Most Likely to Score
“I did,” I say, then add, “sir,” because he feels like one right now.
He laughs lightly as he tucks his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “And you invited her to dinner at their home.”
Damn, he has good ears.
“I bet that’s not something you’ve done a lot before.”
I shake my head. “Never.”
He rocks onto the balls of his feet. “Listen, Jones. I appreciate you telling me about Jillian now, before it gets out. It’s always good to know these things. You can never be too careful these days. With the climate we operate in, we’ve both seen how brands and companies have to be sensitive about the slightest things—a wrong comment here, a remark out of context there, something that sounds far too insensitive . . .”
His observation is spot-on, and exactly why I’ve been cautious with Jillian. But it’s his turn to speak, not mine. So I wait.
He heaves a sigh. “But you’re in love with her, and I don’t have the sense you’re going to go carousing down Fillmore Street with a bottle of Jack Daniels before you screw her in an alley, to be frank.”
I jerk my head back, startled by his bluntness. “No, I don’t plan to do that.”
He claps my shoulder. “Just keep doing things the right way. Be good to her, treat your fans well, and keep loving on that pooch of yours. That’s all I can ask for. If you do that, we’ll keep doing business together.”
My muscles relax, and I smile. I was willing to let him go. More than willing if I had to, and maybe that’s the biggest reason he’s keeping me. “Count on it.”
He nods. “I will.” He screws up the corner of his lips, as if he’s thinking. “Also, I’m happy for you. You chose well.”
“Thank you. I think so, too.”
A little while later, I tug Jillian close and whisper in her ear, “Come home with me tonight.”
She arches an eyebrow. “That’s presumptuous of you.”
“I’ll make it worth your while. Presumably.”
And I do. I make it very worth her while indeed.
Three times, in fact, including once with her bent over the bed. Yeah, my knee is just fine. Sometimes, I suppose your luck doesn’t run out after all.
Epilogue
Jones
The sizzling rice soup with shrimp is delicious. The pepper steak is some of the tastiest I’ve ever had. And the company is unequivocally the finest—my girlfriend. When I offer her a taste of the pepper steak, she opens her mouth and I feed it to her. In public. At a Chinese restaurant she loves.
Someone might snap a picture.
Someone might not.
Both options are fine by me.
If anyone did capture our date, they’d have a gallery of images of one of the happiest guys in the city, walking into House of Nanking with his arm wrapped around the woman he works with, one who now happens to be VP of publicity for the San Francisco Renegades. They’d see me hold her hand at the table as we ordered. They’d see her reach across to ruffle my hair when I made her laugh.
After we finish, the waiter brings a plate of fortune cookies, and Jillian grabs the one pointed at her, cracking it open. Her eyebrows wiggle as she reads. “Ooh, this is a good one.”
“What does it say?”
“It says, ‘You have the hottest guy in the city wrapped around your finger.’”
“Sounds less like a fortune and more like the truth.”
“I speak no lies.”
“What does it really say?”
She takes a breath. “It says, ‘Good things come to those who wait.’”
I scoff. “That’s kind of vague.”
“I don’t know. I waited for you.”
“Did you?”
“You know I had my eyes on you for a long time.”
“I had my eyes on you for even longer. So much so I was always getting naked in front of you. Why didn’t you have your eyes on that?”
She laughs. “I’m making up for lost time,” she says, then tips her chin at my cookie. “What’s your fortune?”
I break the cookie and fish out the white strip of paper, reading the red words aloud. “‘May your life be as steadfast as the mountains and your fortune as limitless as the sea.’” I nod, taking in the sentiment, letting it roll around in my head. “I like that. In fact,” I say, folding the slip of paper and tucking it into my wallet, “I’m keeping it with me.”
“Like a good luck symbol,” she says knowingly.
“You know luck and me are like this.” I twist my middle and index fingers together.
That’s why before every game, I follow my ritual. I eat a pomelo, whether home or away. So far, it’s been working. We’re only a few games into the season, but we have a winning record.
The record that matters most to me, though, is the one I have with Jillian. Every night I tell her I love her. Every morning, too, and usually several times during the day.
What can I say? I text her a lot. Many are naughty. Many are not. But she’s never far from my mind, or my body, since I’ve convinced her to spend nearly every night with Cletus and me. I have a big appetite, and I find the one streak I don’t want to break is having her every damn day.
That’s what I plan to do tonight, and as we leave and walk past a laughing Buddha statue, she stops, rubbing its head. I do the same. She grabs her phone, asks me a question with her eyes, and I say yes.
She takes a picture of us rubbing the Buddha and posts it to my Instagram, tagging it with #luck, #goodfortune, and #love.
Out on the street in Chinatown, I pull her in close and kiss her as we wait for a Lyft. Someone walking by mutters my name. Maybe that someone takes a picture. Maybe it’ll show up online. Maybe it won’t. Whatever happens is all good because I don’t have to worry anymore. I’ve learned the best way to rehab a reputation is to be a good guy and to fall in love with a woman who makes you want to be even better.
Jillian
My boss was right. Being involved with a ballplayer means you’re under scrutiny. A lot of gossip papers wanted to know why her? What does she have that the model, the actress, the Tinder chick didn’t have?
Let the press speculate. I know what I have—a guy who declared his intention for me, and then declared it again and again and again. I have a guy who has a heart as big as his hands.
And, well, a certain other part.
I do love when he uses that part on me.
And when I watch him use it for himself.
I still have my fantasies.
But now, they’re my reality.
Like tonight, when I told him I wanted to come home from a long day at the office to find him in bed, a sheet riding low on his hips, a hand wrapped around his hard length, stroking absently. I drop my purse in his living room, kick off my shoes, say hello to Cletus, and head to the bedroom.
The light is low. Only the rays of the moon streak through the window. I stand in the doorway, and a shiver runs through me as I savor the view.
His eyes are closed, his muscles ripple, and his right hand grips his erection. I bite my lip as I watch him, like the voyeur he lets me be. Everything about this turns me on wildly, especially the sounds—his groans, his grunts, his heavy breathing. The pants as he strokes faster. The moan as he grips tighter.
Most of all, how he always says my name.
That always breaks me.
Tonight, when he utters it in a raspy, needy voice as his hand shuttles up and down, I strip off my skirt and yank off my top.