Most Likely To Score

by Lauren Blakely

  To the judge, jury, executioner.

  Like everyone, I’ve felt nerves many times. Before my first-ever press conference, before my first time on the field, before my first interview. I’ve experienced them, too, when I’ve had to handle thorny situations with the media, and when I’ve had to make uncomfortable announcements about players being let go.

  The worries whipping inside me are different now because it’s my job, all twisted and turned and wrapped in a huge red ribbon around the most precious organ—my heart.

  I can’t separate my head and my heart in this case. My job and the man I love are inextricably linked, and I don’t control my fate. But soon, I’ll know it, at least, and the prospect is terrifying and strangely electrifying, too.

  Taking a deep breath, I smooth a hand over my red blouse, touching my earrings next. I need all the luck in the world. This might not be what my mother would’ve done, and though I can speculate what my dad would do, I didn’t ask him. That’s because it’s my situation, and I’m certain what I must do to be the kind of person I want to be.

  Be truthful. Be honest. And be prepared for the fallout.

  My knuckles rap against the door once before Lily calls out, “Come in.”

  I enter, shutting the door behind me.

  She glances up from the pile of papers on her desk, her pen scribbling across them. “Fun wedding,” she remarks, still writing. “I saw some great pictures online today. Harlan and Jones looked so sharp, even in that photo with Kevin. And then you and Harlan on the dance floor, and you and Jones. You guys get along so well.”

  I take the seat across from her, opting out of the small talk and diving straight into the rocky waters. “I need to talk to you about that.” My tone is serious, all business.

  “Of course.” She sets down her pen.

  I straighten my shoulders, willing myself to ignore the fresh wave of acrobatics in my belly. “There is no delicate way to say this, but I want you to know. I’m in love with Jones Beckett.”

  She laughs, shaking her head. “So is half the female population of the city. More will be when they see the calendar.” She chuckles, pushing out another laugh.

  But I don’t join in. “No, I am in love with him.” My expression is serious; my voice is clear. There is no laughter in my eyes because this is no laughing matter.

  “Oh.” The note of surprise hangs in the air like thick perfume. Rising from behind her desk, she walks around it and takes the chair next to me. She reaches for my hand. “Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry. That sucks. Unrequited love is the worst.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut, shaking my head. I can’t believe I’m botching this. I open my eyes. “Lily, we’re in love with each other.”

  She drops my hand, letting it fall onto the wooden armrest. Her expression meanders through a myriad of emotions, mostly along the surprise spectrum. “That’s a horse of a different color. Do you want to tell me more?”

  I rip off the Band-Aid. “I’ve had a crush on him forever. But nothing happened, and I never did anything about it because I wanted to stay professional and true to my job. Then, we worked on the calendar, and I learned he really is the guy we have shown to our fans,” I say, and a smile dares to appear on my face as the memories snap into focus. “He’s the guy who cuddles with dogs. Who helped my dad build a desk. Who rented out an entire rec center on his day off and helped families who needed it.”

  “Those are admirable traits,” Lily says, her tone even.

  “They are, and as I spent time with him, I grew to like him more, and then, to fall in love with him. I know this probably sounds cheesy,” I say, and I wish I could read her eyes, but her face is thoroughly neutral, “but you’re not just my boss. You’re my mentor, and I feel terrible that I wasn’t honest with you when it first happened, so I need to be honest now. I understand that I might be risking everything. My job. Your respect.” I take a deep, fortifying breath, and speak aloud the toughest words of this confession. “Do you want me to tender my resignation?”

  Saying it hurts, but it’s what I have to do. It’s the chance I have to take.

  I wait for her answer.

  28

  Jones

  As I say goodbye to the fan who works at the gym’s front desk, telling him that, yes, I will do my very best to kick ass this Sunday, I do a double take when I see a familiar face.

  “Hey, Garrett. I didn’t know you worked out here,” I say.

  Garrett flashes me a smile, his gleaming white teeth shining. “I don’t just work out here. I work here.”

  The strangest sense of déjà vu crashes into me, and I’m knocked off-kilter into a sort of twilight zone. “You do?”

  “Just got the job.” He holds up a hand to high-five. I smack back, but I’m not entirely sure why we’re high-fiving a job at the gym. There’s nothing wrong with honest work, but Garrett is a left tackle. He’s supposed to be working on the gridiron.

  “You just started here? What do you do?” I ask, since maybe I heard wrong. Maybe he means he landed a job on a team and he’s working out here.

  “I’m a personal trainer.”

  And I’m wrong. Way wrong. “That’s great,” I say woodenly. This has to be a way station. This has to be temporary. I cling to that notion. “Before you go back to the field?”

  He laughs. “Wouldn’t that be nice? I’ve been putting out feelers about a job in broadcasting, or coaching, maybe even at the high school level, but until something comes through, I’m here, and I can’t complain.”

  My feet feel unsteady, and it’s the oddest sensation, as if I’m not quite sure how to stand anymore. There’s only one reason why he’d be working as a personal trainer, or putting out feelers. Because he doesn’t have a job playing football, and he’ll never be able to have a job playing football.

  I shove past the strange dryness in my throat that almost makes me not want to ask the next question. But morbid curiosity pushes me forward. “What happened with your knee?”

  He shrugs. “It’s not going to get better.”

  “It’s not?”

  He shakes his head. “Tough break, but that’s how it goes.”

  I grab hold of the counter, and it feels like someone yanked the carpet out from under me. Garrett’s life is my worst nightmare. I’ve played against guys who’ve had their careers curtailed by injury, but I don’t usually bump into them at my gym. Maybe I misunderstood him. “That’s it? You can’t play again? You can’t rehab?”

  He chuckles deeply, sounding as warm as Santa Claus and just as wise. “Let me tell you something, brother. I did nothing but try to rehab my knee for the last two years. I did everything I could. I went and I tried out for Baltimore, made it through training camp this summer, and then in the first preseason game, my knee gave out again. God was trying to tell me something.”

  I blink. “God was involved in this?” I ask, trying to make sense of the unthinkable.

  “I suspect the big guy was telling me it was time to focus on something else. It’s not happening for me in football.”

  Words that don’t compute. Words that make no sense. Words I never want to have to say.

  “I nabbed the first job I could find. Because of this.” Garrett smiles, a big, authentic grin. Reaching into his shorts pocket, he grabs his phone, clicks to his camera roll, and shows me a picture: a tiny baby with bright eyes and a mess of dark hair.

  “This is my baby daughter, Gabriela. My wife gave birth three months ago.”

  “Congratulations. That’s fantastic. I’m so happy for you,” I say. The words sound genuine coming out of my mouth, and they are. But I’m not happy. Not at all. I’m more sad for his knee than happy for his kid. “Sorry about your knee, though.”

  “Me, too. But what can you do? It happens. You do your best. You move on. You do something else.”

  But there is nothing else, my brain screams.

  “What about the money you lost?” I ask, bracing myself for the onslaught of more bad news from
him.

  “I’ll be okay. I was smart enough to sock at least some of it away, so I’m not going to be hurting. We’ll get by. That’s really all that matters, right? To be okay.”

  Is he convincing himself, or is he telling me? I’m not entirely sure. “Do you want to get something to eat? Breakfast, maybe?”

  “I wish. I have a client coming in ten minutes. Let’s do it another time?”

  “Definitely.”

  I leave, but I can’t shake this cloudy feeling from my head for the rest of the day. Like it’s full of static and confusion. I try to train my thoughts back on Jillian, try to think about calling Liam and Ford. But as I head to the practice field, running routes and reviewing plays, all I can think about is Garrett Snow. Everything that’s in front of me is gone from his life. Every single thing.

  I know what the déjà vu sensation is. It’s déjà fear.

  What happened to him could happen to me.

  29

  Jillian

  Lily frowns. “What?”

  I try again, to let her know I’m aware of the consequences of my choices. “I understand that I may have lost your trust. That you might not want me in the department anymore. And if I’ve lost my job, I’m prepared to accept that.”

  The sound she makes is like a train whistle meeting a big fat ball of no, and she shakes her head so vigorously I’m worried she’ll bring on a headache. “No. No. No. I don’t want you to resign. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to this department. You’ve done amazing things for this team.”

  I breathe a deep sigh of relief, one that spreads to my bones and feels like silver and gold.

  “But I’m shocked,” she adds. “Honestly, I’m probably surprised for the reasons you’d expect. I didn’t think Jones had it in him to fall in love.”

  “I thought the same, too. But now that I know him, I don’t see him in any other way.” My heart warms, and a sense of contentment flows through me. Jones surprised me, too, but now I see the parts of him that have always been there, just hidden from public view, and I’m thrilled that he has so much love in him. More than that, I’m grateful that I’m the one he’s giving it to.

  Lily’s not done with me, though. She pins me with a sharp stare. “Are you prepared for what this means?”

  “What do you think I should be prepared for?” I ask carefully.

  “It means you’ll be in the public eye in a whole new way. You won’t just be a woman introducing a press conference. You won’t just be somebody who’s casually known to a few reporters. You’re going to a whole new level. This means you’re potentially going to be out in the public as the girlfriend of a Super Bowl–winning, all-pro receiver who’s one of the best players in the National Football League.”

  I gulp. When she puts it like that, it sounds so big and terrifying. But it also sounds like exactly what I’ve known all along. What I’m ready to tackle. “I’m aware of that.”

  Lily points at me. “People will take pictures of you. You’ll have to pose for pictures with him. You’ll be known as Jones Beckett’s girlfriend. People will speculate about you. They’ll want to know what you have that attracted him. They’ll want to know how the ultimate playboy finally settled down.” She stops and expels a harsh breath. “Are you ready for that?”

  Squaring my shoulders, I answer her truthfully. “I am.” The last several years have trained me. Managing a life in the public eye is something I’ve done for others, and I can do it for myself, too.

  “And what if it goes south?”

  A pebble wedges itself under my heart, pushing and prodding, a reminder that this could fall to pieces. “I’m prepared for that. And if it does, I won’t let that affect my work. Look at Kevin—I still treat him with respect, the same way I would any other reporter.”

  She leans back in her chair, nodding a few more times as if she’s taking this all in. “I’ve known you for nearly eight years and admired you the whole time. And if there’s one thing I believe in, it’s your ability to make good decisions. If you have fallen in love with Jones Beckett . . .” I can’t help but smile, because it’s such a relief to have said it aloud to someone other than my best friend, and Lily continues, “And obviously you have, based on that ridiculously goofy look on your face, then it is clearly the right decision for you. I hope he knows how lucky he is to have won your heart. He better protect it like it’s as precious as the football he carries to the end zone. And if he doesn’t, he will have to answer to me.”

  I smile like an idiot in love. “So this means you’re not firing me?”

  She rolls her eyes. “You’ll have to quit for me to let you get away.”

  I laugh. “Then neither one of us needs to worry.”

  I leave as if I’m walking on a ray of sunshine, and nothing can ruin my mood.

  Not a thing.

  As soon as I reach my office, I text Jones to tell him the good news.

  I tackle some calls to the media, then check my phone an hour later, but he hasn’t written back. He’s probably practicing. Today will be a busy day for the guys, so I carry on, flying high on hope, eager to see him again.

  Later that night, when I’m home catching up on the news on my phone, his name flashes on my screen. Butterflies soar in my chest, and my fingers fly to scroll open the message.

  Jones: That’s great. I’m thinking of you.

  “What?” I blurt to my phone, my brow furrowed.

  But that’s all he wrote. The butterflies crash-land in my belly. I read the message once more, trying to find the true meaning behind words that feel terribly empty. But I can’t. Because that’s the most un-Jones-like message he’s ever sent. He’s not an I’m thinking of you guy.

  He’s all-in, or he’s not in at all.

  But I’m not the type of woman to pressure, or to cling, so I take a deep breath and tell myself to let it go for now.

  I click back to the news. It’s more reassuring right now, and that’s really saying something.

  Katie hunts through a rack of silk blouses. Once she locates her prey, she grabs it and brandishes the soft teal-blue shirt, positioning it over her chest and arching an eyebrow as she turns her lips into Betty Boop’s. “What do you think? Is this going to be perfect for you coming out as the receiver’s girl?”

  I offer a faint smile. It’s hard for me to focus on shopping since I’ve only heard from Jones once, and that was the abysmal text last night. “It looks great. Do you really think I need a whole new wardrobe now?”

  “There’s never a bad time for a wardrobe revamp.” She eyes me from head to toe in the Hayes Valley boutique where we’re shopping on Saturday afternoon. She fancies herself my personal dresser. She taps her finger against her chin. “But I wonder if we should put you in dresses more?”

  “No.”

  “Do you hate dresses now?”

  I roll my eyes. “Oh yes, that’s it. I’ve developed a deep hatred for dresses. I simply prefer blouses and skirts.”

  “That’s fine. We can work with that. You’ll keep up the look as the office doll who nabbed the guy with the ball—”

  “Wherever that rhyme is going, it should retire.”

  She pouts as she riffles through more clothes. “Must find you a sexy new skirt now. Aha!” Nabbing a short black number, she thrusts it at me.

  “It’s thigh-length.”

  “It’s hot.”

  “It’s inappropriate.”

  “That’s totally the rage. You could be fashion forward. You could maybe even help set standards.”

  Laughing, I put the skirt back on the rack, drawing an imaginary line above my knee. “Must hit here.”

  “Fine, I’ll find something else, but you have to look the part every time. You’re going to be a very big deal.”

  I want to believe her, but my phone has been quiet all day. I scan the store quickly, lean in, then whisper, “He’s barely been in touch.”

  She waves a hand dismissively. “No biggie. He’s probably di
stracted playing NBA 2K or working out with the guys. I bet he gets back to you tomorrow after the game. Besides, you know how they are before they play. It’s all game focus, all the time.”

  “True,” I say, but it sounds half-hearted. It feels that way, too.

  My phone buzzes and my heart skips a beat as I fish it eagerly from the back pocket of my jeans with the hope that it’s Jones sending a sexy text, a romantic text, a good news text. Something that says he’s talked to his guys, and he’s ready to tell the world that he’s in love with me. Like I’ve done for him.

  I deflate when I see it’s my dad.

  Dad: Can’t wait to see you at the game tomorrow! Stop by and chat with the old man, will ya?

  Jillian: Count on me. :)

  As I close the message, I wish I felt like I could count on Jones.

  I remind myself to stay cool. There’s no reason to think anything’s changed. He’s busy, he’s playing tomorrow, and tough talks take time.

  I’m not a football floozy. I’m not a one-night stand. I’m the one he wants to be with.

  I cling to that as the day goes on with no word.

  30

  Jones

  “I’m a dick.” I wait for an answer that doesn’t come.

  “Come on, buddy. You can tell me. Am I an asshole?”

  From his perch on the couch, Cletus drops one ear and cocks his head. His tail flicks back and forth.

  “Total ass?”

  An excited whimper sounds from his snout as he jumps on my chest. And we have a winner. Total ass, it is.

  But even assholes must take care of their pets. I roughhouse with Cletus, rubbing his belly and pretending to box with him. After he play-growls for a bit, I take him to the yard and run him through the weave poles, then in and out of tunnels on the agility course.