Most Likely to Score

“I taught class this morning, and now I’m waiting for a new desk to be delivered. Do I know how to party or what?”

“A new desk is clearly the definition of a fiesta,” I say as the driver pulls away from the curb.

“When will you be in Napa? In case I feel a disturbance in the Force.”

“It’s about an hour and twenty minutes.”

“By my estimate, that gives you a full hour to snooze in the car.”

Briefly, I glance away from Jones. “Dad, I only did that in cars when I was younger.”

“I bet you fall asleep now,” he says, then his line goes quiet for a second. “Sweet pea, I need to go. That’s the delivery company. I’ll talk to you later.”

After I end the call, Jones gives me an I’m waiting look. “What?”

He gestures for me to keep talking. “Tell me about your dad.”

“You want to hear about my father?” I ask, my brow knitting in curiosity.

He crosses his arms. “Yes. Contrary to my party-boy reputation and the word on the street about the size of my hands, I have a big heart, too, and I want to know about Mr. Moore. You said he teaches?”

I can’t help but smile at the way he makes light of himself at the same time he earnestly seems to want to know about me. My heart warms like someone turned on a lamp and it’s glowing, brightening the room. “Yes, he’s an adjunct professor at a community college in Napa, teaching digital journalism to freshmen. He loves it. I think he was antsy being retired and needed something to do with all his energy.”

“That’s awesome. Good for him to find an outlet like that. Do his students love him?”

“I get the impression they do. They seem pretty engaged.”

“And it sounds like he’s chosen wisely when it comes to sports. Did I catch on correctly that he’s a Renegades fan?”

“He goes to every home game.”

“I love him already. You’re pretty close to him? You see and talk to him regularly?”

“Yes, I try to visit him at least every other weekend. We’ve always been close. He’s the person I’ve turned to for career advice over the years. He’s never led me astray.”

A huge smile crosses Jones’s face. “Love that. Just love it. That’s how it should be, you know? Being able to lean on and depend on your parents, your brothers, your sister.” He tilts his head and scratches his chin. “But I’m curious about something. What did he think you’d do on the drive up?”

I grumble, “Sleep in the car.”

“You managed the ride to Stinson the other day without napping. But that was a much shorter drive.”

I wave a hand and fix on a grin, giving my best perky face. “I won’t fall asleep. I’m wide awake.”

But in thirty minutes, I’m yawning as we pass the San Rafael exit. As we cross to Novato, my eyes flutter shut.

True to form, I wake up forty-five minutes later in wine country with my head in Jones’s lap.

My head is in his lap.

I don’t move. This might be a dream. I blink. The world is sideways, and Jones’s hand is in my hair. He’s actually running his hand across my hair. Gently. Casually. Sweetly.

It feels better than it should.

It feels so incredibly good. Like comfort I didn’t know I needed. Like friendship I wasn’t sure we had.

I close my eyes, and pretend to sleep until the car pulls into the lot at the winery. This is all I will ever get of him, and I want to savor these last few minutes with his hands on me.

A curious orange kitten scampers over a wine barrel then climbs to the next one above it, balancing beautifully. He’s like the king of the jungle—or the king of the winery where we’ll shoot today’s picture for the month of March. The winery is attached to a hotel, and we’ll be spending the night here.

As the humane society rep watches the furry-faced creature, my phone beeps with a text message. I slide it open to see a note from Liam McHenry, the guy who owns Paleo Pet and is overseeing the new deal. He’s arriving any minute, he says. I excuse myself to wait for him out front.

When a pickup truck pulls up, and a tall, trim, and surprisingly handsome sandy-haired man steps out, I’m surprised he’s Liam. But the license plate—MEOW ARF—is a big tip-off.

I’m surprised because I expected Liam to have a driver. That’s what I’m accustomed to when guys from big sponsors show up. I figured he’d be sporting a tailored suit, too, rather than jeans and a crisp button-down.

His smile shows off straight white teeth. “You must be Jillian. Ford Grayson raves about you.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Liam.” We shake hands. “And a little bird told me Cletus raved about your dog food.”

Running a hand through his hair, Liam laughs. “Man, we are thrilled about Jones. Love that guy. Love his commitment to excellence. To healthy eating. To being the best in every single game. He just delivers on the field, doesn’t he?”

“You can’t argue with fifteen hundred and two yards for the season and fourteen yards on average per pass,” I say, sharing Jones’s stats from last year. “Not to mention his love of animals. He’ll be a great face for your brand.”

“I’m stoked, Jillian. When I found out about him and Cletus, I knew he was the guy I needed to take us to the next level.” Liam rubs his hands together. “He’s such a fan favorite already, and we really want to make sure the moms who buy our dog food love him the way we love him.”

That sparks my curiosity. “Your consumers are mostly moms?”

“That’s what our research has shown. They’re the ones who seek out the specialty pet food, since they’re usually already into organic food for their kids, and so many dogs and cats these days are just like family.”

I make a mental note to remind Jones that Paleo Pet sees itself as a family-centric brand. “You need to come see Jones’s co-star today, then. This little kitten will melt your heart, and we can also take a shot of just you and Jones to post on social—something to show you’re now in business with him.” A picture like that can help spread the word about the sponsorship and continue to present Jones in a new light. A true win-win. The calendar teaser shots, though? Those I keep for the team feed.

I gesture to the door of the winery. Liam quickly strides ahead, holding it open for me. “I’m glad we’re working together, Jillian.”

“Me, too,” I say, not because Liam is handsome, but because he’s straightforward, confident, and laid-back.

And fine, it doesn’t hurt that he’s easy on the eyes.

When we reach the room with the barrels, Jones glances over then does a double take when he sees Liam with me.

As if he’s surprised for some reason.

But then the look on his face turns to a scowl.

I have no idea why he’d be upset with a sponsor, but I’ll have to remind him later to keep on a happy face.

11

Jones

What is this feeling in my chest?

It’s like a ball of steel lodged in my sternum. I’m tight, a little tense, a bit frustrated.

It’s not exactly like when we’ve lost a big game, but this is damn close to how I feel when I’m home in January watching the playoffs on TV rather than competing in them. In fact, this is like when I watched our rivals, the Los Angeles Devil Sharks, hoist the Vince Lombardi trophy over their heads last year when they won the Super Bowl.