Most Likely to Score

He chows down, finishing off his dish in less than forty seconds then giving me some serious puppy-dog eyes as he wags his tail.

I scratch his chin. “You might as well just say may I have some more, please, the way you wolfed that down in mere seconds.”

Let me be frank. Cletus doesn’t disdain a lot of food, being a dog and all. But he seems to dig this chow, so that works for me.

I hold up my palm, and he lifts his paw in response. “High five.” Cocking his head to the side, he puts his tiny paw against mine, and I get such a kick out of the size disparity that I snap a shot and post it online, tagging it #helpinghands.

I take him to the small backyard that’s a rarity in the city, and he runs through a few of his favorite obstacles on the mini course I set up. “Good boy,” I tell him as he races up a ramp then down the other side. Afterward, I leash him and we head through the hilly streets of our hood to burn off the rest of his energy.

Along the way, I check my email. A note from Trevor about when he wants to shoot his show again. An email from my mom saying she can’t wait to see me when I visit for dinner soon. I spot a reply from Garrett Snow, the left tackle who tore his ACL.

Recovery is taking longer than they all thought. But that’s just the way the cookie crumbles. Or the knee, I should say! Let’s grab a beer sometime? I’m in town.

I heave a sigh as I write back with a Yes, let’s make a plan, and I’m sorry to hear.

My mind trips back to the game last season when he was hit hard on a pass rush, landing wrong on his left knee. Trouble was, his injury was exacerbated in the worst way possible. I saw it in replays—I was the one who caught that pass. He was the one who went down in a pile, a reminder that the game is here today and gone tomorrow.

That’s why I need to make the most of my opportunities. I dial Ford. “I have a verdict.”

“I can’t wait. Give it to me.”

“The food is Cletus-approved, so I guess that means I have a Paleo dog.”

Ford hoots. “Excellent. That also means we have a sponsorship deal.”

“Yes. We have a deal. I’m in,” I say, since the terms he shared earlier were good.

“Fantastic. I’ll send the papers today, and you and Trevor can review and e-sign them.”

“We’ll do it.”

“Now listen, I told you I had an idea for the deal. Are you ready?”

I nod. “I’m ready. Hit me.”

“You know how Paleo Pet loved that shot of you on social the other day?”

“Yep. That’s what got their attention, and that was Jillian’s idea.”

“It’s like you can read my mind.”

“What do you mean?” I ask as we stop at a light on Fillmore and wait for it to change. A woman with light blue hair walks past me and then snaps her head in my direction, perhaps recognizing me.

She raises her phone, and it’s clear she’s taking a shot. I smile for the candid camera, Cletus waiting at my side.

“What I mean is this: social media is everything these days. They found you on social, you’re doling out bits and pieces of the calendar on social. Your image is on social. And image is so key these days to sponsorships deals. Brands are cautious as hell. They’ve been burned by things athletes say and do. And since we want to keep you on the straight and narrow, I asked a certain someone to help out.”

A strange feeling of dread courses through me when the light changes. I head into the crosswalk. “Who’s the someone?” I ask carefully, hoping he doesn’t say a name that starts with J.

“Jillian.” He says it as if he’s Santa, delivering me a great and wonderful gift.

My feet feel leaden. My shoulders sag. “And her job is what exactly?”

“She said she’d help you with your social media. Make sure we keep you on the right path. The thing is, now that you’re getting on the sponsorship gravy train, we really can’t have you riding the gravy train of women. I know that’s one of the best parts of being a pro athlete, and I’m not asking you to keep your dick in your pants. I’m just asking you to keep it off social media. Can you do that for me? Be good, behave, keep up a wholesome image? Jillian knows PR, and she’s more than happy to help.”

As I walk past a row of pastel-colored Victorian homes, I nod, a little heavily. His directive doesn’t bother me, per se, so I’m not entirely sure why I’m bummed. But I am. “I’ll be a good boy.”

Though it feels a little bit like I’m a dog who doesn’t come when called, and the only way to keep me in check is with a leash. Hell, maybe I am. Maybe I’ve been too bad, too naughty. Maybe I’ve been caught on the kitchen counter, eating the people food one too many times. There’s a part of me that’s a little irked, a bit irritated at what my reputation has come to. I never set out to be a party boy. Hell, I don’t even think I’m some sort of poster child for the wild NFL lifestyle. I’ve definitely reined it in over the last year or so. But I understand that perception sometimes dictates reality. A few bad pictures, a couple of inappropriate shots—along with a bad seed of an agent—and I’m tarnished.

Ford is simply trying to untarnish me.

I suppose it can’t hurt to do what he says.

I suppose that also means it would look bad if I kept flirting with the woman who’s supposed to be helping me look like a good boy. Put aside the fact that she’s displayed zero interest in me—even if she were to suddenly, out of nowhere, be awed by my charming-as-a-Chihuahua-meets-a-golden-retriever self, would that be the brightest idea to let something happen?

She’s going to be the behind-the-scenes director for my new image. If I’m trying to be the face of a brand for the first time in more than a year, I need to make sure I’m conducting all my business aboveboard.

Which means I probably shouldn’t try to make Jillian my bedroom business.

That’s why I’m bummed, since this new world order means no more cherry pies for Jillian. Time to turn down the flirting dial with her.

But the next day when Jillian rings the bell, I’m not so sure I want to be a good boy. The way she looks in that pink dress makes me want to be very bad.

10

Jillian

Standing on his porch, Jones looks me over from head to toe with those intense blue eyes, and my stomach flips like a traitorous creature.

I set a hand on my belly, as if that will calm me down. But it’s ineffective, and I have to wonder if the guy does this on purpose—gives women those I’m-undressing-you eyes. Whether he knows the effect he has on us and he uses it for fun.

Then, I want to smack my forehead, because of course he does.

That’s why I’m doing the calendar with him. That’s why his agent asked me to help him out. Because he has an extraordinary effect on women, he’s a notorious flirt, and he’s too well-known for his antics. We need to make him known for other things.

Like how he rescued that dog.

Like how he loves his family.

Like how he looks out for his friends.

He raises an arm, resting his hand against the frame of his front door. “So,” he says, taking his time with the word, like he plans to play with it as a cat does an insect, “are you officially my PR person now?”

A nervous laugh bursts from my throat. “I thought I’d always been your PR contact for the team.”

He runs his hand through his hair, flashing a lopsided grin then a wink. “Sorry. I meant are you my personal PR person now?”