Most Likely to Score
Okay. That was not the best deflection strategy. I bring the glass to my lips and nearly drink the whole thing down, praying it reduces the red-hot temperature in me.
“That must be some delicious iced tea,” he says drily.
One more chug. One more gulp. Done. I set it down with a smile. “Delish,” I declare.
I don’t drink when I’m out for work. I don’t drink at all with players. People make foolish decisions when they drink. I can only imagine letting my guard down with him. I can imagine the words that would fall stupidly out of my mouth after a few glasses.
Take me home tonight. Put your hands on me. All over me.
I growl at my inner voice, a reminder to never say those words out loud. Or in my head, either, frankly.
“Are you ready for my proposal?” I ask in my most professional tone, as I brush several strands of my hair away from my face, my fingertips dusting my stainless-steel earrings.
Setting down his glass, he angles closer, studying me. My ears, I think. “Are those . . .?” He points at my earlobe. “Cherries?”
I smile, raising a hand to touch the jewelry as if I need to remind myself. “Yes. They’re my favorite.”
“Favorite fruit?”
“Yes, but also favorite symbol. They symbolize luck in Chinese culture.”
“Oh yeah?” A lopsided grin forms on his face. “I’m fascinated with superstitions and symbols. Is that because of cherry trees or cherry blossoms? I thought the cherry blossom was more a Japanese thing?”
I smile, loving his enthusiasm for the topic. “The cherry blossom is, but red is a very special color for the Chinese people, and since cherries are red, they’ve become a sign of luck and good fortune. Even though I wasn’t really raised in a Chinese household, I’ve picked up a few little things that I like from the culture. Besides just rice,” I say, with a little laugh, “which I do love.”
He cracks up. “That’s awesome. And do you wear the earrings for good luck, then? Are they your good luck charm?”
“I suppose they are. My parents gave them to me when I started my job with the Renegades.”
“They totally work. You’re a rock star.”
I raise an eyebrow playfully. “And maybe I also just like cherries.”
His blue eyes twinkle. “And I like good luck. I’ll take as much good fortune as I can possibly get on the field,” he says, rapping his knuckles on the wooden table, reminding me that Jones has always been one of the more superstitious athletes. Last year, he asked me to cut his teammate Harlan’s hair, saying the guys needed to start up a new ritual because an old superstition had been broken.
“You hardly need good fortune,” I tell him.
“But I’ll take it. Also”—he leans closer and cups his hand over the side of his mouth—“I love cherries, too.”
My lips part, and my skin heats. It’s nearly impossible to talk about cherries without sounding sexual, and it’s inevitable that Jones would sound that way to me. Cherries. The word seems to hang between us like it means something else.
I snap myself out of it. It means he’s a player.
And I’m not his type, so I won’t let myself linger on the dirty ways he says sexy-sounding fruit. I swallow, trying to center myself. “Proposal time.”
He waggles his fingers at his chest. “Give me all the deets. Just lay it on me.”
I clear my throat, launch into my pitch, and tell him what I have in mind.
He nods excitedly, raising both arms in victory. “You had me at puppies.”
“I did?”
“There’s literally nothing more to say.”
“You’ll do it?” I ask, my voice rising in excitement. I’m not asking him to build houses in the 110-degree sun, but I didn’t expect a yes in seconds when I pitched him on my idea for a charity calendar benefiting local animal rescues. Twelve months of photos of Jones, posing with adorable animals.
“You’re surprised?”
“Yes, but I’m also thrilled. I just didn’t know if you needed to talk to anyone first.”
“Nope. I don’t need to consult Ford or Trevor or anyone. I want to do this.”
“Seriously?” My smile widens.
He laughs, leans forward, and pats my hand. “You say that like it’s a surprise I’d do something nice. I did your bachelor auction last year, and the year before.”
I flash back to the auction last season. I was tense, wound up before it started. I wanted it to be an amazing event. Jones found me backstage and reassured me that everything would be great. For a moment, I linger on that sweet memory of his voice, his kind words. That didn’t feel like toying with me at all. It felt real.
“You were great at the auction. It meant a lot to me,” I say softly.
He squeezes my hand, and I tense, then give in to the momentary sensation of his big hand covering mine, reassuring me once more.
“And I’m all in with this, too.” He lets go of my hand, and I wish he’d touch me again, even though I can’t let my mind go there.
“This is a one hundred percent volunteer project,” I say, making sure he’s clear on the terms. When I mentioned the project to Jess, a talented photographer, she offered to waive her fee and work for a day since one of the shoots coincides with her trip here. “You’d be donating your time freely.”
“Puppies, Jillian. Puppies.”
I smile. “There will be kittens, too.”
“Meow,” he says, brandishing his hands as claws. His huge hands. My mind flickers briefly to how those hands would look wrapped around my waist. They’re so big, they’d cover me, hold me, dig into my hips. A ribbon of heat unfurls in my body, and I can feel my cheeks flush.
“You okay? You just thinking about me and all the pussycats?” he asks with a wink.
God, I’m thinking about him making me purr, and it’s filthy. It’s wanton. The way my body reacts to him is dangerous.
I need to keep my head in the game. “I am. I have some great shots planned. We’ll do them all in the Bay Area to support local rescues. It shouldn’t take up too much time. Probably a week or ten days, and it would end shortly before training camp begins.”
“Sounds perfect. I only have one stipulation.”
My heart sags. There’s always a catch. “Sure. What is it?”
“We need to take one of the pictures at the Miami Humane Society.”
“That’s in Florida,” I say, after a beat.
“It is?” he asks in mock surprise.
“Jones,” I chide.
“I had no idea where it was located. Are you sure it’s in Florida?”
“Ha ha.”
“Where is Florida? Is that all the way on the other side of the country?”
I sigh playfully and then hold up my hands in surrender. “Why do you want to—?” Then I remember. “Cletus is a hurricane dog.”
Last year, Jones helped one of the local rescues that had taken in animals evacuated from shelters during the big hurricane. He’d donated time then adopted a dog.
“His name would have been Irma if he’d been a girl. I’m glad he’s a boy, though, and it would mean a lot to me if we could support the shelter where he’s from.”
“From one adoptee to another, I completely understand.”
He smiles, that same winning grin he flashed in the studio.