Most Likely to Score

I’m winning at resisting him ever since he took off from my room sometime in the wee hours a few mornings ago.

One fully-awake plane ride later, we check in at our hotel. Both of us are on the third floor, but that shouldn’t be a problem since I don’t plan on spending time in his room, or vice versa. Heck, it might even make things easier when we head out for the photo shoots, since we have one every morning, including the day we leave. And after this trip, we’ll be done with the calendar photography so goodbye temptation, thy name is no longer Sleeping on Jones.

As we turn away from the front desk in the sleek, teal-blue lobby of the Blue Dreams Hotel on South Beach, the moment of truth arrives. Will we do that awkward “should we have dinner” thing that business traveling companions do, or can I pull off another dart and dodge to avoid the dangerous five-foot radius around Jones that usually reduces me to unexpected cuddling, snuggling, and flirting?

I wish my friend Andre was free tonight. He lives here and works for the local NBA team, but he has a date this evening, so I can’t use seeing him as an excuse to keep my distance from Jones. I’ll need to be strategic and find ways to maintain space between that man and me for the next three nights.

I take a deep breath.

Here goes.

“I’m going to hit the gym,” he says, at the same time as I utter, “I’m going to take off for an evening walk.”

He shoots me a grin. “Jinx.”

“Jinx,” I say with a laugh.

See? I’m pulling this off with panache and humor. Almost as if we never entwined our bodies in the middle of the night.

I drop off my bags in my room, telling myself it’s better that we don’t hang out. It’s better if I feel zero temptation to curl up with him. Besides, the shoot tomorrow with the local shelter is a sunrise one, so I’ll need to be up early.

I leave the boutique hotel and make my way to the ocean to take care of business. That business involves my phone, my bare feet, and the beach. Because tonight, the thermometer reads in the high seventies, a rarity for late July in Miami. The beach is my kind of bliss, with sand that’s soft and sugary and water that’s crystal clear and calm. I drop my big silver shades with rhinestones on the frames over my eyes, and drink in the tropical contrast to San Francisco. Back home, I’m surrounded by water and beaches, too, but the Pacific is colder, harsher, and our beaches are better suited for melancholy, solitary strolls while wearing jackets and thinking deep thoughts.

Here, even at seven in the evening, the Miami coastline is a brochure for bikinis and stylish trunks, suntan oil and toned muscles. Gentle waves lap the shore, and sleek white boats glide across the water. I can’t deny that the view is quite lovely as I walk along the coastline, returning work calls to the West Coast, making sure I’m on top of my job.

My last call is with my boss.

“I’m going to need a bigger fan in my office,” Lily declares as we chat.

I’m not really sure how that’s an agenda item, but she’s in charge, so I go with it. “Why’s that?”

“Because these pictures of Jones Beckett are hawt, as in H-A-W-T. I’m looking at the calendar drafts so far, and I might be pregnant from them.”

Cracking up, I manage to answer, “Be sure to take pre-natal vitamins, then.”

“Don’t worry. I have an appointment tomorrow with the OB because, holy smokes, the May photo might be giving me twins.”

I smile. “That’s the one of him and the greyhound mix. He was so lovey with this dog that had been abused, and I nearly melted watching the pooch warm up to him.”

“Good thing you handled this shoot. I might have been tempted to break my golden rule of no player relations had I gone along.”

No player relations—that’s a good, solid rule, and I pat myself on the back since I didn’t break it, either. Falling asleep in bed clearly doesn’t count. “Let’s hope men and women buy it in droves. I’ve already started the publicity for it, teasing fans that it’s coming.”

“And the early buzz is excellent. By the way, how is everything going with Paleo Pet? Even though it’s not part of your regular assignment with the team, I think it will definitely look good when you talk to the general manager for the promotion.”

“You do?” I hadn’t considered that aspect of the deal, to tell the truth. I said yes because I wanted to be helpful, and because I knew I’d learn new and useful skills. But if it gives me a leg up, that would be a nice bonus.

“Absolutely. It shows everything you’re capable of doing in terms of massaging, presenting, and turning around a reputation. I’ve been doing some monitoring of what the public thinks of Jones and it’s already on the uptick,” Lily tells me, and I pump a fist. “And when it’s time for you to interview for the promotion in September, I’ll prep you for it. I want you to nail it.”

And I want to nail Jones.

Whoa. Where did that thought come from? Oh, right. My primal, animal brain. Time to reset. “Thank you so much, Lily. I appreciate everything you’ve done.”

When we hang up, I’m reminded that this is what I want, and this is the next step in my career. I’ve been lucky enough to move up quickly in the job of my dreams. Though my mother would say it’s not luck, it’s focus, and she taught me that. While my father and I came first with her, she also balanced work and family with uncommon grace. She was home for me every day after school, but when I was in class she gave her all to her job. Every morning when she left for her psychology practice, she was energized. She liked to say her client sessions were her own form of caffeine. “Find something you’re passionate about. Nurture it. Cherish it, and watch it grow. But always tend to it,” she told me.

When she and my dad gave me the cherry earrings after I nabbed the Renegades job, she said, “A reminder to keep making your own luck.”

That’s what I’ve tried to do, by working hard, by giving my best every day.

That’s one of the reasons I call my dad next—to get him up to speed on the latest at work and to ask for his advice in handling a thorny email I received from a reporter inquiring about training camp coverage. My dad offers his best tips for prickly journalists, and I thank him as a seagull swoops past me, hunting for french fries on the nearby picnic tables.

“And how is that young man you’re smitten with?” my dad asks after we finish our work conversation.

“I’m not smitten with him.”

He chuckles. “You always did make me laugh. Next thing you’ll be telling me he doesn’t fancy you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. He doesn’t like me like that.”

“Denial is so entertaining. Can you do more of it? I find it amusing.”

I snort-laugh but hold my ground. “Dad. Stop.”

“Oh, please. Baby pictures? Who asks to see baby pictures?”

I furrow my brow as my feet sink into the soft sand. “Everyone? Isn’t that normal, to want to look at baby photos?”

“Nope. A man who is keen on a woman wants to see baby pictures. I know because I used that same trick with your mother back when I was courting her.”

I weave around a group of women taking selfies in their microscopic bikinis. “But he’s not courting me,” I point out. “And just because I might have told you once that I thought he had a pretty face doesn’t mean anything will happen.”