Most Valuable Playboy

I scowl. “You know I hate all that social media shit, and I don’t even have an Instagram account.” Life is for living, not for living online. I’ve no interest in snapping stories or chatting photos or hashtagging my days away when I can keep my head up and enjoy the real world rather than a screen.

“Man, I might need to rescind my comment about brains. You honestly think I’d make you handle a social media account? You send me a few pictures, and Tucker will take care of it. My assistant is aces at social shit, and we reserved your Twitter and Instagram handles a long time ago. We’ll just fire it up.”

Damn. Ford covers all his bases. “Fine.” I heave a sigh and shift gears. “Violet isn’t going to be happy about this.”

He cocks his head to the side. “Why won’t she be happy? You’re friends. You’ve known her forever.”

“Hard as it may be to believe, she’s not into me that way.”

His reaction is instant. Ford doubles over. He grabs his stomach, then sets his palms on his thighs and laughs, cries, and guffaws. Nothing has entertained Ford Grayson quite like that admission. “Oh, that’s a good one. That’s awesome. Tell that to me again. I can’t hear that enough.”

“By the way, did I mention Stuart Waters called me?” I say casually, naming his biggest rival.

He straightens, and his eyes turn into pistols. “And you said, ‘No, no, no, never ever. Ford Grayson is my guy.’”

I laugh, taunting him. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

Ford breathes deeply and raises his arms heavenward. “I am calm. I am a tree. I am peaceful.”

“No, he didn’t call,” I say. “But thanks for having a laugh at my expense.”

“It’s karma.” He lowers his arms. “Karma is coming back for you.”

“How so?”

“Years of you cleaning up with the ladies. Years of women throwing panties, bras, and stockings at you—”

“Stockings? When was that?”

“You can’t even remember the riches the Good Lord rained down? It was the time Tucker and I went with you to the club in that warehouse in SoMa last year. By my count, you had six free drinks sent your way, and we gladly finished them for you while you danced with the ladies. Then a woman threw her fishnets at you.”

I draw a blank.

He shakes his head, bemused with me. “You don’t even remember?”

I scratch my jaw and shrug. “I think you might have mistaken me for someone else when it comes to the fishnet story.”

“Some other young, cocky rising star I rep who earned a multimillion-dollar contract at age twenty-two to ride the bench and back up a great? It was definitely you, and you took the fishnets home along with the woman who wore them.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t someone who started games at twenty-two?”

He shoots me a look. “No one starts at twenty-two.”

I wave behind me. “Look, those days are in the rearview mirror. I’m not a player off the field anymore. I’m all about the game. The team. Leading the guys to victory. My days of catching fishnets are over.”

“No fucking shit they are. That’s because your number-one fan”—he taps his heart—“is going to score a big fat payday for you. That four-year rookie contract will pale in comparison. You’ll be buying your mama a couple mansions.” He hands out imaginary dollar bills like he’s holding a fat stack of greenbacks.

“Jesus, man. You’re as cocky as Einstein.”

Ford waggles his eyebrows. Rick is his client, too. “And his foot is golden. God, I love kickers and quarterbacks and linemen.” He knocks his knuckles on my head. “Now, listen, you take that smart head of yours and your multimillion-dollar arm, and you keep up the act with your girl.”

“How long?”

“At least through the next two games. Maybe longer. But definitely as long as it takes for me to score you the sweetest deal. And meanwhile, you don’t score. You’ve spent the whole season not scoring with chicks so you can score on the field, and far be it from me to mess with your superstitions when they involve your two favorite things.”

I arch a brow. “What are my two favorite things?”

“Your dick and football.”

I smirk. “I plead the fifth.”

“Does that all sound reasonable to you?”

“To me? Hell, yeah. But now I have to convince Violet to pretend to be mine.”

Ford laughs, an eminently satisfied cackle. “This is beautiful. You’re not afraid to run with the ball if you can’t find a man open, but you’re terrified to ask a woman you’ve known your whole life to play fake lovers sitting in a tree k-i-s-s-i-n-g?”

I scoff. “I’m not terrified.”

He holds up his thumb and forefinger. “A little afraid, though?”

I square my shoulders. “Fuck off.”

I make like I’m leaving.

“Wait.” He grabs my shoulder. “One favor.”

“What is it?”

“Can you record that conversation with her for me? Just so I have something to play back when I need a good laugh?”

“Why do I let you have three percent of my earnings? Remind me.”

He waves his arms from the sky to the ground. “Because when I make it rain, you are going to get down on your knees and thank me for making you one of the richest quarterbacks in history. You, Coop, are the real deal, so let’s remember to not fuck this up.” He sobers and stares at me, his blue eyes darkly serious. “And, also, because I will put my neck on the line for you.”

And he would. I know that.

After I say goodbye to Ford, who catches a Lyft, I take a deep breath, pick up my phone, and call Violet. It goes straight to voice mail. I look up the number for her salon and call to try to schedule a haircut. I don’t give the receptionist my name, and she tells me Violet is booked for the evening, asking if I would like to schedule something for a week from now.

I say no thanks.

I can’t wait a week, so I’ll have to make an unscheduled appearance.

9

I cross the Golden Gate Bridge and round the curve on the hill that leads into downtown Sausalito, singing along to Foreigner. How can I not? It’s against the laws of the universe to listen to this song and not sing. As the sun dips in the sky, I croon about climbing any mountain and sailing across a stormy sea. The car practically vibrates from the music and the sheer awesomeness of “Feels Like the First Time.”

This tune has the added benefit of keeping my brain occupied. The more I think about what to say to Violet, the more it’s going to drive me nuts. Executing a play on the field is one thing. Those need to be practiced, memorized, and turned into a habit. But this is a delicate situation—a request—and it needs to come from the heart.

The problem is there’s nothing in it for her. I need her to say yes, but she gets zilch out of this deal. That’s why I need to appeal to our friendship. My request for her to play along needs to feel natural, not as if I’ve been plotting the words to say as I drive.

I focus on the breathtaking view of the navy-blue water in Richardson Bay, on the choppy waves that crash against the rocks and the sand, and on the chorus to the second-best karaoke song ever written. Hell, if I weren’t any good at football, I’d try to find a way to be a professional karaoke singer. Every man needs at least one great party trick. Mine is killing it at the karaoke machine, and I aced every competition we had in college in my dorm. I still try to go to Gomez Hawks, a chill karaoke bar in the city, with some of my college buds — a cool chick named McKenna, along with her husband Chris, and some of my other friends from the non-football side of my life.