Most Likely To Score

by Lauren Blakely

  I wish I knew what she’d say. She was so wise, so smart, so balanced.

  I could ask my dad for his opinion. But I’m afraid I know what his answer would be. When it comes to matters of the heart, he’s a softie.

  In the end, I need to make my own choice. My stomach hurts, like a stone is inside me, wriggling around, painfully pressing against my ribs.

  You make your own luck.

  Pomelos.

  Cherries.

  The color red.

  Little envelopes.

  Dragons.

  I’ve always loved the idea of luck. I’ve held it tight in my hands, believed that if I honored its power, I could manifest good fortune in my life as long as I put elbow grease behind it.

  But luck is capricious. Luck does what luck wants. Luck knows no consequences. And luck can turn south in the blink of an eye.

  Luck can bring on a heart attack unexpectedly when you had no warning signs, when you weren’t overweight, when your blood pressure was normal, when you exercised. Luck, or more specifically, bad luck, can upend a perfectly normal life and a happy marriage, leaving one party missing his other half, his soul mate. I tear my gaze away from the photo before my eyes turn too watery.

  If I can’t turn to either one of my parents for advice, I’ll need to rely on my own barometer.

  I head upstairs to Lily’s office, where she preps me for my interview next week. She reviews the projects I worked on over the last few years, as well as my accomplishments and my ongoing successes.

  Rattling them off one by one until she runs out of fingers, she names the players’ auction, the charity calendar, the consistent and fantastic coverage, my reliability when it comes to running the press conferences, the community work I’ve set up, the extra effort with Jones this past summer.

  She shakes her head, visibly impressed. “I have to say you’ve done great work here.”

  I don’t bother to rein in a grin. I smile widely and say, “Thank you.”

  I have to admit, she’s damn right. I’m not only good at my job—I’m great at it. I’m driven, relentless, professional, innovative, and passionate. That has nothing to do with luck, and everything to do with hard work and dedication.

  And, if I am all those things, will falling in love with a player change that?

  I gasp under my breath, quickly covering my mouth, hoping Lily didn’t notice. She’s continuing to talk about the interview, so I’m safe.

  On the surface.

  But my head is swimming because there it is.

  Reality.

  Clarity.

  I’m falling in love with Jones Beckett.

  I’m absolutely crazy for him. I miss being with him like there’s an emptiness inside me. Jones makes me feel like all my sexy songs. He makes me laugh. He makes me think. He challenges me. And he gives me so much of himself.

  In this second, another blast of clarity lands in my lap—I must tell Lily. I can’t hide this anymore from my mentor and my boss. I need her to know my truth before I march into that interview next week. I have to put my cards on the table, no matter what.

  Once she finishes, I clear my throat, chucking all my practice words in the trash bin. Time to start fresh and speak from the heart, right here, right now.

  Her desk phone bleats, a loud, shrill ring that insists on being answered.

  Cradling it against her neck, she answers, waits, and then says, “Oh, fudge sticks.”

  More silence.

  “It’s in an hour?”

  She’s quiet again.

  “Yep. I’ll be there.”

  She hangs up the phone, bolts from her chair, grabs her purse, and declares, “Apparently, it’s poetry workshop day. My daughter signed me up for it, since she thinks I’m a poet on account of writing press releases, and now I have to go spend the afternoon critiquing poetry from third-graders.”

  I wave to her door. “Go. Craft odes. Make words. And please let me know what you have on your agenda. I’ll take care of all of it.”

  Snatching a sheet of paper from her desk, she thrusts it at me. “These are the calls I need to make today. You’re an angel.”

  I don’t need to possess the soul of an angel to know today isn’t the day for confession.

  25

  Jones

  Organic Eats is in the bag. Paleo Pet is rolling out its commercial campaign. The first check has cashed.

  I plunked that slip of paper into my bank account faster than I cleared the end zone in Sunday’s game, then I dropped a huge chunk of change into a college fund I set up for my sister’s kids.

  I texted her to tell her, and she called me back crying tears of happiness.

  I also bought my mom a gift, one she’s been coveting for a long time, and it’s the equivalent of diamonds for her. A top-of-the-line top-loading washer. When we were kids, she’d joked that her greatest guilty pleasure was doing mounds of laundry. The washing machine and the dryer ran constantly, a regular soundtrack of spinning in our home.

  She loved it because she listened to romance audiobooks while she sorted the laundry. “Just finished Sophie Kinsella while I folded the whites,” she’d say.

  I invested some of the dough, too, thanks to Trevor’s help researching mutual funds. No risky investments for me at all. But the process of hitting the online transfer button from my bank account to my mutual fund hasn’t made me stop missing Jillian at all.

  Imagine that.

  Stashing money is great, but it doesn’t pave the way for me to drive to her house on a Tuesday evening after I practice. It doesn’t give me permission to wake up with her on a Thursday morning before I hit the gym. Nor does it make it possible for me to take her to see the next Mission Impossible flick when it’s on the big screen.

  And damn, do I ever want to share popcorn with her in a darkened theater.

  That’s both the truth, and a euphemism.

  Mostly, though, I want to hold her hand as we walk into the cinema, searching for the best stadium seats, not giving an ounce of worry that someone might capture a picture of us.

  My thoughts snap back to the here and now as the waiter brings me my flank steak and sautéed broccoli, and sets down plates for the rest of the guys. Liam raises his fork and knife to slice his strip steak, casting a glance at me. “How are your parents doing, Jones? I saw them on the TV during a pre-season game. They seemed quite pleased to be watching you.”

  I’m grateful for the distraction. “They’re doing great, and Mom loves the new washer that I bought her.”

  Trevor cracks up. “She always said it was her dream come true. A new washing machine and a son in the NFL.”

  Liam chuckles deeply. “Excellent. Love that you’re close with them. Family is what it’s all about.”

  My heart craters a little bit. Liam needs me to be a good boy. He loves the new image we’ve crafted of the reformed playboy.

  As I slice my steak, I ask myself what it means to be good—how could falling for a woman like Jillian be anything but good? She’s smart and classy, and so damn caring. I don’t see how she could possibly be bad for me. Isn’t this what Paleo Pet wants? A guy who’s committed to a woman? A guy who treats his woman like a family member?

  “I can introduce you to my parents at the game this weekend if you’d like,” I say to Liam, returning to the topic at hand. “They’ll be at the stadium.”

  “Fantastic. I’d love to meet them, and you must be busy this week getting ready for the first home game, so thank you again for fitting me in.”

  “No problem. Happy to do it, no matter how busy the week is.” I’m about to add that I’m going to make time to go to a wedding tomorrow night to see Jillian, but I swallow those words whole, as if they’re made of dust and they’re choking me. Instead, I push them out in a different formation. “Harlan and I are going to a wedding tomorrow night. Sierra Franklin, a local reporter, is getting married, and she invited the two of us.”

  Best to put it out there, right? That way, no
one will be surprised to see shots of Harlan, Jillian, Katie, and me hanging out together.

  Ford chimes in, “Ah, Sierra Franklin, tying the knot on a Thursday night so she can be on the sidelines on Sunday, reporting on the game.”

  I manage a small laugh. “She’s dedicated. That’s for sure.”

  Liam spears a piece of steak, a thoughtful look in his eyes. “That’s admirable. That kind of dedication to work and a relationship.”

  I want to tell him I can be like that, too. I can be dedicated to football, and Paleo Pet, and Jillian.

  My shoulders tighten in frustration because I want to leave this restaurant and tell the guys I’m heading to her place. I want to wander down the street with her during her lunch break tomorrow, and duck into stores or coffee shops if she wants. I want to walk my dog with her.

  When dinner ends, Liam, Trevor, Ford, and I weave our way through the restaurant, passing a young dude at the bar, who raises his phone and snaps a shot of me.

  Out with the guys. Out with my brother. Out for business.

  It’s all good. It’s all permissible. It’s all photographable. As Ford pushes open the door, I have to wonder what would be so bad about being out with Jillian? What would the press say if that guy captured a shot of me holding the door for her? What would Liam, Ford, or Trevor say? I once thought being with her would be terribly wrong. I once thought it was far too dangerous.

  But when I think of Jillian now, the possibility of us leaving a restaurant hand in hand only seems right.

  I want these guys to be on my side—to believe in their hearts that Jillian and I are right together. Only, I’m not a starry-eyed dreamer. I’m a realist and I get that it’s naive to think a simple declaration of my feelings is all it’d take.

  I don’t know what it will take, though. That’s the trouble. But I need to start figuring out how to have Jillian and the contract.

  If I can have both, that is.

  At the valet stand, Liam takes off first, telling us he’s heading to the airport to catch a red-eye to the East Coast for the next few days. Once Ford is gone, the attendant pulls up with Trevor’s ride. I slide into the passenger seat and buckle in, and he drives me home.

  We stop outside my house, and my brother knits his brow. “Are you okay? You’ve been quiet all night.”

  “No. I’m not okay.”

  He cuts the engine. “Talk to me.”

  I tip my forehead to the house. “I have to take my guy for a stroll.”

  Three minutes later, we’re out walking Cletus. “So there’s a girl,” I begin.

  Trevor drags a hand through his hair. “It’s always about girls, isn’t it?”

  Part of me wants to defend myself, but he’s right. When a man wants to make big changes in his life, it’s nearly always on account of a girl. Because when a man feels this strongly for a woman, it makes him want to transform his priorities. It makes him want to take chances he never thought he’d take before.

  Still, I correct him. “Girl. As in one. Not girls.”

  “Okay. What’s the story with this girl?”

  “She’s different. She’s not like anyone else I’ve been with,” I add as we turn the corner, Cletus leading the way around the block.

  “It’s Jillian, isn’t it?”

  I nod.

  “Dude, you need to be careful.” His tone is a stern warning.

  “I am careful, but look, I like her. I like her a lot. I’m fucking falling for her.”

  Stopping in his tracks, Trevor stares at me, his eyes wide, his mouth hanging open. “Are you kidding me? You’re falling for a woman? For real?”

  I shake my head, because that’s not correct. It’s well past falling. Everything I pictured earlier tonight clicks into place. I want the freedom to be with Jillian because I’ve fallen in love with her. My heart thumps a little harder as the thought shifts from bits and pieces of emotion to a fully formed certainty. “No, I’m not falling. I’ve fallen. I’m in love with her.”

  “Whoa.” He holds up his hand like a stop sign. “In. Love?” He points at me, incredulous. “You? In love? For the first time, ever?”

  “Don’t act so surprised. It was bound to happen.”

  He shakes his head in disbelief. “I never thought you’d say those words,” he says, like he’s still processing the sheer magnitude of the bomb I dropped on him.

  “It’s the truth. And listen, I know you think I can’t sustain a relationship for longer than a week, let alone a month, but I’ve had feelings for her for a while. I didn’t act on them because of what we talked about, and your concerns, but when we were in Miami . . .”

  “You hooked up in South Beach?”

  Anger flares through me. “Don’t you get it? I’m trying to tell you it’s more than hooking up. It’s way more than that.”

  “Okay, it was more than hooking up. Fine. I get it. Are you still . . . doing whatever this more than hooking up is?”

  I shake my head. “We’ve been behaving since we returned more than a month ago. The thing is, nothing has changed, and I still want her. I like her. I’m in love with her, man.”

  He breathes out heavily through his nostrils as we turn back onto my block. “Don’t just chase a piece of ass, Jones.”

  Faster than I captured the ball last week, I grab the neck of his shirt with my free hand and yank him closer. My eyes are full of fury. I stare hard into his irises, my jaw tight. “She’s not a piece of ass.”

  He holds up his hands in surrender. He knows I’d never hurt him. But he also knows I’m so much bigger than he is.

  I shake my head. “Don’t call her that.”

  He doesn’t say anything at first, but soon he smirks. Laughs. Smiles.

  I narrow my eyes. “What the hell?”

  “You really like her, don’t you?”

  I drop my fist from his shirt, letting my hand fall to my side as Cletus whimpers. “I told you I love her.”

  “I had to test you, though.”

  “You called her a piece of ass to test me?”

  Trevor grins sheepishly. “It worked. You made your feelings for her crystal clear. That was all it took.”

  “Dick,” I mutter as we resume walking Cletus.

  “Yeah, but I love you.”

  I drape an arm over his shoulder. “I love you, too.”

  “What now? Are you going to tell Ford? Tell Liam? How are you going to pull this off? This is a big risk you’re about to take, dating your publicist.”

  “I know that.”

  He claps my back. “Just want you to be aware. Brands are cautious these days. They drop athletes for the smallest of reasons. That could happen to you. You do know that?”

  “I’m aware, and I’m also well aware I don’t have a track record to stand on.”

  He shoots a rueful smile, his tone shifting now to brotherly concern. “You don’t, though I understand where you’re coming from. You want Liam to believe what you know in your heart to be true.” He taps my chest. “There’s a first time for everything, and you’re feeling it, so you want him to line up behind you. But you need to know that Liam might not see things the same way.”

  I sigh heavily. “I know.”

  “He might not be convinced as easily as I was.”

  I scoff. “You were easily convinced? We might have different definitions of easily.”

  He stops, looking me square in the eyes. “I do believe you. I know you wouldn’t put your neck out like this with me if you weren’t in love. But I’m your flesh and blood. I’m on your side no matter what. And that’s why I want you to be realistic about how other people—people who haven’t stood by you since Mom and Dad brought you home from the hospital and all your big brothers and sister had to help give you a bottle and babysit you—”

  I raise a hand to cut him off. “Bottle? Are we back to bottles and babysitting?”

  “When you’re the baby of the family, it’s always going to come back to bottles and babysitting. Point being, I’
m on your team. And part of why you wanted me to work closely on your business is to make sure someone you trust implicitly is always looking out for you. I’m looking out for you when I say I’m behind you one hundred percent.” He slows and takes a beat. “And I also want you to be realistic, too.”

  I rub a hand over the back of my neck, heaving a sigh as we resume our walk. “Yeah, I get it. I can’t assume that just because I feel this way about her, everyone else is going to clap their hands in glee and say oh, we’ve been hoping you’d fall in love, Jones.”

  He laughs. “If only it were that simple.”

  Nothing is simple in this situation. I haven’t proven myself when it comes to relationships, and that’s the risk I’d be asking Paleo Pet to take—to stand by a guy who’s never gone the distance. “They’ll worry it’ll end in a few days, a few weeks.”

  Trevor nods. “Yeah, they might. They might also worry it’ll blow up into a huge mess. They won’t want to be collateral damage.”

  “They’d worry it’d look like a scandal,” I say, thinking of Jillian’s words in Miami. No matter how deeply I feel for her, I can see how the press would twist the two of us to suit a narrative. “I need to think carefully about how to broach this with Liam when he returns this weekend.”

  “I’ll help you brainstorm, but I think you know what to do,” Trevor says.

  I complete the thought. “Be honest.”

  That’s who I want to be—the guy who handles things right. I want to do the hard work to earn the rewards. That’s what my dad taught me.

  In this case, the hard work lies in communication, being open with people I care about, people I do business with.

  But that also means that if Liam cuts me off, I have to be willing to let the deal go. Saying the words out loud tonight for the first time—that I’m in love with her—yields a stark and beautiful kind of clarity to the dilemma.

  I might want both Jillian and the contract. But if I can’t have both, I choose her.

  First, though, I have a wedding to attend.