Most Likely To Score

by Lauren Blakely

  As the model turns the other way and the next one slinks down the runway in a pretty pink sheath dress I’m sure I need to possess, Katie leans close and says, “You want to know what I really think?”

  “Obviously. I asked you.”

  As the music pulses, she whispers, “I want you to know that I absolutely applaud your spirit and your commitment to resisting jumping Jones Beckett. In fact, I’m thinking of giving you a trophy.”

  “Thanks. It’ll look great on my mantel, even though it’s completely unnecessary.” I wave my hand as I hunt for analogies. “Jones and I are like east and west . . . hot pepper and ice cream . . . a bikini for a ski weekend.”

  She arches a brow. “Some people like pepper on their ice cream.”

  I crinkle my nose. “The point is, we’re not going to happen. I’m not his type, and that’s fine. I like my type. I don’t need to be his type to be happy.”

  Katie gives a quiet slow clap, and I take a tiny bow in my chair. Then she leans closer. “But you do know some girls wear bikinis when skiing?”

  I point to my chest. “Not this girl. I wear ski gear when I race down the hills of Tahoe and leave everyone in the snowdrifts,” I say with a smirk, since skiing is my jam. “Also, he can’t ski. It’s not allowed. So that just proves my point even more.”

  Katie tsks quietly. “I don’t buy it. I think Jones Beckett wants to ski down your mountain.”

  “I love you, girl. Truly, I do. But there is no reason for me to believe the attraction is mutual.”

  “There is every reason. You’re a total babe, with hair I covet, a body to die for, and a face that would launch a thousand ships. You don’t realize that because you’re so focused on work you don’t think of yourself that way.”

  “And yet Kevin still found it necessary to stick his dick elsewhere.”

  “Because he’s a dick,” Katie says loudly, so loudly that the woman next to her shoots her an admonishing stare.

  Katie clasps her hand to her mouth in an oops gesture. Then she cups her hand over my ear. “Just think about it. I saw the way he looked at you at the fundraiser a few weeks ago, when you and I were playing Whac-A-Mole . . .” She stops, adopts a saucy tone, and says, “Like he’d been playing whack a mole to thoughts of you.”

  I give her my best I-can’t-even-believe-you-said-that face. Ever. “I won’t even pretend that’s, one, dirty, or two, accurate.”

  “Think about it.”

  No way. There’s no way I’m going to think about it.

  Katie’s a friend. She’s supposed to think I rock.

  I won’t ever confuse that for Jones wanting to jump my bones.

  Even though I kind of can’t wait to go to Stinson Beach with him tomorrow.

  7

  Jones

  I peer through the oven window, trying to get a better view. “C’mon, little pie. Bake your ass off.”

  Harlan rolls his eyes. “You do know it doesn’t bake any faster if you watch it?”

  “But if I talk to it? Encourage it? That’ll help, right?”

  Harlan scratches his chin. “By all means. Chatter away.”

  I stare at the crust rising in Harlan’s stove. “You can do it. Bake harder. Bubble over.”

  “What do you say we play a round of poker while we wait? You know the saying—pies like privacy,” Harlan says, slapping the candy cane potholder on the counter of his kitchen, smack dab in the middle of the rest of his collection of Christmas-themed potholders. His sister’s a baker, his mom’s a baker, his grandma’s a baker, and so he learned how to make the finest pies in the South while growing up surrounded by all those baking women.

  Now, the women in his family give him potholders every year for his, you guessed it, Christmas birthday.

  “Fine, but you know I’ll kick your ass since you can’t bluff for shit,” I tell him.

  He jerks his head back, narrowing his eyes. “Those are fighting words. I can bluff just like I can handle a play action fake better than your sorry ass.”

  “No shit. That’s your job. Mine is just to carry all those beautiful passes into the end zone . . . and score,” I say with a grin. That’s the benefit of being a wide receiver when the team’s quarterback is one of the best passers in the game. I get lots of action on the field. “Cooper can’t resist throwing to me.”

  “I’m sorry. Were you saying you wanted this pie, or you wanted me to gobble it up all by myself?” Harlan cocks his head to the side, staring at me with brown eyes.

  I hold my hands up in surrender. “I’m saying I’m going to make sure Coop hands off to you more often.”

  “That’s what I thought, pie boy.”

  We park ourselves on the stools in the kitchen in his Pacific Heights home, less than half a mile from my house. He’s our star running back, and it’s both my job and my pleasure to give him as much shit as possible, since he does the same for me.

  After a few hands where the lead changes each time, I bluff with a ten of clubs, beating his pair of twos. I mime pulling a huge pile of coins toward me, but we don’t play for dough. I’ll collect the prize in another way. “I’m going to enjoy the ever-loving hell out of you carrying the rookies’ pads on day one of training camp.”

  He flips me the bird as he heads for the oven. “Did you want this pie to give to your girlfriend or not?”

  I roll my eyes. “You’re seriously holding the pie hostage again? The pie was not part of the bet, and you know I’m legally required to give you shit every time you lose at poker.”

  “Fine, and far be it from me to take this fine cherry pie away from you, since we both know it’s pretty much your one chance to get Jillian to give you the time of day. No woman can resist a Taylor-made pie.”

  “I’m not trying to get a chance with her,” I say, since she’s displayed zero interest in me that way. Though that hasn’t ever stopped me from trying to wear her down with a little flirting, a little teasing. But the pie isn’t a way for me to charm the panties off her. The pie is simply a pie—a token of my appreciation for all her support, and for giving me the chance to be the star of the calendar. “Nah, she’s helping me out with the calendar, so I just want to do something nice for her.”

  “If you didn’t want to sleep with her, would you do something nice for her?”

  “I don’t think with my dick.”

  He clasps a hand to his belly and guffaws. “That’s a good one.” He wiggles his hands. “C’mon, tell me another.”

  “Fine, fine. You got me there. Obviously, I think with my dick. But I’m not a dick. I like the woman. I want to do something nice for her because she’s a cool chick.”

  He puffs up his chest. “You’ve come to the right wingman, then. The Taylor family pies are way better than merely nice. I do believe they’ve been known to induce major swooning in womankind.”

  He opens the oven and, evidently pleased with what he sees, he slides out the tray, grabs the pie, and sets it on a cooling rack. We head downstairs to his state-of-the-art home gym, work our asses off for thirty minutes, and then I grab the pie and head for the door.

  “Good luck, man. You’re going to need it,” he says.

  “Don’t I know it.”

  I’m hoping this pie is the start of something.

  When I get bummed about the money stolen by my ex-agent, I like to take a good, long look at my home—three stories, hardwood floors, modern fixtures. It’s all mine, and I own every square inch of it. I don’t like that I was hoodwinked, but in the scheme of things, I still have so much, and I also have what matters most. A place to lay my head and leave my hat. Or helmet, really.

  That’s all I need. My family is healthy and happy, so I can’t complain, just move forward. Besides, it could be worse. I wasn’t the only one screwed. One of my teammates, Garrett Snow, was robbed of nearly everything. A second-year starter, most of his rookie bonus went up in smoke. Poor guy—he wound up injured in his second season, too, out with a torn ACL. I haven’t seen him in a while,
so once I’m home, I fire off a quick email to the guy, checking in to see how he’s doing.

  One hour later, with the pie in a small shopping bag, I lock the door to my home a block off Fillmore. I walk down the steps to the sidewalk on a summer afternoon that feels like winter, since that’s how San Francisco behaves at this time of year. The fog layer hangs heavy in the city today, the dampness seeping into my bones. I grew up in Sacramento, and it is devil’s horns hot there, so I gladly embrace the city by the bay and all that I have here—cool air, a home, and a steady job.

  Okay, fine. Two out of three ain’t bad. There’s nothing steady about a gig playing pro ball, but I wouldn’t change a damn thing. I’m happiest when I’m chasing a target and carrying that football to the end zone.

  That’s the closest thing to heaven as far as I’m concerned—crossing the white chalk by the goalposts and putting six points on the board. Fucking bliss. Beautiful, heart-pumping bliss.

  I wait at the curb for about thirty seconds, then a black town car pulls up. I lift my thumb in the air like I want to hitch a ride.

  The window slides down in the back, and Jillian pokes her head out, a pair of big red sunglasses on her face. She pushes them up into her hair. “Hey there. Want a ride? I have candy, and I lost my puppy. Will you help me find it?” she says in a singsong voice.

  “Oh yes. Do you have Skittles, please?”

  She tosses her head back and laughs. “Tropical Island flavor.”

  I let my tongue fall out, like a dog, then I grab the handle, yanking open the door. My throat goes dry when I see her seated on the cool black leather.

  Holy sexiness.

  I can’t even joke about hitchhiking and stranger danger or anything at all in the universe, because she stuns me. She wears jeans, pink sandals, and a silky soft blouse that falls perfectly against her breasts, revealing a hint of flesh. A slim silver chain with a heart locket hangs on her neck. That lucky pendant gets to touch her skin.

  “You look . . .” I search for the right word. Hot? Luscious? Pretty? Good enough to lick from head to toe? So sexy I want to strip you down to nothing and get acquainted with every square inch of your body? I stave off a throaty groan of appreciation, swallowing it harshly. But I don’t entirely want to hide how I feel, either. I want her to know what I see when I look at her.

  And compliments are part of the strategy to get her to see me in a new light. “You look beautiful.”

  Her face is blank at first, as if she’s not sure what to make of me. Confusion flickers across her pretty brown eyes, the color of melting chocolate. Then, a spark of something flickers. Maybe happiness? Appreciation? She’s so hard to read.

  “Thank you. You always look sharp.”

  I’ll need to work harder to earn anything other than a professional compliment from this woman. I slide into the car, set the bag on the leather seat, and gesture to my getup. “You like my sharp bathing suit?” I point to my trunks, then flip-flops, then the T-shirt I’ll take off at the beach for the shoot.

  She raises her nose, as if she’s sniffing. Maybe she’s ferreted out the scent of a delicious cherry pie. But she doesn’t mention it. “It’s perfect. Exactly what I wanted you to wear.”

  I peer at her outfit. “You have a bikini on under that?”

  “No way.” She shivers for effect as the car pulls away and threads into light morning traffic on the way to the bridge.

  “You’re not going to swim while I shoot?”

  “It’s sixty-nine degrees at Stinson.”

  I snicker. “You said sixty-nine.”

  She laughs. “That joke never grows old.”

  “And I don’t intend to ever retire it from my joke repertoire.”

  She bends her head and hunts through a few canvas bags by her side, as well as one of her endless number of purses. Fishing around, she finds what she’s looking for. “First, this.” She hands me a magazine.

  My smile spreads when I flip it over. “Damn. Nice work.”

  “It’s all you,” she says, gesturing to the shot of me on Sporting World. “The whole spread is amazing, but Lily and I are quite partial to the cover.”

  Pride spreads through me. Landing the cover of Sporting World is no small shakes. “This is going on my wall of glory.”

  “That sounds like exactly where it belongs. And,” she says, reaching into the purse once more, “I have a gift for you.”

  I blink, surprised and a little excited. “You do?”

  “I was thinking about our conversation at dinner, and I thought you might enjoy some pomelos, since they’re a sign of luck. So I picked some up for you at the market.”

  “I’m going to sound like the biggest dolt, but what’s a pomelo?”

  She hands me a red mesh bag filled with three grapefruit-size fruit. “They’re like oranges, but more mellow and with a less citrusy flavor.” She nibbles on the corner of her lips. “I know you’re a health nut, so I figured fruit was a good thank you gift. Is it okay?”

  Any gift from her is a great gift. I smile. “I love it. I will eat the entire bag. Probably tonight.”

  She smiles widely, her white teeth gleaming. “They symbolize prosperity, so with the season starting I figured you can’t really get enough of that.”

  I pat one of the fruit. “I will take all the good fortune I can possibly get. Question, though.” I tilt my head, quizzically. “I’ve always wondered about kumquats? What do they symbolize?”

  Her expression turns serious. “They’re a symbol for the fruit with the naughtiest-sounding name in the universe.”

  I smack the seat for emphasis. “There’s literally no way to say that name and have it not sound like a filthy sex act.”

  “Yes, that may be why I tried to avoid eating it with my family while growing up. It’s a hugely awkward word to say in front of your parents.”

  I rip a small hole in the bag with my index finger and yank out a pomelo. I hold it high above my head like it’s Simba and I’m in The Lion King. “And with this fruit, I will have a kickass year.” I set the pomelo next to me on the seat. “Speaking of fruit and gifts,” I say as the car winds its way out of the city, heading toward the Golden Gate Bridge. “Seems great minds think alike.”

  I dip my hand into the shopping bag and give her the small cherry pie. “Open it,” I tell her, nodding to the tinfoil.

  She brings it to her nose. “Oh my God, it smells delicious. I thought I smelled baked goods when you got into the car, but then I figured you were endorsing some amazing new pie cologne.”

  I laugh and drag a hand through my hair. “If there is ever a pie cologne, count me in.”

  “Yeah, me, too. Because I thought you smelled good enough to eat.” Then her mouth falls open, and her eyes widen in seeming shock. She shakes her head, as if she’s course correcting. “I meant . . . you smelled . . . The car smelled . . . gah.”

  She drops her head to her free hand, and I can’t stop laughing. I also can’t resist patting her back. “It’s okay, Jillian. I am absolutely good enough to eat.” When she raises her face, her cheeks are flaming red. I point at them. “And look, the color of your cheeks is good luck.”

  “I can’t believe I said that. Forgive me.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive.” Especially since I’m hoping her awkwardness is an omen that my luck with her might be changing. I nod at the pie. “Open it.”

  She peels back the aluminum foil and stares at the treat with wide, hungry eyes.

  “I baked a cherry pie for you. As a way of saying thanks for thinking of me for the calendar.”

  She raises her face. “You bake?”

  I shrug. “I’m learning. Harlan’s the baking master, and I like to stay busy during the off season, so this summer I worked on agility training with Cletus and I learned to bake a few things from Harlan. He won’t share the recipes, though, so this one I just helped with. But it’s fresh out of the oven, since I went over there this morning.”

  “To make it for me?”
She puts her hand on her chest, her eyes wide and vulnerable.

  “You said you love cherries . . .”

  “Oh my God,” she murmurs, lowering her eyes.

  “Wait. You’re not gluten-free, are you?”

  She snaps up her gaze. “No way.”

  I hand her a fork from the bag. “Want a bite?”

  “Will you share it with me?”

  “I don’t usually indulge in sweets. Training regimen and all.”

  “More for me, then,” she says with a glint in her eyes.

  “But maybe I’ll allow myself one small bite.”

  She digs into the pie, takes a bite, and murmurs her appreciation. Her eyes sparkle. “Jones,” she whispers, like we have a secret, “this is amazing.”

  She’s complimenting the pie, but I’ll take it. Oh yes, will I ever take it. “I’m glad you like it.”

  “Here,” she says, forking a chunk of pastry and filling.

  I open my mouth, waiting for her. She freezes, then does that thing again where she nibbles on the corner of her lips, before she extends the fork to my mouth. Keeping my eyes on her, I close my lips on the pie, savoring the crust and the sweet, juicy flavor of the cherries.

  I don’t break eye contact. I watch her the whole time, mostly because she can’t seem to stop looking at me. She never looks at me for this long. She never looks at me like she can’t stop.

  I like her eyes on me.

  I like it so fucking much.

  When I’m done, she takes the fork away, and her hand seems to fall languidly at her side.

  “Yes, I do love cherries,” I say. “So very much.”