Most Likely to Score

But I’ll have to find a way.

21

Jones

Training camp is brutal. It’s supposed to be brutal. Exhaustion is my sole state of mind and body at the end of every day as Coach Greenhaven works us to the bone. We run routes like we’ve never run routes before. Last year, we went as far as the championship game, but we were knocked out by our biggest rivals, the Los Angeles Devil Sharks. This year, the goal is to go all the way to another ring.

Better, faster, stronger. That’s my motto as I rise at dawn, hit the weight room, then run drills and sprints on the practice field all afternoon.

During training camp, I’m all football all the time, and I love it.

Except when I see Jillian.

We train at a university an hour from the city, and she’s here regularly, since training camp is a media fiesta. At least a few times a week, I see her. Standing against the wall in the back of the press conference room, scribbling notes in her notebook, tapping out replies to emails on her phone. Hanging out on the edge of the field, answering questions from reporters and bloggers. One afternoon as I grab water after an intense drill, I see a local sportscaster stride over to her. Kevin Stone is his name, and he dresses sharp. As he approaches, Jillian crosses her arms and raises her chin, a slight shift in her demeanor, as if she’s protecting herself.

Awareness slams me like a linebacker.

She used to date him. I remember her seeing him a year ago. Holy shit. Is he the asshole who detests room service? Wait. His crime is way worse than hating a great meal option. He’s the shithead who cheated on her. For a second, this feels a little like jealousy because it tightens my muscles and makes me grit my teeth. But I feel zero envy for that ass. He’ll never have that incredible woman again. Not after he broke her trust.

That’s what pisses me off. That’s why I’m wound up. That jackass hurt my woman, and I have half a mind to march over, shoot him a withering glare, and tell him he lost out on the greatest chance ever.

But I don’t do that. I snap my gaze away and down another water. I lost a chance, too.

For vastly different reasons, but I’m in the same boat as that fucker.

She’s not my woman, either.

On the second to last day of training camp, Jillian asks the marquee players to sit for a news conference. That’s Cooper, Harlan, Rick, and me.

At the end of the presser, a sports blogger tosses out the final question in my direction. “Jones, how do you feel about your chances this year?”

The question has been asked every day, countless times, in press conferences all across the NFL and in every professional sports league. Reporters and fans have a bottomless appetite for pondering how far any team can go. Can we go all the way? That’s what everyone wants to know. Hell, that’s why we play.

As I clear my throat and prepare to answer, my eyes drift to Jillian, standing against the white wall near the front of the room. I’ve seen her in this pose hundreds of times before, dressed to the nines, her brown eyes taking in the whole room.

She wears a black skirt and a candy-apple red blouse with white polka dots. She’s so fucking business-sexy that it’s impossible for me not to want to strip those clothes off and fuck her against the wall.

But that’s what I shouldn’t think about.

Except, she’s looking at me now. Not in the way she used to before Miami, but really looking at me. Seeing me. Knowing me.

The question hangs in the air as that loaded word—chances—takes on a brand-new meaning. How do you feel about your chances this year?

Our eyes lock. A connection seems to pass between us, as if she knows what’s on my mind. She’s on my mind. She’s the chance I wish I could take. I repeat the question, buying myself time. “How do I feel about our chances?”

The reporter nods, an expectant look in his eyes, his phone pointing in my direction, recording my answer.

“If we play hard every day, we have a shot. And isn’t that all we can hope for?” My eyes drift back to her for a fleeting second. “To have a chance?” I add one more word, so she knows I mean her. I’m not entirely sure what I’m hinting at. Or if I’m merely expressing a wish. But I say it anyway. “Presumably.”

She dips her head, and a smile spreads across her face, even as she tries to rein it in.

After the press conference ends, I drag my feet, taking my time leaving. I make sure I’m the last player to exit, and when I’m the only one in the hall, she comes out of the room, shutting the door.

“Oh. Hey.” She sounds startled to see only me in the long, empty hallway.

“Hey.” It’s the first time at training camp when it’s been just the two of us.

“How are you?”

“I’m good.”

“Are you enjoying training camp?”

I step closer, dangerously close. “You can presume it would be better if you sneaked into my room at night,” I whisper into her ear.

Her eyes float closed, and a visible tremble moves down her body. She murmurs my name, then she opens her eyes. “You are far too tempting.”

My gaze roams over her from head to toe, thinking of those two days and nights in Miami when she was all mine. “I could say the same about you. Especially in this red shirt. Red is lucky, you know?”

A faint smile spreads. “I wish.”

“I wish we were getting lucky.”

“Me, too.” She glances down the hall, and even though the coast is clear, she tips her forehead to the door at the far end. “I should probably go. Someone will show up here any second.”

“Are you worried you’d be tempted to do something if you stayed here in this hall with me?”

She shakes her head. “I’m not worried. I’m absolutely certain of what would happen if I stayed near you for another five seconds.”

I grab her wrist, the need to touch her overruling any reason. Stroking my finger across her skin, I move closer. She’d better stop me, because I’m not sure I can stop myself. I’m not sure I want to.

She swallows, shakes her head. “Jones, you’re making this hard.” Her voice is wobbly.

“It is hard.”

She sighs, and it comes out soft, so sexy and needy that it nearly shatters my already weak resolve. “I really need to go.” But she doesn’t make a move. She leans in close, almost as if she’s inhaling me.

She’s inches from me, and if anyone saw us, they’d be hard-pressed to believe any denials we’d utter.

That reality—how close I’m tangoing to fucking shit up—smashes into me, and I let go of her hand in an instant. “I know. I really need to let you go, but you have to know that’s the part that’s hardest. Letting you go.”

Her brown eyes are big, beautiful, and full of something deeper, something I wish was in my life. The kind of connection I’ve never had before with a woman. The kind that lasts.

“I know,” she whispers, her voice trembling, her eyes shining. She inhales sharply, waving her hand as if to shake off her emotions.

She walks away.

Later that night, in the room I share with Harlan, he packs his suitcase. “Hey, man, whatever happened with Jillian?”

I toss a shirt into my duffel. “Nothing.”

“The cherry pie didn’t work?”

I shake my head.

“What about Miami?”

I don’t like lying to my buddy, but I promised Jillian that what happened in Miami was just between us. I have to keep it that way, even if I want what happened in Miami to happen again and again.