Most Likely to Score

“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.