore his college shorts under his uniform during the whole six years when the Bulls were epic in the nineties. Look at me,” he says, tapping his ankle. “I haven’t changed my game socks all season.”

  Violet crinkles her nose. “How is it you’re still single, Jones?”

  He flashes her a dimpled smile. “Talk about miracles, all right. But it mostly comes from an iron-clad commitment to the cause.”

  A few minutes later, Jillian strides in, looking polished in a dark gray dress, her sleek black hair twisted on her head.

  “You all look gorgeous, as always,” she says, with the crisp and business-like smile that comes with her role as team publicist. “The media is ready and waiting. The crowd is enthusiastic.” She waves her jazz hands to demonstrate. “It’s showtime. Everyone ready?”

  “Yes, we are,” Jones says, and as he chats with her, Harlan pulls me aside, lowering his voice. “Listen, I know Violet is your friend and all, but would you be cool with me—?”

  The cloud of annoyance swells, but before he can finish asking my permission to ask her out, Jillian interrupts. “Gentleman, we have a crowded ballroom. More than three hundred attendees are ready and waiting. We have lots of eager ladies who want to bid on you. A few men, too, and some mighty handsome ones, I might add. I must say the choices look excellent. Let’s head backstage to the ballroom. We start in ten minutes.”

  As the guys file out, Violet calls to me. I stop and turn. She’s a tall woman, and even taller in a pair of black, high-heeled boots that jack her up on those trimmed, toned legs. But I’m six-four, and I easily have six inches on her in t
hose shoes.

  I look down. She reaches a hand up and smooths a strand of hair out of place on my forehead.

  “This is your first year out there as the starting quarterback,” she says with a soft smile.

  I smile. “Crazy, huh?”

  “You’ve killed it every year as the backup. You’re going to kill it harder as the starter. Plus, you’ve played great the first three months.”

  I reach above her head and knock on the wall. “Knock on wood. We need to keep playing great.”

  “You will, because my ritual is intact, too.”

  I arch a brow, curious. “You don’t say. You’ve come to the superstitious side, Vi?”

  Her eyes glint. “I wear my Cooper Armstrong jersey to bed every night and have since your week-three win.”

  “Excellent.” I wag a finger at her. “And it pains me to say this, but no matter how tempted you are, don’t switch to lingerie.”

  She play-punches my shoulder. “Don’t you switch to lingerie, either.”

  I gesture to my chest and down to my thighs. “One hundred percent birthday suit at bedtime.”

  “All right. Get out there. They’ll bid even more this season for a date with the new quarterback.” She takes a beat. “But not if this piece of hair keeps sticking up.” She runs her finger over a strand.

  “I have faith you can fix it for me. Because you’re a miracle worker.”

  “Of course I am, and I can.” She smooths it out over my ear, and it feels better than it should when she touches me. She steps back and observes her handiwork. “Empirically.”

  I smile. “Clinically.”

  She moves her hands to my tie, straightening it. I already did that, but I see no reason to stop her.

  “Hey,” she says, as the corners of her lips turn up. “What do you call an alligator wearing a vest?”

  “I don’t know. What do you call an alligator wearing a vest?” I ask, since Violet likes to tell silly jokes.

  Her eyebrows rise. “An investigator.”

  I laugh. “Good one.”

  She shoos me off. “I need to pack up my supplies, and you need to get your butt to the stage.”

  A husky voice floats down the hall, a smoky alto, belting out the chorus to “It’s Raining Men,” and it makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Maxine,” I hiss.

  She’s the owner’s can’t-keep-her-hands-to-herself sister, and she doesn’t just want men to rain down on her. She wants one guy to fall from the sky into her lap.

  2

  I brace myself as I walk down the hall. I consider my options. Duck into the stairwell to avoid the woman in red? There’s one ten feet ahead. Dart into a closet to hide for a while? Pretty sure I spotted one just beyond the next suite.

  The trouble is, Maxine is sashaying toward me. Her dark eyes are dripping with desire. The sway of her hips tells me she’s not bothering to hide her intentions, and the tune she’s belting makes everything 100 percent clear. She’s at the part in the song where she raises her hands over her head and cries out “hallelujah.”

  God help me now.

  She points at me, that kind of decisive I own you gesture. She flips her black hair off her shoulders, stares, and licks her lips.

  Salaciously.

  As if there’s any other way for her to lick her lips.

  I groan inside. Time to act as if I’m as dumb as a box of rocks. I turn around, as if she must be pointing to someone else. It couldn’t possibly be me, the guy she’s tried to corner after practice, the player she hugs—I’m talking full-body embrace—after every game. But there’s no one behind me, so my dumbass routine won’t work. Nevertheless, I persist. I keep walking with a clueless look on my face, like I’m not the guy she’s trying to drag into her lair.

  Who, me?

  But she’s closing in. That pointing finger of hers curls, beckoning me. She mimes reeling me in. She plants her feet like she’s hoisting her haul onto the deck of the boat. “Cooper Armstrong, do you know who I had dinner with last week?”

  I shake my head and glance at my watch. “I have no clue, Maxine. But I need to get out there. Jillian won’t tolerate tardiness. You know how she is,” I say, trying to make Jillian out to be an ogre.

  Maxine steps closer. She’s a local cabaret singer, as well as a fortune-teller, in addition to being a generous contributor to charities. She was widowed at a young age, and when her much older husband died a little more than a year ago, he left most of his money to a cat shelter and the rest to her. She’s a bit of a puppy dog—or maybe a pit bull. She’s insistent, absolutely persistent, and I'd like to keep her at a distance.

  A handsome woman, she’s ten years older than me, but that’s not the main reason I strive to limbo my way underneath all her advances. She’s the team owner’s sister, and since no one wants to tell the hard-as-nails Jasper Scott that his pit bull puppy peed on the oriental carpet, Maxine gets away with all sorts of antics.

  Like flirting outrageously with the players, a habit she seems to have amped up in the last few months.

  Some players more than others.

  Since Jasper is someone I want on my good side, I’ve done my damnedest to avoid her and avoid pissing him off. The thing about team owners is, well, they can do whatever the hell they want. Jasper Scott’s dream has always been to own an NFL team, and his personnel choices turned the Renegades into a winning franchise. He loves the team ferociously, but he loves it because we win. It’s his sandbox, and I love finally having the chance to play in it. Even though his sister wants to play in mine.

  “I had a lovely dinner with Lourdes last week, and she shared some very interesting details about last year’s holiday auction,” Maxine says.

  I cringe inside but slap on my game face. “Lourdes is a wonderful lady,” I say, my tone even.

  Maxine nods as she runs her finger down my purple tie. Gently, I bat her hand away. She’s undeterred. She grabs it again, grips it, and tries to yank me close. I dig my heels in. Maxine might be a hungry woman, but I’m a determined man. Determined to remain untouched by her. I’d like to stay a Maxine virgin.

  “Lourdes told me you gave her the full auction treatment,” Maxine says, her husky voice thick in the air.

  I stare at the ceiling like I can’t possibly know what that is. “If by full auction treatment, you mean a wonderful, platonic night out and a chaste conversation over Shirley Temples and spaghetti, then yes.”

  She chides me. “Don’t be embarrassed by your needs. You’re a beautiful man. You’re a stallion. She likes stallions. I like stallions.”

  “Stallion?” I shake my head and point at my chest. “Me? A stallion? Nah. I’m . . . more like a pony,” I say, hoping to deflect her interest.

  She hums her approval. “I always loved riding the ponies as a little girl.”

  Dammit. The little pony play didn’t work. She still wants my Rainbow Dash.

  “Correction. More like a miniature pony,” I say, holding up a thumb and forefinger to show a sliver of space. Hell, if the possibility of a Vienna sausage between my legs scares her off, then I will motherfucking perpetuate that lie.

  She giggles. “You’re so humble. I love that about you.”

  I wince. Nothing sticks with her. She’s like anti-Teflon.

  I peer ahead of me and point. “I need to go. I have to try to earn some money for the hospital.”

  She dips her hand into a small purse and waves her Amex card in front of my face. “I can’t wait to do my part. And Jasper will be so happy I’m contributing to the team’s favorite cause.”

  “Jasper’s the best. And on that note, Jillian will have my head on a platter if I’m not backstage right about now.”

  She eats me up with her eyes. “I know what I’d like to have on a platter.”

  I’d really like to tell her I’m not on the menu as an appetizer, main course, or dessert. But now isn’t the time for à la carte hones
ty. Now is the time to get the hell out of the line of fire. Now is the time for the quarterback to scramble. “It’s game time. See you later.”

  I duck around her and trot down the hall in my three-piece suit, rounding the corner as she sings “Santa Claus is Coming to Town.” I find the door to the back of the ballroom as she croons about being good, for goodness’ sake.

  As soon as the door slams shut behind me, I take a deep breath. My buddy Trent is here. He flashes a big grin before he gives me a clap on the back. “Hey, man. I came to wish you well. Can you believe they let riffraff like me back here with you?”

  I manage a small laugh. “Security must be lax tonight.” I lift my chin. “Good to see you. Where’s Holly?”

  He waves behind him, indicating the ballroom beyond the stage. “She’s out front with some of her girlfriends. I’m about to join her, but I wanted to make sure you looked like a proper beauty pageant queen.”

  “Get me a sash and I’m good to go.”

  He rubs his palms, his blue eyes twinkling with mischief. “And now I’m going to enjoy the night out with the wife. There’s little that amuses me more than watching you parade around on stage in the swimsuit competition.”

  I groan. I can only imagine what Maxine would do if she saw me in trunks. Me and my not-a-Vienna-sausage. For a second, I contemplate telling Trent about what just went down. Asking him to bid on me. But I’m not sure I can get the words out without sounding like a desperate ass.

  “Have fun with the wife. If any of her friends want to bid, tell them I’m cheap this year,” I say, because that’s as close as I can get to admit I need help. I’ve never been good at asking for assistance.

  “Dude, you’re always cheap,” he says then takes off.

  As he leaves, I notice Jones is here, leaning against the wall. He narrows his eyes and looks me over. “You okay?”

  I shake my head and catch my breath. I barely ran. Why the hell am I panting? Maybe because I was nearly octopussed. I wouldn’t be surprised if Maxine possessed eight arms. I consider my options. I could pull Jillian aside and ask her to handle it, but I’m not sure what I’d say. Maxine resides in a whole other realm, one without the same rules. The last thing I need is for Jasper Scott to think I have a problem with anything belonging to him—his rules, his team, or his sister.