Most Likely To Score

by Lauren Blakely

  8

  Jillian

  Katie was wrong.

  My ovaries are so fine.

  They can handle this photo shoot, no problem.

  Really, what’s so hard to take about a six-foot-five, two-hundred-fifty-eight-pound guy with toned, strong muscles everywhere on his frame hugging a mixed-breed Australian shepherd puppy?

  And for the record, I only know his height and weight because I’ve memorized those stats for every single player on the team. They’re handy when reporters ask, and they do.

  But I’ve added a few more details for this guy. Beautiful veins in his forearms. A lopsided grin. A happy trail skating down his fine ab—

  Screech.

  I slam on the brakes. I shouldn’t be admiring his body, even though now would be a good time to do so since he’s wearing those casually sexy swim trunks.

  On the beach.

  With the sun beating down on said muscles.

  With waves cresting in the background.

  Maybe he needs me to oil up his arms, his pecs, his back.

  Nope, Katie, nothing is tough about this at all.

  Unless ovaries exploding inside me is a rough experience, because . . . oh my stars.

  The puppy named Lulu is licking his face now.

  Jones cracks up, belly laughs radiating through him as the white, black, and brown six-month-old puppy with crystal blue eyes bestows a popsicle-worthy kiss across his lips.

  That lucky puppy.

  That dog has all my good fortune.

  “Please feel free to hire me for all team photos you ever need in the history of team photos,” my friend Jess says as she stops for a moment to check the back of her camera.

  “You know I do my best,” I say with a smile, since she honed her eye shooting celebrity pictures in Los Angeles, and she’s a wiz behind the lens.

  As she takes more photos for the calendar, I grab a few shots for social media. Like with the body issue, I don’t want to scoop the calendar. But, as part of my publicity plan, I want to dole out teasers of what fans will be getting when they flip open January, February, March, and so on.

  “Lulu, you are too cute for words,” Jones coos to the pup, and my heart can’t take it. I turn on the video camera and record this unscripted moment, moving closer but staying out of the photographer’s shot. My sandals are in my bag by the picnic table, and my bare feet sink into the sand.

  The pup rewards Jones’s sweet nothings with another long lick across his lips. The Marin County Humane Society rep, a kind woman with curly black hair, bounces on her toes, clearly proud of her animal choice for the shoot.

  Lulu laps her tongue across Jones’s mouth, and he can barely take it. His laugher booms, loud and buoyant over the squawking of seagulls. He flops onto the sand, the puppy scrambling up his chest, making sure the man can’t escape from her kisses.

  It is literally the cutest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.

  Jess is all over it, knowing this is the golden ticket, better than any posed shot. The pro athlete is exactly where we never want to see him during game-time. Flat on his back. But right now, it’s perfect, with Jones in the sand, his tanned skin on display, his muscles rippling as he holds the dog, his smile as wide as the sea behind him.

  I thought I needed to take fifty cold showers to get over that look he gave me when eating the bite of pie, but I won’t need any to get over this moment.

  Because it’s not sexual.

  It’s not lusty.

  It’s wholly endearing, as he makes a six-month-old puppy named Lulu fall for him.

  That dog might be my soul sister.

  A few minutes later, as Jess packs up her gear, Jones says to the dog, “What am I going to do with you? You give me those puppy-dog eyes, and I don’t stand a chance.”

  “Are you tempted to adopt her?” I ask as I walk over to him and Delia, the woman from the animal rescue.

  He heaves a sigh. “If I could, I would. I’ve already had to convince my brother to be Cletus’s babysitter during the season.”

  I nod, understanding the dilemma of a traveling man. An idea strikes me, though. “Would you want to post a photo of her on the team feed and say she’s looking for a home? We can tag the humane society.”

  A smile lights Delia’s face. “We would be so very grateful.”

  “Let’s do it,” Jones says.

  He scoops the dog higher in his arms, pressing his face to her snout. I snap a shot of man and beast. I don’t know which one is cuter.

  “Have you always been a dog whisperer?”

  “My animal magnetism is pretty impressive, isn’t it?”

  I laugh, as we walk the puppy down a deserted stretch of beach. Jones asked Delia if he could take Lulu for a stroll. No surprise, Delia said yes, and I gave Jess a quick goodbye hug before she left. “That’s one word for it. But tell the truth,” I narrow my eyes and ask him in a faux accusatory voice, “did you slather Alpo all over your lips?”

  “You caught me, but it was beef jerky. I gnawed through a whole stick while you weren’t looking, just to excite Lulu.”

  When she hears her name, the pup spins in a circle in the sand, then scampers to the end of the leash. Jones walks a little faster, as per Lulu’s wishes, and I keep pace, too. “Seriously, what’s with your animal charms?”

  “So you admit I’m charming?” he asks with mischief in his eyes.

  Charming as in the ultimate flirt, yes. “Lulu seems to think so,” I concede drily.

  “But what about you? If you admit I’m charming, I’ll tell you.”

  I pretend to punch his arm. “You’re relentless. And fine, you’re incredibly charming to canines. What’s that all about?”

  Jones pumps a fist. “I knew you’d admit the truth.” We wander along the shoreline, the waves crashing lightly against the sand. “We didn’t have dogs when I was growing up, and I wanted one so much. I asked my parents all the time if we could get a puppy. I had this whole campaign planned for Christmas when I was eleven. It was free adoption day at the Sacramento shelter, and so on.” He turns to me, his gaze locking with mine. “But we never got one.”

  The sadness in his blue irises hooks into me, and tugs on my heart. “Were your parents allergic?”

  He shakes his head. “Nope. Honestly, we didn’t have the money. My parents were strapped for cash my entire childhood. They said they wanted to get a dog for the four of us, but they couldn’t afford another mouth to feed, and that was that. I always told myself that I’d adopt a dog once I was drafted, but then I didn’t want to bring home one that I couldn’t take care of, being on the road so much. It wasn’t until Trevor moved to the city that I knew I could finally get a pet. Plus, obviously, I was helpless to resist Cletus. Once I met him while I was helping out at the shelter, I had to take him home.” He holds his arms out wide. “He gave me no choice.”

  “Cletus is the very picture of irresistibility. I can see why you were powerless against his charms.”

  “He gave me a puppy dog face, and that was that.” Jones bats his eyes, imitating Cletus it seems, then tips his chin at me. “What about you? Did you want a dog?”

  My feet sink into the sand as we traverse the beach and memories of my childhood wishes return. “I wanted everything when I was a kid. I was an only child, so I was convinced I needed a four-legged friend since I didn’t have a brother or sister. I’d have taken anything. Dog, cat, hamster, bunny. I even tried to get a hedgehog once.”

  “A hedgehog? Those are pretty damn cute.”

  “I know. But I had no luck, either. My mom was allergic to everything, so we never had any pets. The ironic thing is my dad finally got a dog a few years ago after my mom died.”

  Jones stops in his tracks, reaching for my arm. “I didn’t realize your mom had passed.”

  Sometimes, I think I know him well. I work with him, share his stats and performance with the media, and I sit down with reporters when they interview him. But that’s superficial. There’s s
o much we haven’t talked about. So many conversations we haven’t had. “She had a heart attack four years ago,” I say, doing my best to keep my tone even and ignoring the lump in my throat that forms inevitably when I talk about her.

  “I’m really sorry.”

  “Me, too,” I say softly. “She wasn’t that young, though. Not that that makes it easier necessarily. But she was sixty-five. She was over forty when she adopted me. My parents were both a little older. They didn’t have any luck trying to have a child the old-fashioned way. Ergo, I’m their kid.”

  He wraps an arm around my shoulder and gives me a squeeze. “I’m sorry you lost your mom, Jillian. I would be devastated.”

  “I was, but my dad was the one who took it the hardest. I was worried about him for the longest time. I still worry about him, but he’s doing so much better.” I reflect on the shifts I’ve seen in him recently. He laughs more, smiles more, and spends time with friends. He’s healing. “I think that’s why the dog helps so much. It gives him something to focus on, someone to love. And I try to visit him as often as I can.”

  “That’s what you should do,” he says, squeezing my shoulder once more.

  My eyes drift to his fingers, spread over my shoulder. For a moment, I flash back to dinner, to my dirty fantasies of his hands.

  I never expected the first time he’d have them on me for so long, it would be like this, borne of some kind of comfort.

  Or that I would like it this much.

  Especially since he doesn’t take his hand off me for the rest of the walk.

  9

  Jones

  “Dude, how much weight did you put on in the off-season?”

  The smart aleck comment comes courtesy of Cooper Armstrong as we round the far end of the practice field at our training facility two days later.

  “You’re slower than a Pop Warner lineman today,” our kicker Rick goads, climbing on the insult train.

  From behind my shades, I raise my eyes to their backs. The two of them are several feet ahead of me. Harlan’s running in front of them.

  Huh.

  Truth is, I may have been running slower than usual because my mind drifted back to yesterday and the second photo shoot Jillian set up. The shot she planned was golden, as in . . . everything. The dog was a golden retriever mix, and the photog snapped a sweet image at the edge of Sausalito with the Golden Gate Bridge rising majestically. The pooch put his paw on my leg as we sat on a rock, the gorgeous blue waters of the bay behind us.

  Afterward, Jillian and I grabbed lunch at a place on the water and chatted about our top fantasy baseball picks as a Giants game played on the flat-screen in the background. Turns out the chick has a wickedly good eye for fantasy sports, and her baseball team is leading in her league. “Confession: I get very ornery if I lose,” she’d admitted.

  “Confession: I get pretty damn annoyed if I lose the Super Bowl.”

  She’d laughed. “Yeah, that does seem to be a bit of a bigger deal.”

  It’s funny how I’ve had my eye on her for the last few years, but I’m only recently learning all these fascinating details about her, from her family to her fantasy addiction.

  But now I’m dragging at laps since my mind is on the woman, and that won’t do.

  I pick up the pace. “The only weight I put on in the off-season is all this muscle.” I peel off my T-shirt and throw it straight at Rick. He dodges it, naturally, and I run past Rick and Cooper, flexing my biceps.

  As I speed up, I turn around, running backward so I can fully enjoy flipping the double bird to my teammates. “And I will see you fuckers downfield. If you ever wondered who was the fastest on this team, you’re about to be schooled.”

  Spinning around, I take off. Sunglasses on, I sprint the final lap as if I’m racing to catch a football, sweeping past Harlan, too. And he’s a fast bastard. But I’m faster.

  That’s the point of these feet, this heart, this body that I try to keep finely-tuned every day. You don’t get a job as a wide receiver for one of the best NFL teams in the country if you can’t move your feet like Hermes.

  I earned a 4.3 in the forty-yard dash at the combine. That’s the fastest on the team.

  When I reach the goalpost, I slap it, then rest my elbow against it and adopt an oh-so-casual Road Runner waiting for Wile E. Coyote pose until the guys catch up with me.

  Cooper holds up his hand to high-five. “That’s what I want to see every goddamn Sunday on the field.”

  “And that’s what you get.”

  “I know it. I love it.”

  Rick is the last one, joining us at an easy pace. “Nobody cares how fast I run. I save all my energy for my golden foot.”

  “And it is golden indeed,” Cooper says, and we head for the first row in the stands, where I left a water bottle and a little good luck treat for my guys.

  After I down half the bottle, since we’ve been working out for two hours this morning, I reach into a red mesh bag—a bag of pomelos. I bought a few more after I worked my way through the gift Jillian gave me. No lie. Jillian was right. Pomelos are delicious and now I have a new favorite fruit.

  “Gentlemen, this may become our new good luck ritual for the season. Turns out this fruit is mighty tasty, and a harbinger of all good things to come.”

  Harlan grabs one, rips at the thick rind, and asks in his familiar southern drawl. “Does this mean the cherry pie worked?”

  I shoot him a quizzical look. “What does one have to do with the other?”

  Harlan chuckles. “Oh, right. You thought I wouldn’t notice that you’re suddenly eating pomelos. I am well aware that Jillian has these on her desk. I do pay attention to what goes on around us.”

  Rick slaps the seat in front of him. “That’s fantastic. Jillian is giving you special gifts now. What other presents are you giving each other?” Rick wiggles his eyebrows.

  I slice a hand through the air, cutting off this direction of conversation since I don’t want them thinking Jillian is doing favors of any sort for me. One, she’s not, and two, there’s her professional rep among the guys to think of. I need to scramble to protect her privacy. Just like I’d do on the field if a cornerback sneaked up on me, I hunt for a way to escape the secondary. “It was a thank you gift for doing the calendar, guys. That’s all. Even if I wanted something more, there’s nothing happening, and I respect her choices.”

  Cooper claps me on the back. “Good man, and there are plenty of other fish in the sea. But what I want to know is this.” He stops to scratch his chin as I wait for him to say more. “How the hell is your big ego handling the rejection?”

  Harlan smiles faintly in faux sympathy. “It must be a brand-new feeling. Do we need to take you to therapy to process all this?”

  I shake my head, amused and impressed at their bottomless appetite for giving me shit. “Yes, please schedule me an appointment right after yours.”

  Harlan laughs, chewing on a slice of fruit. “I do have a long-standing appointment with a shrink, since it takes time each week to process how awesome I am.” He finishes the slice. “I’m as awesome as this fruit. Holy shit. This is good.”

  And we’re back to safer ground. Grabbing another pomelo from the bag, I hold it over my head. “Not only do pomelos bring good fortune, but they’re full of antioxidants that are so very healthy for you,” I say, adopting a TV-commercial-style tone.

  “You can say that again.” My agent’s voice booms.

  I snap my gaze to see Ford striding over to us as I peel one. “How’d you get in?”

  “Magic,” he says, snapping his fingers. “Or maybe the equipment manager told me all my favorite clients were here, and look at all of you. But especially you,” he says, pointing at me. “You’re already sounding like a spokesman.”

  Cooper claps my back and speaks to Ford. “See? I told you we could clean up our wild child.”

  “That’s why I’m here,” Ford says, grabbing his shades and removing them with the kind of panache you only
see from the coolest dudes on film. Still, I won’t let his slickness sway me. I’ve been burned, and I want to see what the man has to offer. He points two fingers at me. “Can you say Paleo Pet?”

  “Uh. Yeah. Paleo Pet.”

  He thrusts a fist in the air. “I love it. And I have a delivery of Paleo Pet Food for Small Breeds coming to your house this afternoon to see if your man Cletus likes it.”

  I knit my brow. “Someone is sending me dog food? I know my last agent was a thief, but I do have enough dough to buy food for a ten-pound Chihuahua mix.”

  Cooper slaps his thigh, laughing at me. “Dude, I think someone’s trying to tell you Paleo Pet is courting you and Cletus.”

  And the switch goes on. The light flashes bright. “A dog food company?” I scratch my head. “I guess I didn’t make the connection because you said you were chasing down an organic quick-serve restaurant.”

  “And that’s still in play,” Ford says, rubbing his palms together. “Don’t you worry—I have lots of irons in the fire for you. But this one got hot real quick, and Paleo Pet is one of the fastest-growing pet food companies. Big budget, big plans, and now Paleo Pet has big eyes on you, and if your little guy likes his chow, and if you feel good about it—well then, we might have ourselves a sweet new deal.”

  I blink, processing the unexpected news as I pull off a section of fruit. “What do you mean they’ve had their eyes on me?”

  “They came running to me like a dog with a tennis ball, wanting to play fetch as soon as they saw your pics the last few days. You’re like a politician kissing babies and then endorsing diapers. Apparently, when your feed is full of you kissing dogs and trying to find homes for rescue pups, the dog food makers of the world all want to romance you.” Ford parks his hands on his hips. “Plus, why didn’t you tell me you won an all-county dog agility competition this summer? I had to track that shit down on my own.”

  Harlan’s eyes bug out. “No way. That is rich. You didn’t tell us that, either. Do you and Cletus do synchronized handstands in a ring or something?”