Most Likely to Score

“Miami was . . . just work.”

The crowd roars. The din of sixty thousand fans in Seattle vibrates across the field, a steady drumbeat. That noise is paired with insults from the D line, the usual trash talk, words about my mother, your mother, my dick, your dick. I tune it all out, narrowing on Cooper taking the snap.

My cue. Breaking to the right, I race downfield, hunting for an opening every step of the way. The score is tied, and it’s the fourth quarter. There are two minutes left in the first game of the season in early September, against one of our division rivals on their home turf.

I have one job. Find the gap.

I dodge a speed-demon cornerback, racing into the perfect spot as Cooper launches the ball. All my senses zero in on one thing. My eyes track the pigskin like an eagle scanning for fish.

Crosshairs. Mine. I own that ball.

A linebacker appears out of nowhere, aiming for me. A quick sidestep, a double back, and I’m right where I need to be, avoiding him as the ball arcs low toward the grass. That won’t fucking do. No way in hell is this pass going incomplete.

I stretch my arms as I lunge for the ball, extending my hands. The football tap dances on the tips of my fingers. This is when the big hands count the most, and I grapple the edge, barely holding it before I reel that ball in like a big catch in the ocean, yanking it to my chest. In a split second, I’m off and running, sprinting hard. The end zone is twenty yards away. It’s my destination—it’s always my destination. A safety comes at me, trying to grab me anywhere. Arms flail at me. But I’m faster, and when I cross the goal line, the sounds truly become deafening.

The cheers, and mostly jeers, from the fans. The shouts. My heavy breath. The clomp of cleats, bodies slamming into bodies, big guys sledgehammering other big guys. Then me.

The safety wraps his arms around my waist, yanking me to the ground.

I’m fair game. I always am.

As a receiver, I know how to take the hits and how to fall, but there’s always a moment when I could fall wrong.

Fortunately, it’s not today as I land on the side of my ass. My padded ass, thankfully.

It still hurts for a second, and I wince. But then I shuck that off, the momentary hurt blotted out by the reward of six glorious points.

Thanks to a circus catch.

I raise my arms and form a J.

After the game, Sierra Franklin makes a beeline for me. One of the San Francisco sports reporters who travels with the team, she’s quick and smart. Jillian is by her side as the redhead thrusts her mic at me, her diamond ring sparkling under the afternoon sun. “Great job in a tight game that went down to the wire. Tell us what you were thinking when O’Malley circled around you before you caught the ball,” she says, naming the tackler who was aiming for me.

I answer her question the way I nearly always do. “I was just focused on finding an opening and getting in position to catch the ball.”

It’s that simple. Sometimes with sports, outsiders overthink what we do. Sure, it takes unusual talent, a larger than average physique, and a whole hell of a lot of work. But more than that, the secret sauce is focus. When I’m on the field, I’m not thinking of how my stocks are faring, what I’ll cook for dinner, or if there are any good flicks out that weekend. I don’t even think of women. My focus is one-track only. The ball—find the ball, catch the ball, run with the ball.

I block out everything else.

“You definitely made sure of that.” With a wry smile, Sierra adds, “What about the gesture you made in the end zone? We haven’t seen that from you before, but it looked like a J. Shall I presume that’s a new calling card now for your name?”

My eyes stray to Jillian, waiting patiently. For a split second, mischief flickers in her eyes. I flash back to Miami, the night I promised I would send her a signal.

“All the best names start with J. Thanks so much, Sierra. And congratulations again on your upcoming wedding.”

“Thank you so much, Jones.”

The redheaded reporter beams, and as the two women head off to find the next player to interview, Jillian says something about how she can’t wait to see her walk down the aisle in a few more days.

Then, Jillian glances over her shoulder at me, nibbling on the corner of her lip.

A charge rocks down my body.

From that.

From her biting her lip.

I’m screwed.

When I turn to the locker room, I wonder why I ever thought it would be wise to fall hard for a woman I can’t have.

22

Jillian

Katie pours me a glass of white wine. “How was it? Did you survive the first game?”

I motion for her to keep going with the chardonnay. “Let me put it this way. I’m ready to accept my medal in self-restraint. Have you made that trophy for me yet?”

“It’s on its way, along with a plaque.” She sets down the bottle and hands me the glass. “This enough for you?”

“Unlikely, but I’ll try to make do,” I say as I sink into my cushy couch and tuck my feet under me, taking a sip. “He made the J for me. For me. This is killing me.”

Katie nods sympathetically. “I better leave the bottle with you.”

“Leave a whole crate with me, ‘kay? Thanks.”

She pats my knee. “I will, but may I please point out how I’ll soon be taking you out for ice cream and pepper, and proving that it goes together like you and Jones? And you guys obviously go together.”

“We do not go together. Isn’t it obvious that we don’t?”

Bringing the wine to my lips, I guzzle. There is no way to mince words about how I drink it. After training camp, after seeing him every day, after still fantasizing about him every night, after the game today and the quick flight home from Seattle, I need a fat drink or two or three.

Katie shakes her head, her blond strands falling loose and long over her shoulders. “There really isn’t a way for you to manage this? C’mon. Football is always about finding openings.”

“No. I have my interview next week. I need to be focused on that. Being with Jones is too risky. I’ve gone over it in my head a million times, and there’s just no way for me to make this work and not be the pot who called the kettle black.”

“Oh, that’s terrible. Who would want to be the pot calling the kettle black? That’s like the worst thing anybody could ever say to you.”

I sigh. “It’s not that, Katie. It’s just . . . I can’t see this going well. Ending well.”

“You’re not Chelsea, who snapped his shot on Tinder. You’re not that model Annika, who drank champagne with him in a dress that bared all.”

My skin crawls thinking of his former conquests. I narrow my eyes, my nostrils flaring. “I hate them.”

“Meow, kitty-cat.”

“I know. It’s terrible. But I don’t know how to bring this out in the open and have it go well. All my work with him is predicated on this stuff not happening. Flings not happening. Risqué trysts not occurring. And he doesn’t exactly have a track record with relationships. Even if he said, ‘Hey, she’s my girl now,’ who’s going to believe him?”

Katie shrugs and says softly, “I don’t know the answer to that.”

“That’s the issue. The answer is that it likely wouldn’t fly. We’re trying to craft a more wholesome image, an image that helps him keep deals, not lose them.”