Most Likely to Score

I’d furrowed my brow, trying to understand what she meant. Was it some wise, old adage, perhaps an inspirational saying about reaching for the stars?

When she opened the door to the locker room, the true meaning hit me.

Everywhere, there were dicks.

It was a parade of appendages and swinging parts, sticks and balls as far as the eye could see.

The truth of pro ballers is simple—they let it all hang out all the time, and they love it.

So much so that the running joke among the female reporters who cover the team is that with the amount of swagger going on in the locker room when ladies are present, the TV channels should all be renamed the C&B networks.

But when you work with men who train their bodies for hours a day, and then use those same physiques to win championships, you can’t be a woman who ogles them in the locker room.

Can you say tacky, trashy, and gauche?

It’s not easy, but after all these years with the Renegades, I’ve learned how to handle the locker room games.

The guys will drop pens.

The guys will drop bandages.

The guys will drop trou.

Astonishingly enough, there’s never a need to pick up a pen, a bandage, or a players’ pair of pants for them, but they’ll ask. Oh yes, will they test anyone with a pair of breasts.

Many women fail.

I’ve witnessed this initiation of every female reporter who’s set foot in the locker room on my watch. Last year, a new gal from an online outlet let her big eyes stray across the entire offensive line. Not only did she get an eyeful of skin and meat, each of the three-hundred-pound-plus linemen did a little dance and shimmy for her. Her face turned beet red, and the next time she appeared in the locker room, all the guys went full synchronized monty, singing, “Take it all off.”

She laughed and tried her best to interview them.

But their answers were straight out of the bullshit handbook and became even more ridiculous the more she giggled as they talked. She never earned another assignment to cover the team. They didn’t take her seriously after she checked them out.

I love my job, I want to be respected, and I absolutely want to be taken seriously.

That’s why I won’t even risk looking at Jones’s ridiculous body, not now from my spot against the wall in the studio, and not even when the photographer, who I know well from having worked on tons of Sporting World spreads with her, lowers her camera and calls me over. “Come see these shots, Jillian. Pretty sure they’re the definition of cover-worthy.”

That piques my interest. There are never any guarantees which athlete will make it from the pages all the way to the cover, and with a dozen elite stars from all sorts of sports tapped for the shoot, the odds are slim. But the chance to have one of my guys on the cover would be quite a coup for the team. For me, too, since I pitched him for the issue. Not only does he have the body, he has the personality to shine through.

I join her and peer at the back of her Nikon as she toggles through shot after shot of the sexiest man I’ve ever seen. My mouth goes dry. A pulse of heat races down my body as I ogle him in the viewfinder. Fine, I’m not unbiased, but I dare anyone to disagree that he’s cover-worthy.

“Are any decent? Or do you think we need to shoot the whole round again on account of me being so unphotogenic?” Jones calls out, that deep, rumbly voice tingling over my skin.

“That’s true. You really do take awful pictures,” I say drily, since he knows he takes nothing of the sort.

“That’s what I figured. They’re all hideous, no doubt.”

I glance at Christine. “You can find a way to Photoshop these and make him look decent, right? Maybe halfway normal?” I ask, a desperate plea in my voice.

Christine laughs. “I’ll certainly do my best, but I can’t promise anything. I’m not a miracle worker.” She winks in his direction, making sure he knows we’re kidding.

“That’s a shame. Why don’t I check them out with you?” Jones suggests in a serious tone, going along with the ruse.

My pulse quickens to rocket speed when I hear him drop the football to the floor with a thunk.

Dear Lord, he’s naked right now. One hundred percent naked.

Eyes up, eyes up, eyes up.

“I’ll just grab my towel,” he says, and I breathe a massive sigh of relief. He won’t be standing next to me in his naked glory after all. God bless towels so very much.

I glance up from the viewfinder and keep my gaze on Christine, whispering, “These shots are to die for.”

Christine gives a knowing smile. “No doubt. I might need some for my personal stash,” she says under her breath.

I nudge her. “Naughty girl.”

“One of the perks of the job.”

Jones strides over to us, and I’m so glad he has that towel around his waist. As he moves next to me to check out the pictures, his bare arm a mere millimeter away making me catch my breath, he shifts something to his shoulders.

I gasp when I realize what he draped on them.

His towel.

His freaking towel is on his shoulders.

Jones Beckett, object of my dirty dreams, is in my personal zone, without a stitch of clothing on.

Christine appears unfazed. I want to know her trick.

I draw a quick, quiet breath, calling on all my reserves as the three of us crowd the camera, admiring this man’s ability to pose. “You’re the ultimate ham,” I tell him, keeping the mood as light as I can.

May he never know he’s killing me with his nearness.

“Oink, oink,” Jones snorts.

Christine laughs. “I’m sure she means pig with great affection.”

“I accept her compliment one hundred percent. Pigs are fine creatures,” he says. I glance up briefly from the small screen, and a bolt of heat runs from my chest down my body as his gaze meets mine. His blue eyes are the color of a lake under the summer sky. His jaw is strong and square. His hair is dark and cut short.

For the briefest of seconds, I’m so damn tempted to let my eyes wander down his pecs to his belly, then lower still. I’m only human. I can’t help it. I want to see what was hidden behind the football. But I’ll be either disappointed or ecstatic, and since I’ll never be able to conduct a thorough investigation of any of his parts, it’s best to do what I’ve practiced for many years. I lift my chin, look away, and review the photos.

Flipping through every gorgeous shot.

“I’m going to go back up this card now,” Christine says when we’re through and excuses herself to huddle with her laptop in another section of the studio.

It’s just Jones and me, some lights, and some equipment. A black cloth hangs on the back wall. All noises echo. I flash him a professional smile and swallow past the dryness in my throat, fixing on my professional demeanor like it’s a well-tailored skirt. “Great work today. I’m so glad you could make time to do this issue.” As one of our marquee players, the man is in demand, so I need to make sure he knows how grateful I am.

“No need to thank me. It was all my pleasure.” His eyes darken as he stares at me with something like heat in them, a fire that makes no sense to me. “I hope it was yours, too.”

I blink. “I’m sorry. Excuse me?” I’ve no idea why he’s acting this way. Why he’s dipping his words in the innuendo fondue more than usual.

He shrugs happily, tugging the towel off his neck. “Just saying, I hope it’s not too hard for you to have to be here.”