Most Valuable Playboy

by Lauren Blakely

  Ford shakes his hips. “I can’t just call them and say make him an offer now or we’ll walk. We need to go through the steps of the dance.”

  My chest tightens, and a rare dose of nerves floods through me. I have every faith in the world that Ford knows what he’s doing, but I also want the security that comes with a done deal.

  “So then, keep on dancing,” I say.

  “I will. But to do that, there’s no way we can let on that you lied last night.”

  I cringe at the word lie. “You say that like I didn’t disclose I took hush money from a foreign government.”

  “Did you?”

  “No.”

  “Want me to soften lie for you?” He sketches air quotes. “A fast one? A ploy? A white lie? Do those better suit your sensibilities, superstar?”

  “Fine, fine. A lie. It was a lie,” I admit grudgingly.

  “The point being, you need to keep your dick in your pants, like you’ve done all season because you’re a superstitious motherfucker. And you’ll let me keep dancing with the GM. We don’t need any red flags, any concerns, any issues that make you look like anything but the future of this franchise. That’s what Greenhaven wants you to be, and all personnel decisions are vetted by him.”

  I snap my fingers. “Yeah, speaking of Coach . . .”

  Ford rolls his eyes. “Don’t make me need to take an extra yoga class.”

  I draw a deep breath and tell him what the coach said on the sidelines about a woman being a stabilizing influence on a young man.

  Ford cracks up then beckons for me to come closer, as if he’s going to tell me a secret. “Want to know what I call Greenhaven? Mr. Squeaky Clean. That’s how he operates, and that’s what he wants from you. And that’s what you’re going to be now.” He ticks off items on his fingers. “You’ve got a girlfriend from your hometown, you’ve known her your whole life, and you’re so motherfucking happy. This’ll avert the Maxine problem, and it’ll make the man with the Midas touch happy.”

  “And what are we supposed to do? Parade down Market Street holding hands? Kiss in the stadium after I throw a game-winning pass?”

  Ford’s eyes light up at that one. “I do like game-winning passes.”

  “Yeah, me, too. Shocking, isn’t it?”

  He claps me on the back. “Listen, you don’t need to make a reality show about how you and your new woman like to go on picnics and tandem bicycle rides. All we need are a few dates, a few pictures on Instagram, a few comments in the press. Boom.” He swipes one palm against the other.

  I scowl. “You know I hate all that social media shit, and I don’t even have an Instagram account.” Life is for living, not for living online. I’ve no interest in snapping stories or chatting photos or hashtagging my days away when I can keep my head up and enjoy the real world rather than a screen.

  “Man, I might need to rescind my comment about brains. You honestly think I’d make you handle a social media account? You send me a few pictures, and Tucker will take care of it. My assistant is aces at social shit, and we reserved your Twitter and Instagram handles a long time ago. We’ll just fire it up.”

  Damn. Ford covers all his bases. “Fine.” I heave a sigh and shift gears. “Violet isn’t going to be happy about this.”

  He cocks his head to the side. “Why won’t she be happy? You’re friends. You’ve known her forever.”

  “Hard as it may be to believe, she’s not into me that way.”

  His reaction is instant. Ford doubles over. He grabs his stomach, then sets his palms on his thighs and laughs, cries, and guffaws. Nothing has entertained Ford Grayson quite like that admission. “Oh, that’s a good one. That’s awesome. Tell that to me again. I can’t hear that enough.”

  “By the way, did I mention Stuart Waters called me?” I say casually, naming his biggest rival.

  He straightens, and his eyes turn into pistols. “And you said, ‘No, no, no, never ever. Ford Grayson is my guy.’”

  I laugh, taunting him. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  Ford breathes deeply and raises his arms heavenward. “I am calm. I am a tree. I am peaceful.”

  “No, he didn’t call,” I say. “But thanks for having a laugh at my expense.”

  “It’s karma.” He lowers his arms. “Karma is coming back for you.”

  “How so?”

  “Years of you cleaning up with the ladies. Years of women throwing panties, bras, and stockings at you—”

  “Stockings? When was that?”

  “You can’t even remember the riches the Good Lord rained down? It was the time Tucker and I went with you to the club in that warehouse in SoMa last year. By my count, you had six free drinks sent your way, and we gladly finished them for you while you danced with the ladies. Then a woman threw her fishnets at you.”

  I draw a blank.

  He shakes his head, bemused with me. “You don’t even remember?”

  I scratch my jaw and shrug. “I think you might have mistaken me for someone else when it comes to the fishnet story.”

  “Some other young, cocky rising star I rep who earned a multimillion-dollar contract at age twenty-two to ride the bench and back up a great? It was definitely you, and you took the fishnets home along with the woman who wore them.”

  “Are you sure it wasn’t someone who started games at twenty-two?”

  He shoots me a look. “No one starts at twenty-two.”

  I wave behind me. “Look, those days are in the rearview mirror. I’m not a player off the field anymore. I’m all about the game. The team. Leading the guys to victory. My days of catching fishnets are over.”

  “No fucking shit they are. That’s because your number-one fan”—he taps his heart—“is going to score a big fat payday for you. That four-year rookie contract will pale in comparison. You’ll be buying your mama a couple mansions.” He hands out imaginary dollar bills like he’s holding a fat stack of greenbacks.

  “Jesus, man. You’re as cocky as Einstein.”

  Ford waggles his eyebrows. Rick is his client, too. “And his foot is golden. God, I love kickers and quarterbacks and linemen.” He knocks his knuckles on my head. “Now, listen, you take that smart head of yours and your multimillion-dollar arm, and you keep up the act with your girl.”

  “How long?”

  “At least through the next two games. Maybe longer. But definitely as long as it takes for me to score you the sweetest deal. And meanwhile, you don’t score. You’ve spent the whole season not scoring with chicks so you can score on the field, and far be it from me to mess with your superstitions when they involve your two favorite things.”

  I arch a brow. “What are my two favorite things?”

  “Your dick and football.”

  I smirk. “I plead the fifth.”

  “Does that all sound reasonable to you?”

  “To me? Hell, yeah. But now I have to convince Violet to pretend to be mine.”

  Ford laughs, an eminently satisfied cackle. “This is beautiful. You’re not afraid to run with the ball if you can’t find a man open, but you’re terrified to ask a woman you’ve known your whole life to play fake lovers sitting in a tree k-i-s-s-i-n-g?”

  I scoff. “I’m not terrified.”

  He holds up his thumb and forefinger. “A little afraid, though?”

  I square my shoulders. “Fuck off.”

  I make like I’m leaving.

  “Wait.” He grabs my shoulder. “One favor.”

  “What is it?”

  “Can you record that conversation with her for me? Just so I have something to play back when I need a good laugh?”

  “Why do I let you have three percent of my earnings? Remind me.”

  He waves his arms from the sky to the ground. “Because when I make it rain, you are going to get down on your knees and thank me for making you one of the richest quarterbacks in history. You, Coop, are the real deal, so let’s remember to not fuck this up.” He sobers and stares at me, his blue eyes darkly serious
. “And, also, because I will put my neck on the line for you.”

  And he would. I know that.

  After I say goodbye to Ford, who catches a Lyft, I take a deep breath, pick up my phone, and call Violet. It goes straight to voice mail. I look up the number for her salon and call to try to schedule a haircut. I don’t give the receptionist my name, and she tells me Violet is booked for the evening, asking if I would like to schedule something for a week from now.

  I say no thanks.

  I can’t wait a week, so I’ll have to make an unscheduled appearance.

  9

  I cross the Golden Gate Bridge and round the curve on the hill that leads into downtown Sausalito, singing along to Foreigner. How can I not? It’s against the laws of the universe to listen to this song and not sing. As the sun dips in the sky, I croon about climbing any mountain and sailing across a stormy sea. The car practically vibrates from the music and the sheer awesomeness of “Feels Like the First Time.”

  This tune has the added benefit of keeping my brain occupied. The more I think about what to say to Violet, the more it’s going to drive me nuts. Executing a play on the field is one thing. Those need to be practiced, memorized, and turned into a habit. But this is a delicate situation—a request—and it needs to come from the heart.

  The problem is there’s nothing in it for her. I need her to say yes, but she gets zilch out of this deal. That’s why I need to appeal to our friendship. My request for her to play along needs to feel natural, not as if I’ve been plotting the words to say as I drive.

  I focus on the breathtaking view of the navy-blue water in Richardson Bay, on the choppy waves that crash against the rocks and the sand, and on the chorus to the second-best karaoke song ever written. Hell, if I weren’t any good at football, I’d try to find a way to be a professional karaoke singer. Every man needs at least one great party trick. Mine is killing it at the karaoke machine, and I aced every competition we had in college in my dorm. I still try to go to Gomez Hawks, a chill karaoke bar in the city, with some of my college buds — a cool chick named McKenna, along with her husband Chris, and some of my other friends from the non-football side of my life.

  The way I see it, I had no choice but to love rock music. I grew up with music blasting from every speaker in the house. My mom worked in customer service for an Internet shopping giant, and when she came home from hours dealing with phone complaints, she needed loud music as the antidote to a day full of “I’m sorry to hear your shipment of Nicholas Cage pillowcases arrived late” and “Of course we’ll replace the fifty-five-gallon drum of lube with the seventy-five-gallon one you meant to purchase.”

  As my mom tells it, I was conceived at a Pearl Jam concert with a guy she met in the audience. Apparently, Jeremy did the trick, a detail my mom shared when I was eleven and that song was blasting as I cleared the dinner table. “As soon as Eddie Vedder finished singing this song, that’s when the man in the audience and I sneaked off.”

  Honestly, I’m still a little pissed at her for ruining Pearl Jam for me.

  When my mom found out she was pregnant, she tracked the dude down and told him the news. He said to her, “Don’t look at me. That’s your problem.”

  That was the last she ever saw of him.

  As a kid, I was angry that he never cared about me. Now, as a man, I’m grateful that the fucker never came looking for her or me with opportunity in his eyes. But we got the last laugh. We didn’t need him, and the fact that he doesn’t even know my name—because he never knew her last name—means he can’t get anything from me.

  Ever.

  But my mom? She gets whatever she wants, and that’s been one of my greatest joys in life.

  She lives on the way to Violet’s salon, and I picked something up in the city for her. As I reach the bottom of the hill and pull into her driveway, a familiar sense of pride surges in my chest. She loves her house—it’s a three-bedroom, two-story home on stilts on a small patch of beach in Sausalito, a beautiful seaside town just across the bay from the city. I cut the engine and grab the bag of takeout I picked up from her favorite Chinese restaurant on Chestnut Street. I head around the side of her house, take the steps two at a time to the wraparound deck, and knock on the glass door. But she’s not inside. She calls out from the sand.

  “Is that my favorite Chinese deliveryman?” She cups her hands over her eyes.

  “Yes, ma’am. One order of spicy eggplant, one order of pepper steak, and one order of scallion pancakes.”

  I head to the sand. The breeze blows Mom’s blond hair across her cheek, and she gathers it back. Dyed blond, courtesy of Violet. My mom says she refuses to become a silver fox, especially since she’s not even fifty, so she’s a religiously regular customer at Heroes and Hairoines, with an appointment every three weeks.

  Her dog, Miss Moneypenny, a Golden Retriever mix, bounds over to me and plops herself down, asking nicely for food. “Hey, girl,” I say, scratching her silky chin as my mom walks over in a billowy green sweatshirt, a tennis ball in one hand and two Chihuahua mixes, James and Bond, by her side.

  The spy franchise, rock music, and football—that’s what my home was filled with growing up.

  “I got your favorite and Dan’s,” I say, holding up the bag.

  “Always so thoughtful, even though I know I’m just a pit stop on your way to see your girlfriend.”

  “Just as I know you’ll be happy to watch The Spy Who Loved Me with Dan, the dogs, and the Chinese food,” I point out.

  “Touché.” She leans in to give me a kiss on the cheek and ruffles my hair as she takes the food. “Now.” Shifting her tone, she parks one hand on her hip and stares sharply at me. “Were you ever going to tell your dear old mom?”

  “Mom, there’s hardly anything to tell.”

  “Seems there’s something. Ready to confess?”

  I laugh. “It’s complicated, but in a nutshell, I had to say all that stuff about us being together to prevent some trouble I was having with the owner’s sister.”

  She arches a brow. “What sort of trouble?”

  “Nothing you need to worry about. Just know I kind of need to pretend Violet and I are a thing for a little while.”

  “That seems a bit dicey.”

  “It’ll be fine, Mom.”

  Mom has never stopped worrying about me in the dog-eat-dog world of pro sports. “Be careful, Cooper.”

  “I’m always careful. You’ll keep my secret?”

  She ruffles my hair. “Cooper, I’m your mother. Of course I’ll keep my mouth shut, even if I don’t understand why you need to do this.”

  “It’ll all be worth it, I promise,” I say, then hand her the bag.

  “Wait. Let me amend that. Keep bribing me with Chinese food, and I won’t blab.”

  “We’ve got a deal.”

  She opens the bag and inhales. “My mouth is watering.”

  “Make sure Miss Moneypenny doesn’t eat it all,” I tell her, but her big dog is far more interested in the tennis ball.

  “She would never steal food. She’s too well-trained,” Mom says proudly. She flashes me the happiest grin in the world. “Such a shame that training them is all I have to do all day long.”

  I smile, too. “And that’s the way it should be.”

  She’s the classic football mom. She worked hard when I was a kid, picking up extra money for uniforms and equipment with babysitting gigs in the evenings. She drove me to every practice, attended every game, and cheered the loudest. Mom had rented her whole life, and what she wanted most was to own a home here in Sausalito and to spend her days with her dogs. I made it happen for her, and I’m glad she lives nearby.

  I drop a kiss to her forehead. “Enjoy dinner. I have to go see Violet.”

  “Good luck getting in. There’s a line out the door.”

  10

  I wouldn’t say I’m famous.

  I wouldn’t even classify myself as terribly well-known yet. I’ve snagged a pack of condoms at the C
VS on Fillmore without the paparazzi reporting on it. I’ve bought salmon at Whole Foods without any speculation on whether I’ve started an all-fish diet. (The answer is no, because I like steak too much.)

  Once your name is slapped on the back of jerseys, though, you give up full-time anonymity. You take the chance that someone might recognize you anytime you leave the house. But, I have this theory. People don’t always recognize you when you’re walking around town because they don’t expect to see you grocery shopping or buying your own prophylactics. You can blend in more easily.

  Even so, I do take the necessary precautions. Grabbing a Giants ball cap from my car, I pull it low on my forehead and cover my eyes with shades, even though the sun is slipping behind the water. I walk from my mom’s house along the beach and into town, jagged rocks and sand on one side of me, the main drag on the other.

  When I reach the shops along the waterfront, I stop at a lamppost and survey the scene on the other side of the street.

  Violet’s salon hangs out next to a wine shop on one side and a bicycle store on the other. Her block is also home to a dress boutique, an ice cream parlor, and one of those stores that sells horrendous T-shirts with sayings like “Old Guys Rule” and “Gone Fishing.” Heroes and Hairoines shuts its doors at six on Wednesdays, and as I stare at the floor-to-ceiling windows of the salon, an hour before closing, I can safely say my mom was exaggerating.

  But only by a smidge.

  The line doesn’t snake out the door, but a parade of tourists—and perhaps locals, too—crowds the front, snapping shots of the salon even at dusk.

  I grab my phone, steeling myself as I open Google News, searching for my name. I aim to avoid personal searches, since they yield about the same level of satisfaction as eating cardboard for dinner does.