Most Likely to Score

“It’s not too hard at all,” I say, taking my time with each word, so I don’t overstep, or read something into nothing. He sounds like he’s flirting, but that’s his MO. The man has been known to toy with me on many occasions. He’s a fun, lovable wiseass, and I need to do my best to always remember that about him—this is a game.

“It’s not?” He raises an eyebrow, then his gaze drifts downward. “Hmm. I thought it was.”

With a deadpan tone, I say, “Nothing hard about being with you. In fact, I’d say it’s a veritable barrel of monkeys.”

He laughs, running that towel over his head, even though his hair isn’t wet. “You know what they say about barrels of monkeys.”

“No, what do they say, Jones?”

“They get into monkey business.” He turns, tosses the towel to the floor, and strolls away.

Mayday, Mayday. The plane’s going down. I’m about to get a full serving of perfect booty in my ocular zone. I snap my gaze to my cell phone. Dear God in heaven, thank you for making phones. Thank you for giving us devices that are useful for distraction at moments like this. As I scroll through my messages as if they’re the height of fascinating, I try to figure out what he’s doing with his towel games.

Is he baiting me in a brand-new way?

The wheels turn in my brain then pick up speed. Yes. That has to be it.

He’s playing reindeer games with me, using a towel and his naked body as the game pieces.

Which makes sense. He’s a baller, and these guys are competitive in every single pursuit. But little does he know this valedictorian, summa cum laude girl has 206 competitive bones in her body, too.

I won’t bend down. I won’t look down, either.

I stare straight at the back of his head and call his name. He swivels around, a question mark in his eyes.

I point to the floor. “Jones. You need to pick up your towel.”

“Can you—?”

I shake my head. “Not a football’s chance in hell. And please, don’t ever insult my intelligence again.” I smile. “I’ve been with the team since the guys invented the drop-the-towel game.”

He squares his shoulders, heaves a breath, and walks right up to me, as if he’s challenging me to stare at his naked physique.

My chin has never been higher. I might as well be watching the ceiling. All I can see is his face.

When he reaches me, he whispers in a husky, dirty tone, “How’s the air up there?”

I smirk. “It’s clean. Pure as the driven snow. Now, be a good boy and pick up your towel.”

Then I turn around, and I swear all the breath nearly rushes out of me with relief. I need to get the hell out of the photo studio.

I’ve had a crush on this man since he joined the team. I might be able to act like a robot thanks to extensive training, but I’m only human. A female human, and my blood is heated to Mercury levels right now.

Must. Cool. Off.

I head to the door in desperate search of a bucket of ice water to stick my whole head in, when my brain snags on something I forgot.

I curse under my breath then square my shoulders, calling out to him, “Jones, I need a picture of you for the team’s Facebook page. As part of the body issue promos.”

I swear I can feel his satisfied Cheshire cat grin forming behind me.

“You want me in the full monty, too?”

“Put the towel on, jaybird. I’m not posting a nude photo, and I’m not scooping Sporting World and showing you holding a ball. Just a simple shot of you here at the photo studio. So put the towel on, and smile for the fans who love you.”

“If you insist.”

I count to ten, since Lord knows he’ll drag out the time it takes to sling a towel around his waist. Then, five more seconds for good measure.

I turn around, and he’s decent. I raise my phone, and he preens for the camera, doing walk-like-an-Egyptian poses.

He’s such a clown, I can’t help but crack up. “You’re a certified goofball,” I say, laughing.

“Just trying to entertain the crowd.”

“Your crowd of one.”

“And that one deserves a great show,” he says, then flashes me a grin. The brightest, most winning smile I’ve seen.

When I post it to our feed later, I know hearts will melt and panties will fly off tonight.

But not mine.

They definitely won’t be mine.

3

Jones

I have other hobbies besides needling Jillian with nudity. For instance, I enjoy embroidery, I really dig knitting, and I love collecting stamps.

Just kidding.

I have nothing against those hobbies, but the things I’d enjoy most in the off-season are all the activities I can’t do. Mountain biking? No way. Paintball. Hell no. That could lead to one hell of an NFI—non-football injury—and I know some serious nimrods who have earned complete and absolute dipshit status from firing off pellets of paint and pulling Achilles tendons in the process.

And how about the idiots who ride ATVs over dirt hills, only to crash, crack a fibula, and end up on the injured reserve? No, thank you.

Knock on wood, I’ve lived a mostly injury-free life for the last five years in pro ball, and I intend to keep it that way. I’ve only missed two games, and both were due to minor muscle strains.

Durable is my middle name.

That’s why, since today I’m not playing the one sport that’s allowed—golf—I’m parked next to my big brother in my spacious kitchen, my dog, Cletus, in my lap. The camera is rolling, and there are two glasses of beer on the island counter in front of us.

Yeah, we drink and spit for our hobby. Not Cletus, though. Water all the way for the little guy.

Trevor raises a glass of brew and adopts an adventurer’s tone. “I found this delicious brew while trekking through Nepal.”

“Is that so?” I arch a skeptical brow as he waxes on, spinning an apocryphal tale of climbing through the mountains to come across an enclave of Sherpas crafting brews.

I scratch my chin. “And you brought it all the way across the world to me? Wow. You must really love me.”

“Only the finest for my little brother.”

“Aren’t you so damn sweet?” I raise the glass, take a sip, let it swirl around on my tongue, and then spit it in the bucket we nicknamed Pliny for his favorite beer. But this isn’t just a spit for show. This beer is nasty.

“That tastes like ass,” I declare, crinkling my nose. Cletus raises his chin, giving me a curious stare with big brown eyes that are two sizes too large for his tiny head. He’s a little mutt—a little Chihuahua, a little Min Pin, a little dachshund, a little trouble.

Trevor rolls his eyes. “Why do you say that? Have you actually tasted ass?”

I crack up. “Can you even say ass on your show?”

“It’s the In-ter-net. We can say anything.” He taps the glass. “So, why would you say this marvelous beer tastes like a donkey’s heinie?”

“Did I say donkey?”

“Naturally, I assumed you meant a jackass’s ass. My bad.”

“Look,” I say, laying out my beer assessment like we do every week for his show. Our banter is off-the-cuff, of-the-moment. “It stinks like a sunflower, and it tastes as if it’s been sitting all day in the heat of the swamp. I believe that officially makes it swamp-ass swill.”

Trevor nods as if he’s reluctantly accepting my answer. “Fair enough. But wait. I have more.” He gestures like some sort of magician as he reaches below the counter for another brew or two. “What other beauties have I brought today for sampling?”