Most Likely to Score

I meet his eyes. “Do you want to have dinner tonight? We can strategize next steps with Paleo Pet and how to tackle social as the marketing campaign rolls out, as well as review some of the calendar publicity.”

See? That sounded so professional. Because it was. I can absolutely zero in on business and just business with the guy.

“Um.” He makes that sound. That sound guys make before they turn you down. That groan of regret-but-not-regret. “I’m hanging out with some of the guys from the Miami Mavericks. Sorry.”

My heart skitters to the sidewalk like a top spinning until it falters. I plaster on a smile, hiding my disappointment. “Oh, that’s great. Have fun.”

As I leave, I believe he’s made his intentions clear after all. He has none for me.

I scroll through my phone, find Andre’s name, and ask if he wants to have dinner poolside.

He says yes.

15

Jones

I slam the plastic ball across the net, watching defensive tackle Connor Washington dive for it on the sand, reaching as far as he can with the paddle.

But he swings and misses.

“Ah, too bad the little white ball eludes you,” I say, since that’s how we roll. I’ve never played a game of table tennis, Xbox, foosball, or golf with a fellow athlete where we didn’t trash-talk each other.

“I wouldn’t dish it out so fast,” Connor warns, his dark eyes sparking with determination as he returns a punishing serve.

He’s right. I miss it.

I fucking miss it. The ball skids past me, hitting the beach.

Because my mind is on Jillian.

Again.

It has been since I saw her at the pool, lounging in a luscious black triangle bikini, drinking a fruity drink, and laughing with a Henry Cavill look-alike.

I’ve no clue who he is. And hell, I never gave much thought to her seeing other guys. Which is stupid as shit. Of course she dates. She’s gorgeous and funny and witty and generally awesome. She’s a catch.

The white plastic orb screams in my direction, and I lunge to the right, smacking it hard. Connor returns it fiercely with a grunt. We trade off like that, back and forth, and the focus exiles Jillian from my mind.

For a few minutes, until the game ends and I’ve lost. Connor’s teammate Malcolm steps up to the table, pointing his paddle at me. His thick beard points at me, too. “You keep that shitty play going all through the season and we will clean up against your sorry ass in the conference.”

“I save all my best moves for the field. You watch out when the third Sunday of October rolls around.”

Connor smacks Malcolm’s arm. “See that? He’s scared of us. He already knows when we’re playing so he can prepare to be whipped.”

“Assholes.” I laugh. “I know the schedule because I like to be prepared to destroy my opponents.”

They shake their heads in unison. “We will ping-pong your ass back to the West Coast,” Malcolm taunts.

I raise my hands to the sky. “Why do I hang out with you clowns when I’m in town?”

Malcolm makes his way around the table and taps his chest. “Because we’re fun. So fun, in fact, I say it’s time to ditch this Ping-Pong table. What do you say we hit the clubs?”

I shake my head. “Early bedtime for me. No more partying.”

Malcolm lets out a dejected, dramatic sigh. “Man, are you serious? I know places where we can clean up like that.” He snaps his fingers.

The offer is tempting. I wouldn’t mind a night out, some dancing, chatting up some women. But that’s not what I signed up for this year. That won’t suit the new image, or sit well with the new sponsors. That doesn’t sit well with me, either, because there is only one woman I want to chat up, and she’s off-limits.

Connor holds up his index finger. “Training camp starts in one week. Then, no GFs, no bunnies, no girls stopping by for blowies.”

Malcolm wiggles his eyebrows. “One night, JB. How can you resist?”

Easily, actually.

I tip my head toward the hotel. “I have a pillow calling my name and a movie to watch. Not to mention a brand-new contract with a pet food company as an incentive to keep squeaky clean.”

“Nice,” Connor says, holding up his palm to high-five. I smack back.

“Smart move. You need to keep that shit locked up. I’m going to unlock mine,” Malcolm says, and the ironic thing is, he can, because his deals are different. His biggest sponsor is a vodka brand. That doesn’t mean he can get roasted and show up on a YouTube compilation of blitzed athletes. The contrary. He doesn’t drink when he’s out, and he follows strict rules about where and when he dips his wick with women he meets at clubs. Those are the lines that suit him and his business partners.

We wander across the sand toward the pool. The sun has fallen below the horizon, and night is settling in. I say goodbye to the guys and head through the pool area to go into the hotel. I spot Jillian in the shallow end, her elbows on the side of the pool, chatting with the Cavill dude.

That unpleasant sensation stabs my chest again. My jaw clenches and my muscles tighten as jealousy crashes over me.

Jillian spots me and waves.

“Hey,” I grunt, tipping my forehead in her direction as I stalk past them, since that’s all I can manage. Once inside, I stab the up button for the elevator, and when it arrives I want to punch the panel.

I don’t.

I curse under my breath as the doors whisk shut.

I can’t fucking believe she’s hanging out with that guy in front of me. I march down the hall to my room, fumes of jealousy in my wake.

In my room, I strip out of my shorts and T-shirt, crank up the shower to scalding, and wash away the sand. But as I scrub soap over my skin, all I can think is Superman is peeling off her bikini tonight.

Tossing it on the floor of her hotel room.

Kissing her neck. Making his way down her body.

Envy burns in me like a wildfire. This is not okay. In a heartbeat, I rinse off the shampoo, get out of the shower, and towel off. A minute later, I’ve yanked on swim trunks and a T-shirt, and I’m on my way to the pool.

I’m going to crash her party.

When I arrive, they’re on the deck. Superman is giving her a hug. It’s going to take every ounce of my restraint not to grab that arm of his and rip him off her.

Because she’s mine. Even though I can’t have her, that guy sure as hell can’t, either.

I walk closer and key in on his words.

“Love you, Jilly. So much.”

Jilly? He calls her by a pet name? I clench my fists.

“Love you, too, sweets,” she says, dropping a kiss to his cheek. Her back is to me, and I stop in my tracks at the edge of the deep end, watching some other man hug the woman I want. Everything is wrong with this picture.

“Sorry I have to go, but I just got a text about this elementary school we sponsor. Some problem with the water pipes I need to figure out.”

“Go, go,” she says, shooing him off.

“Thank you so much for making time for me, and you know I will see you whenever you are in town,” he says. “You just call me, and I’ll come running.”

She has a boyfriend in Miami? What the hell?

Red. I see red. It billows from my eyes, and I shut them for a moment and think of Cletus. As I picture his too-adorable Chihuahua face and how he likes to give me slobbery lap-dog kisses, the jealousy fades momentarily.

I open my eyes as Superman waves goodbye then blows her a kiss.