Most Likely To Score

by Lauren Blakely

  But that’s what I shouldn’t think about.

  Except, she’s looking at me now. Not in the way she used to before Miami, but really looking at me. Seeing me. Knowing me.

  The question hangs in the air as that loaded word—chances—takes on a brand-new meaning. How do you feel about your chances this year?

  Our eyes lock. A connection seems to pass between us, as if she knows what’s on my mind. She’s on my mind. She’s the chance I wish I could take. I repeat the question, buying myself time. “How do I feel about our chances?”

  The reporter nods, an expectant look in his eyes, his phone pointing in my direction, recording my answer.

  “If we play hard every day, we have a shot. And isn’t that all we can hope for?” My eyes drift back to her for a fleeting second. “To have a chance?” I add one more word, so she knows I mean her. I’m not entirely sure what I’m hinting at. Or if I’m merely expressing a wish. But I say it anyway. “Presumably.”

  She dips her head, and a smile spreads across her face, even as she tries to rein it in.

  After the press conference ends, I drag my feet, taking my time leaving. I make sure I’m the last player to exit, and when I’m the only one in the hall, she comes out of the room, shutting the door.

  “Oh. Hey.” She sounds startled to see only me in the long, empty hallway.

  “Hey.” It’s the first time at training camp when it’s been just the two of us.

  “How are you?”

  “I’m good.”

  “Are you enjoying training camp?”

  I step closer, dangerously close. “You can presume it would be better if you sneaked into my room at night,” I whisper into her ear.

  Her eyes float closed, and a visible tremble moves down her body. She murmurs my name, then she opens her eyes. “You are far too tempting.”

  My gaze roams over her from head to toe, thinking of those two days and nights in Miami when she was all mine. “I could say the same about you. Especially in this red shirt. Red is lucky, you know?”

  A faint smile spreads. “I wish.”

  “I wish we were getting lucky.”

  “Me, too.” She glances down the hall, and even though the coast is clear, she tips her forehead to the door at the far end. “I should probably go. Someone will show up here any second.”

  “Are you worried you’d be tempted to do something if you stayed here in this hall with me?”

  She shakes her head. “I’m not worried. I’m absolutely certain of what would happen if I stayed near you for another five seconds.”

  I grab her wrist, the need to touch her overruling any reason. Stroking my finger across her skin, I move closer. She’d better stop me, because I’m not sure I can stop myself. I’m not sure I want to.

  She swallows, shakes her head. “Jones, you’re making this hard.” Her voice is wobbly.

  “It is hard.”

  She sighs, and it comes out soft, so sexy and needy that it nearly shatters my already weak resolve. “I really need to go.” But she doesn’t make a move. She leans in close, almost as if she’s inhaling me.

  She’s inches from me, and if anyone saw us, they’d be hard-pressed to believe any denials we’d utter.

  That reality—how close I’m tangoing to fucking shit up—smashes into me, and I let go of her hand in an instant. “I know. I really need to let you go, but you have to know that’s the part that’s hardest. Letting you go.”

  Her brown eyes are big, beautiful, and full of something deeper, something I wish was in my life. The kind of connection I’ve never had before with a woman. The kind that lasts.

  “I know,” she whispers, her voice trembling, her eyes shining. She inhales sharply, waving her hand as if to shake off her emotions.

  She walks away.

  Later that night, in the room I share with Harlan, he packs his suitcase. “Hey, man, whatever happened with Jillian?”

  I toss a shirt into my duffel. “Nothing.”

  “The cherry pie didn’t work?”

  I shake my head.

  “What about Miami?”

  I don’t like lying to my buddy, but I promised Jillian that what happened in Miami was just between us. I have to keep it that way, even if I want what happened in Miami to happen again and again.

  “Miami was . . . just work.”

  The crowd roars. The din of sixty thousand fans in Seattle vibrates across the field, a steady drumbeat. That noise is paired with insults from the D line, the usual trash talk, words about my mother, your mother, my dick, your dick. I tune it all out, narrowing on Cooper taking the snap.

  My cue. Breaking to the right, I race downfield, hunting for an opening every step of the way. The score is tied, and it’s the fourth quarter. There are two minutes left in the first game of the season in early September, against one of our division rivals on their home turf.

  I have one job. Find the gap.

  I dodge a speed-demon cornerback, racing into the perfect spot as Cooper launches the ball. All my senses zero in on one thing. My eyes track the pigskin like an eagle scanning for fish.

  Crosshairs. Mine. I own that ball.

  A linebacker appears out of nowhere, aiming for me. A quick sidestep, a double back, and I’m right where I need to be, avoiding him as the ball arcs low toward the grass. That won’t fucking do. No way in hell is this pass going incomplete.

  I stretch my arms as I lunge for the ball, extending my hands. The football tap dances on the tips of my fingers. This is when the big hands count the most, and I grapple the edge, barely holding it before I reel that ball in like a big catch in the ocean, yanking it to my chest. In a split second, I’m off and running, sprinting hard. The end zone is twenty yards away. It’s my destination—it’s always my destination. A safety comes at me, trying to grab me anywhere. Arms flail at me. But I’m faster, and when I cross the goal line, the sounds truly become deafening.

  The cheers, and mostly jeers, from the fans. The shouts. My heavy breath. The clomp of cleats, bodies slamming into bodies, big guys sledgehammering other big guys. Then me.

  The safety wraps his arms around my waist, yanking me to the ground.

  I’m fair game. I always am.

  As a receiver, I know how to take the hits and how to fall, but there’s always a moment when I could fall wrong.

  Fortunately, it’s not today as I land on the side of my ass. My padded ass, thankfully.

  It still hurts for a second, and I wince. But then I shuck that off, the momentary hurt blotted out by the reward of six glorious points.

  Thanks to a circus catch.

  I raise my arms and form a J.

  After the game, Sierra Franklin makes a beeline for me. One of the San Francisco sports reporters who travels with the team, she’s quick and smart. Jillian is by her side as the redhead thrusts her mic at me, her diamond ring sparkling under the afternoon sun. “Great job in a tight game that went down to the wire. Tell us what you were thinking when O’Malley circled around you before you caught the ball,” she says, naming the tackler who was aiming for me.

  I answer her question the way I nearly always do. “I was just focused on finding an opening and getting in position to catch the ball.”

  It’s that simple. Sometimes with sports, outsiders overthink what we do. Sure, it takes unusual talent, a larger than average physique, and a whole hell of a lot of work. But more than that, the secret sauce is focus. When I’m on the field, I’m not thinking of how my stocks are faring, what I’ll cook for dinner, or if there are any good flicks out that weekend. I don’t even think of women. My focus is one-track only. The ball—find the ball, catch the ball, run with the ball.

  I block out everything else.

  “You definitely made sure of that.” With a wry smile, Sierra adds, “What about the gesture you made in the end zone? We haven’t seen that from you before, but it looked like a J. Shall I presume that’s a new calling card now for your name?”

  My eyes stray to
Jillian, waiting patiently. For a split second, mischief flickers in her eyes. I flash back to Miami, the night I promised I would send her a signal.

  “All the best names start with J. Thanks so much, Sierra. And congratulations again on your upcoming wedding.”

  “Thank you so much, Jones.”

  The redheaded reporter beams, and as the two women head off to find the next player to interview, Jillian says something about how she can’t wait to see her walk down the aisle in a few more days.

  Then, Jillian glances over her shoulder at me, nibbling on the corner of her lip.

  A charge rocks down my body.

  From that.

  From her biting her lip.

  I’m screwed.

  When I turn to the locker room, I wonder why I ever thought it would be wise to fall hard for a woman I can’t have.

  22

  Jillian

  Katie pours me a glass of white wine. “How was it? Did you survive the first game?”

  I motion for her to keep going with the chardonnay. “Let me put it this way. I’m ready to accept my medal in self-restraint. Have you made that trophy for me yet?”

  “It’s on its way, along with a plaque.” She sets down the bottle and hands me the glass. “This enough for you?”

  “Unlikely, but I’ll try to make do,” I say as I sink into my cushy couch and tuck my feet under me, taking a sip. “He made the J for me. For me. This is killing me.”

  Katie nods sympathetically. “I better leave the bottle with you.”

  “Leave a whole crate with me, ‘kay? Thanks.”

  She pats my knee. “I will, but may I please point out how I’ll soon be taking you out for ice cream and pepper, and proving that it goes together like you and Jones? And you guys obviously go together.”

  “We do not go together. Isn’t it obvious that we don’t?”

  Bringing the wine to my lips, I guzzle. There is no way to mince words about how I drink it. After training camp, after seeing him every day, after still fantasizing about him every night, after the game today and the quick flight home from Seattle, I need a fat drink or two or three.

  Katie shakes her head, her blond strands falling loose and long over her shoulders. “There really isn’t a way for you to manage this? C’mon. Football is always about finding openings.”

  “No. I have my interview next week. I need to be focused on that. Being with Jones is too risky. I’ve gone over it in my head a million times, and there’s just no way for me to make this work and not be the pot who called the kettle black.”

  “Oh, that’s terrible. Who would want to be the pot calling the kettle black? That’s like the worst thing anybody could ever say to you.”

  I sigh. “It’s not that, Katie. It’s just . . . I can’t see this going well. Ending well.”

  “You’re not Chelsea, who snapped his shot on Tinder. You’re not that model Annika, who drank champagne with him in a dress that bared all.”

  My skin crawls thinking of his former conquests. I narrow my eyes, my nostrils flaring. “I hate them.”

  “Meow, kitty-cat.”

  “I know. It’s terrible. But I don’t know how to bring this out in the open and have it go well. All my work with him is predicated on this stuff not happening. Flings not happening. Risqué trysts not occurring. And he doesn’t exactly have a track record with relationships. Even if he said, ‘Hey, she’s my girl now,’ who’s going to believe him?”

  Katie shrugs and says softly, “I don’t know the answer to that.”

  “That’s the issue. The answer is that it likely wouldn’t fly. We’re trying to craft a more wholesome image, an image that helps him keep deals, not lose them.”

  Katie lifts her glass and nods thoughtfully. “Right, but you’re only focused on work, Jillian. Not on the fact that you might have actual feelings for someone.”

  I give her a sharp stare. “But isn’t that how forbidden relationships are always justified once you try to bring them out in the open? But I care about him. Like that exonerates people from responsibility. We couldn't hide it anymore.” I take another drink, trying to settle this tempest of emotions inside me.

  “No, but maybe there are rules worth bending.”

  I shake my head. If I bend, I’ll lose. If I bend even more, he could break my heart. I take a fortifying breath. I need to stay strong. “Even if we have actual feelings, it’s too risky for both our careers to be involved. Too often we think emotions give us carte blanche to excuse ourselves from right or wrong. Have an affair? It’s totally fine if you love the person you cheated with.”

  She arches a well-groomed eyebrow, her blue eyes zeroing in on me. “So you love him?”

  I roll my eyes. “You know what I mean.”

  But later, after she leaves, I have to ask myself what do I mean.

  Do my feelings for him run that deep? I can’t believe they do. I know better. I’m smart and savvy, and I simply wouldn’t let myself fall for a guy like him.

  Like him.

  That’s the me of two months ago talking. That’s the me who only knew Jones on the surface. When we started working on the calendar, he was a pretty face, a delicious body, a flirt.

  That was all.

  He’s so much more now.

  So much deeper.

  And yet, I’ve managed without him since we returned from Florida. That’s damn impressive. If I can pull off several weeks, what’s the rest of my life? It’ll get easier. As I strip off my clothes and tug on a tank top to slide into bed, it’s not easier. That’s why I told Katie all about him. It’s too hard to miss him like this by myself.

  Maybe it’s the two glasses of wine, or maybe it’s the J he made on the field.

  I take out my phone and send him a text.

  Jillian: Hey.

  Jones: Hey.

  Jillian: I feel bad about something.

  Jones: Don’t feel bad about trying to distract me with your hotness after the game, wearing that blouse I wanted to rip off with my teeth.

  A stupidly big grin forms, but I stick to my plan.

  Jillian: I would like to know how strong your teeth are. But in all seriousness, I feel bad because I know we said we were going to keep everything that happened in Miami a secret, but I told my best friend, Katie.

  Jillian: I’m so sorry, Jones. I feel terrible.

  Jones: So terrible you’d let me spank the terrible right out of you?

  I cross my ankles, laughing at his response. He’s always made me laugh. His sense of humor is one of the things I adore about him.

  Jillian: I guess I’m in very big trouble, then.

  Jones: So big that if you were here, I would bend you over my lap and swat that gorgeous heart-shaped ass of yours.

  I turn to my side, clutching the phone as if it’s the source of all the happiness in the world—or maybe just in my world.

  Jillian: I deserve it.

  Jones: I would smack you on one cheek, then the other, and you’d probably tremble all over because I’m pretty sure you like to be spanked.

  Jillian: Pretty sure? Don’t you know? You already spanked me. Also, you’re not annoyed?

  Jones: Woman, if you didn’t tell your best friend about me, I’d have been devastated. The fact that you told her makes me weirdly, stupidly happy.

  Jillian: Why?

  Jones: Because it means you like me enough to tell a girlfriend. Now, please don’t interrupt my spanking fantasy again. Because I’d like to put you on all fours, bite your ass, and nibble my way down your legs. I’d nip your right ankle, then your left, then I’d lick my way up your other leg to that absolutely delicious spot between your thighs where I know you’re already wet and aching for me.

  More like on fire. I wriggle around on the bed, murmuring his name.

  Jillian: How did you know the top two adjectives to describe how I feel right now? Wet and aching are shockingly accurate.

  Jones: Because I’ve touched you enough to know what turns you on.


  Jillian: What turns me on?

  Jones: You like it when I kiss you like it’s something I’ve been wanting to do for years. You like it when I go down on you like you’re the hottest thing I’ve tasted. And you go out of your mind when I fuck you like there’s nothing I want more in the world.

  Like that, I’ve entered a state of reckless arousal. I moan so loudly I’m sure my neighbors can hear, and I don’t care. I ache for him. I long for him.

  Jillian: If you’re looking for me, my phone officially caught fire and melted.

  Jones: Good. So I was right?

  Jillian: You’re more than right, and I don’t think we’re doing a very good job at staying apart.

  Jones: Are you in my house right now?

  Jillian: Sadly, no.

  Jones: Then, as far as I’m concerned, this is staying apart. No one ever said I couldn’t send you a dirty text.

  Jillian: That was a little more than a dirty text. That felt like sexting. Like more than sexting.

  Jones: It’s always felt like more with you. And now I can’t stop thinking about how much I want to be inside you again. So, distract me. Tell me what you told Katie about me.

  I smile now, a giddy grin that seems to light me up from head to toe. I start to type, but he texts again.

  Jones: Besides the obvious traits of awesome I possess. That I made you come so hard you saw stars, planets, and galaxies, and that my cock is illegal. Your words.

  Jillian: And I like when you use that illegal weapon on me. I told her you rocked my world in bed. I told her you made a difference in the lives of families. I told her you helped my dad. I told her you’re very dangerous for me.