Most Likely to Score

Yeah, he’s a little over the top. It’s part of his shtick. The oldest of the four of us, Trevor is a former brewmaster who now hosts a popular online video series about tasting beer. He’s a bona fide beer expert, and besides being a pro baller, that’s about the coolest job you can have. He has a more serious video show, too, a taste-testing one, that’s beloved by beer experts and beer lovers alike. This is the one we do for fun, where we goof off. Both shows make bank, though, since he’s a genius when it comes to business. He knows all the ins and outs of turning his passion into a money-maker, thanks to a degree in finance.

After we test a few more beers, spitting them all out in the bucket, Trevor flashes a smile at the camera. “That’s all in today’s edition of Two Bros Who Like Brew. I’d like to thank our regular color commentator, my one and only little brother. Jones, as always, your opinions are born of immense depth and great knowledge of the field of beer. Truly, your insight astounds me.”

I point at him as Cletus yawns in my lap. “As does yours when it comes to football. Like the time you told me how I should run almost out of bounds then back in to catch a forty-five-yard pass from Cooper Armstrong while avoiding defensive coverage.” I shake my head in amusement at that ridiculous bit of Monday-morning quarterbacking from him.

“Ouch. He questions my knowledge of the game, folks. You witnessed it firsthand.”

We say goodbye, then he signs off and hits the stop button on his digital camera.

“More than one million views of the last episode. Damn, I am so funny.” He blows on his fingers, too hot to handle. Cletus yaps at him. “Even your dog agrees with me.”

“I’m pretty sure that was a bark of disagreement. Right, little dude?” I look at Cletus, who tilts his head to the side, clearly a yes. “All right, you’re a good boy.”

I set him down, reach for a tiny biscuit, and ask him to spin. My brown and white ten-pound dog executes three perfect circles, so I give him the treat. Cletus has won awards in dog agility trials because he’s so fucking awesome he blows all the competition away. His jumps are magnificent, and his pole-weaving is a thing of beauty. Natch, I taught him everything he knows.

He rushes off with his treat, squirreling it away in one of his many dog beds. He has a couple in every room, but I swear he’s not spoiled.

I stand to my full height. Trevor looks up at me, shaking his head. “Seriously. Are you ever going to find your real dad?”

It’s a running joke.

I’m seven inches taller than Trevor. One of the tallest receivers in the NFL at six feet, five inches, I don’t fit into my family. No one else comes even close to six-foot, not our other brother, David, and not our dad. My sister, Sandy, is a foot shorter, and our mom is the shortest of all, a little less than five four.

I laugh. “What can I say? I’m a freak of nature.”

“Freak is right.” Trevor rubs his hands together then adopts a more serious expression. “Thanks again for doing my show with me.”

I smack his shoulder. “You know I love it. You don’t have to thank me.”

“I know, but I appreciate your time. You’re in demand.”

I scoff. “You’re family. There’s no pressure on my time from you. I’m just glad you’re back in town,” I say, since he used to be based in New York.

“Me, too. Also, you are in demand. Speaking of, are you ready for tomorrow? Time to roll up our sleeves and plan your next steps with the new agent.”

I groan and scrub a hand over my jaw. “I hate that word. Agent basically means thief.”

Trevor pats my shoulder and nods sympathetically. “Yeah, but Ford is one of the good ones. He’s not going to screw you out of your money.”

I scoff. “They all do, don’t they?”

“Not all of them.” He tips his forehead to the door. “I’ll swing by in the morning, and we’ll talk to him on the course.”

I might have made some questionable choices. I might have partied too hard and too long. But I never screwed anyone who didn’t want it.

Can’t say the same for my old agent.

4

Jillian

I’m not lacking in confidence. But this crush? C’mon. I’m a smart girl. I know better.

Guys like Jones don’t date girls like me.

And by girls like me, I don’t just mean Asian girls. Though I do.

But mostly, I mean girls with serious jobs. I’m the director of publicity for the team. That’s not what Jones is looking for in his arm candy of choice.

Jones Beckett has dated go-go dancers, cheerleaders, and models, as well as a soccer star and an actress best known for baring all. He doesn’t date girls with office jobs who aspire to have a VP after their name. He dates girls who are vice presidents of hot racks, executives in charge of the lap dance, and heads of the department of perfect tits and ass.

He’s been photographed with one beautiful babe after another.

But every now and then, the ladies photograph him. Like the morning after the team’s Super Bowl win two years ago. That’s when a buxom blonde named Chelsea tweeted a selfie with Jones sleeping in her bed. Her face in the frame with our snoozing star receiver, she captioned the pic so cleverly with her newly acquired knowledge: “It’s true what they say about a size of a man’s hands.”

Yep. Our player had become more famous for swiping right than for his game-winning touchdown pass.

I wouldn’t call it a PR disaster, because what single pro baller doesn’t want to celebrate his Super Bowl win in that kind of biblical fashion? But it became a feeding frenzy for the media outlets, hounding us for details on Chelsea. Who was this woman who had Jones Beckett in her bed?

SHE WAS A WOMAN ON TINDER.

That’s it. That’s all.

The cat was out of the bag. Jones used Tinder. Whoop-de-doo. That was how he became the poster boy for the hookup app for a few months. That is reason #1089 why I don’t take my unrequited crush on him seriously. For starters, I’m one in a long line of women who have a crush on him.

Second, Jones isn’t just a player. He’s a playa.

That’s why a crush is a crush is only a crush.

Besides, even if I were to let myself entertain it more—which I won’t—all I have to do is remind myself that none of the girls he’s dated look like me. They look like they are from California, Texas, Mississippi.

Blonde. Blue-eyed. All-American.

I’m from here, but my blood comes from China. My very American, very Californian parents adopted me from the city of Wuhan in the province of Hubei when I was nine months old. So, while I’m 100 percent Cali girl, I also have eyes a little narrower, lashes a lot straighter, and hair that can’t be any color but black.

In any case, I’m better off devoting my dating energy on guys more like me—men with jobs in buildings rather than ballparks. Truth be told, though, it’s been a year since I dated anyone seriously. My job is my focus. I love it madly, and that’s why I don’t mind showing up at the office at seven thirty on most mornings, like I do several days after the shoot.

That gives me quiet time to get a head start on the day. At my desk, I pop in my earbuds, and turn on my favorite playlist, starting with Bishop’s “Be My Love.” I dive into my emails, including one from my friend Jess in Los Angeles, who I’ve mentored. She’s coming to town soon and would love to get together. I write back in all caps and with exclamation points then tackle my messages from reporters. With training camp starting in a few weeks, questions are pouring in. Which rookies will get playing time? Will we re-sign our star running back, Harlan Taylor? How has our quarterback, Cooper Armstrong, been looking in the off-season? That last question comes from Sierra Franklin, one of the local TV reporters who also hosted the bachelor charity auction I organized last year. Funny thing about that auction—she met her fiancé that same evening. He worked at the hotel where the auction was held, and they hit it off and are getting married in September.