Most Likely to Score

Nerves can suck it. I need to be made of steel.

I lift my chin and continue my march down the hall to my boss’s office. My high-heeled shoes click along the floor as I picture my patent leather pumps giving me power, giving me the strength to say what must be said.

To the judge, jury, executioner.

Like everyone, I’ve felt nerves many times. Before my first-ever press conference, before my first time on the field, before my first interview. I’ve experienced them, too, when I’ve had to handle thorny situations with the media, and when I’ve had to make uncomfortable announcements about players being let go.

The worries whipping inside me are different now because it’s my job, all twisted and turned and wrapped in a huge red ribbon around the most precious organ—my heart.

I can’t separate my head and my heart in this case. My job and the man I love are inextricably linked, and I don’t control my fate. But soon, I’ll know it, at least, and the prospect is terrifying and strangely electrifying, too.

Taking a deep breath, I smooth a hand over my red blouse, touching my earrings next. I need all the luck in the world. This might not be what my mother would’ve done, and though I can speculate what my dad would do, I didn’t ask him. That’s because it’s my situation, and I’m certain what I must do to be the kind of person I want to be.

Be truthful. Be honest. And be prepared for the fallout.

My knuckles rap against the door once before Lily calls out, “Come in.”

I enter, shutting the door behind me.

She glances up from the pile of papers on her desk, her pen scribbling across them. “Fun wedding,” she remarks, still writing. “I saw some great pictures online today. Harlan and Jones looked so sharp, even in that photo with Kevin. And then you and Harlan on the dance floor, and you and Jones. You guys get along so well.”

I take the seat across from her, opting out of the small talk and diving straight into the rocky waters. “I need to talk to you about that.” My tone is serious, all business.

“Of course.” She sets down her pen.

I straighten my shoulders, willing myself to ignore the fresh wave of acrobatics in my belly. “There is no delicate way to say this, but I want you to know. I’m in love with Jones Beckett.”

She laughs, shaking her head. “So is half the female population of the city. More will be when they see the calendar.” She chuckles, pushing out another laugh.

But I don’t join in. “No, I am in love with him.” My expression is serious; my voice is clear. There is no laughter in my eyes because this is no laughing matter.

“Oh.” The note of surprise hangs in the air like thick perfume. Rising from behind her desk, she walks around it and takes the chair next to me. She reaches for my hand. “Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry. That sucks. Unrequited love is the worst.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, shaking my head. I can’t believe I’m botching this. I open my eyes. “Lily, we’re in love with each other.”

She drops my hand, letting it fall onto the wooden armrest. Her expression meanders through a myriad of emotions, mostly along the surprise spectrum. “That’s a horse of a different color. Do you want to tell me more?”

I rip off the Band-Aid. “I’ve had a crush on him forever. But nothing happened, and I never did anything about it because I wanted to stay professional and true to my job. Then, we worked on the calendar, and I learned he really is the guy we have shown to our fans,” I say, and a smile dares to appear on my face as the memories snap into focus. “He’s the guy who cuddles with dogs. Who helped my dad build a desk. Who rented out an entire rec center on his day off and helped families who needed it.”

“Those are admirable traits,” Lily says, her tone even.

“They are, and as I spent time with him, I grew to like him more, and then, to fall in love with him. I know this probably sounds cheesy,” I say, and I wish I could read her eyes, but her face is thoroughly neutral, “but you’re not just my boss. You’re my mentor, and I feel terrible that I wasn’t honest with you when it first happened, so I need to be honest now. I understand that I might be risking everything. My job. Your respect.” I take a deep, fortifying breath, and speak aloud the toughest words of this confession. “Do you want me to tender my resignation?”

Saying it hurts, but it’s what I have to do. It’s the chance I have to take.

I wait for her answer.

28

Jones

As I say goodbye to the fan who works at the gym’s front desk, telling him that, yes, I will do my very best to kick ass this Sunday, I do a double take when I see a familiar face.

“Hey, Garrett. I didn’t know you worked out here,” I say.

Garrett flashes me a smile, his gleaming white teeth shining. “I don’t just work out here. I work here.”

The strangest sense of déjà vu crashes into me, and I’m knocked off-kilter into a sort of twilight zone. “You do?”

“Just got the job.” He holds up a hand to high-five. I smack back, but I’m not entirely sure why we’re high-fiving a job at the gym. There’s nothing wrong with honest work, but Garrett is a left tackle. He’s supposed to be working on the gridiron.

“You just started here? What do you do?” I ask, since maybe I heard wrong. Maybe he means he landed a job on a team and he’s working out here.

“I’m a personal trainer.”

And I’m wrong. Way wrong. “That’s great,” I say woodenly. This has to be a way station. This has to be temporary. I cling to that notion. “Before you go back to the field?”

He laughs. “Wouldn’t that be nice? I’ve been putting out feelers about a job in broadcasting, or coaching, maybe even at the high school level, but until something comes through, I’m here, and I can’t complain.”

My feet feel unsteady, and it’s the oddest sensation, as if I’m not quite sure how to stand anymore. There’s only one reason why he’d be working as a personal trainer, or putting out feelers. Because he doesn’t have a job playing football, and he’ll never be able to have a job playing football.

I shove past the strange dryness in my throat that almost makes me not want to ask the next question. But morbid curiosity pushes me forward. “What happened with your knee?”

He shrugs. “It’s not going to get better.”

“It’s not?”

He shakes his head. “Tough break, but that’s how it goes.”

I grab hold of the counter, and it feels like someone yanked the carpet out from under me. Garrett’s life is my worst nightmare. I’ve played against guys who’ve had their careers curtailed by injury, but I don’t usually bump into them at my gym. Maybe I misunderstood him. “That’s it? You can’t play again? You can’t rehab?”

He chuckles deeply, sounding as warm as Santa Claus and just as wise. “Let me tell you something, brother. I did nothing but try to rehab my knee for the last two years. I did everything I could. I went and I tried out for Baltimore, made it through training camp this summer, and then in the first preseason game, my knee gave out again. God was trying to tell me something.”

I blink. “God was involved in this?” I ask, trying to make sense of the unthinkable.

“I suspect the big guy was telling me it was time to focus on something else. It’s not happening for me in football.”