Most Likely to Score

I offer a faint smile. It’s hard for me to focus on shopping since I’ve only heard from Jones once, and that was the abysmal text last night. “It looks great. Do you really think I need a whole new wardrobe now?”

“There’s never a bad time for a wardrobe revamp.” She eyes me from head to toe in the Hayes Valley boutique where we’re shopping on Saturday afternoon. She fancies herself my personal dresser. She taps her finger against her chin. “But I wonder if we should put you in dresses more?”

“No.”

“Do you hate dresses now?”

I roll my eyes. “Oh yes, that’s it. I’ve developed a deep hatred for dresses. I simply prefer blouses and skirts.”

“That’s fine. We can work with that. You’ll keep up the look as the office doll who nabbed the guy with the ball—”

“Wherever that rhyme is going, it should retire.”

She pouts as she riffles through more clothes. “Must find you a sexy new skirt now. Aha!” Nabbing a short black number, she thrusts it at me.

“It’s thigh-length.”

“It’s hot.”

“It’s inappropriate.”

“That’s totally the rage. You could be fashion forward. You could maybe even help set standards.”

Laughing, I put the skirt back on the rack, drawing an imaginary line above my knee. “Must hit here.”

“Fine, I’ll find something else, but you have to look the part every time. You’re going to be a very big deal.”

I want to believe her, but my phone has been quiet all day. I scan the store quickly, lean in, then whisper, “He’s barely been in touch.”

She waves a hand dismissively. “No biggie. He’s probably distracted playing NBA 2K or working out with the guys. I bet he gets back to you tomorrow after the game. Besides, you know how they are before they play. It’s all game focus, all the time.”

“True,” I say, but it sounds half-hearted. It feels that way, too.

My phone buzzes and my heart skips a beat as I fish it eagerly from the back pocket of my jeans with the hope that it’s Jones sending a sexy text, a romantic text, a good news text. Something that says he’s talked to his guys, and he’s ready to tell the world that he’s in love with me. Like I’ve done for him.

I deflate when I see it’s my dad.

Dad: Can’t wait to see you at the game tomorrow! Stop by and chat with the old man, will ya?

Jillian: Count on me. ?

As I close the message, I wish I felt like I could count on Jones.

I remind myself to stay cool. There’s no reason to think anything’s changed. He’s busy, he’s playing tomorrow, and tough talks take time.

I’m not a football floozy. I’m not a one-night stand. I’m the one he wants to be with.

I cling to that as the day goes on with no word.

30

Jones

“I’m a dick.” I wait for an answer that doesn’t come.

“Come on, buddy. You can tell me. Am I an asshole?”

From his perch on the couch, Cletus drops one ear and cocks his head. His tail flicks back and forth.

“Total ass?”

An excited whimper sounds from his snout as he jumps on my chest. And we have a winner. Total ass, it is.

But even assholes must take care of their pets. I roughhouse with Cletus, rubbing his belly and pretending to box with him. After he play-growls for a bit, I take him to the yard and run him through the weave poles, then in and out of tunnels on the agility course.

After twenty minutes, he’s panting hard, but he’s happy. I rub his head and scoop him up in my arms. “You’re a good boy.”

He rewards my compliment by licking my cheek. “That clearly means you don’t think I’m a dick at all.”

Another lick.

“I knew it. I’m not.”

But winning a dog’s love is easy. A woman’s is much more complex, and I wonder if Jillian thinks I’m an ass, since I’ve been dragging my feet. I should’ve called Ford, should’ve tracked him down this morning, because I sure as hell didn’t do that yesterday. We had a long practice, but that’s just an excuse.

I chose not to call him.

Because I’m fucking afraid.

I’m afraid like I’ve never been afraid before, and there’s no room in my life for fear since tomorrow is game day. I need to be in the zone, and only in the zone.

Even though the game is at home, we always stay at a hotel the night before, so I head to Trevor’s house to drop off the little dude. Cletus whines with excitement when he sees my brother. “Hey buddy, you want to hang out with your favorite Beckett tonight?” Trevor asks the pooch.

“I’m still his favorite person.” That came out more defensively than I intended.

“Just messing with you.” Trevor lifts his chin. “You okay? You look out of sorts. Did you talk to Ford yet?”

“No,” I spit out.

Trevor studies my face. “Are you having second thoughts?”

I shake my head. “No. No. No.”

He arches an eyebrow. Obviously, that was too much denial.

I’m not having second thoughts about loving Jillian, but I’m having truckloads of doubt about everything else in my life and how the hell to make it fit.

Seeing Garrett was a flashing neon sign that I could lose everything I’ve worked so hard for. Is dating Jillian a risk that could send me on the path to putting out feelers? Not directly. But I could lose other things if I’m with her, and I need to get some clarity on how to move forward with her and with football.

I need to be prepared for a worst-case scenario, but how the hell do I prep for that? Trouble is, I’m shaken to the core, and I don’t know how to put one foot in front of the other after what I learned about Garrett.

“Just a ton of stuff on my mind,” I mutter. “I’ll call Ford when my head is clear.”

Trevor claps me on the shoulder. “Good plan. Focus on the game and only the game.”

“Exactly.”

I take his advice, because if I let this weigh on me—what to say, how to say it—I’ll risk a fuck-up on the field tomorrow, and I can’t afford mistakes.

My secret sauce is focus, and in the last twenty-four hours, that skill has been slipping to an alarming degree.

At the hotel, I check in and shut myself in my room, guiltily grateful that Jillian’s not here tonight. Sometimes she stays at the game hotel, but the manager of PR is on duty tonight. That means I won’t be tempted to find her in her room, because God knows if I did, my remaining focus would be shredded like a credit report.

But total ass or not, I can’t leave her hanging. When I slide into bed, I tap out a text.

Jones: Haven’t been able to reach the guys. But I’m thinking of you. I promise.

I lace up my cleats and adjust my pads. Rolling my shoulders back and forth, I repeat under my breath, “Ready. I’m ready.”

Harlan grabs his helmet from his locker. “You ready?”

That’s the question.

“Always.”

That’s the only answer.

He gives me a look. “Are you sure? You’re quieter today than usual. You haven’t busted my chops about a single thing.”

I could give him shit about being sensitive enough to notice my silence, but I’m in no mood. Instead, I blurt out, “Do you ever think about getting hurt?”