Most Valuable Playboy

The way I see it, I had no choice but to love rock music. I grew up with music blasting from every speaker in the house. My mom worked in customer service for an Internet shopping giant, and when she came home from hours dealing with phone complaints, she needed loud music as the antidote to a day full of “I’m sorry to hear your shipment of Nicholas Cage pillowcases arrived late” and “Of course we’ll replace the fifty-five-gallon drum of lube with the seventy-five-gallon one you meant to purchase.”

As my mom tells it, I was conceived at a Pearl Jam concert with a guy she met in the audience. Apparently, Jeremy did the trick, a detail my mom shared when I was eleven and that song was blasting as I cleared the dinner table. “As soon as Eddie Vedder finished singing this song, that’s when the man in the audience and I sneaked off.”

Honestly, I’m still a little pissed at her for ruining Pearl Jam for me.

When my mom found out she was pregnant, she tracked the dude down and told him the news. He said to her, “Don’t look at me. That’s your problem.”

That was the last she ever saw of him.

As a kid, I was angry that he never cared about me. Now, as a man, I’m grateful that the fucker never came looking for her or me with opportunity in his eyes. But we got the last laugh. We didn’t need him, and the fact that he doesn’t even know my name—because he never knew her last name—means he can’t get anything from me.

Ever.

But my mom? She gets whatever she wants, and that’s been one of my greatest joys in life.

She lives on the way to Violet’s salon, and I picked something up in the city for her. As I reach the bottom of the hill and pull into her driveway, a familiar sense of pride surges in my chest. She loves her house—it’s a three-bedroom, two-story home on stilts on a small patch of beach in Sausalito, a beautiful seaside town just across the bay from the city. I cut the engine and grab the bag of takeout I picked up from her favorite Chinese restaurant on Chestnut Street. I head around the side of her house, take the steps two at a time to the wraparound deck, and knock on the glass door. But she’s not inside. She calls out from the sand.

“Is that my favorite Chinese deliveryman?” She cups her hands over her eyes.

“Yes, ma’am. One order of spicy eggplant, one order of pepper steak, and one order of scallion pancakes.”

I head to the sand. The breeze blows Mom’s blond hair across her cheek, and she gathers it back. Dyed blond, courtesy of Violet. My mom says she refuses to become a silver fox, especially since she’s not even fifty, so she’s a religiously regular customer at Heroes and Hairoines, with an appointment every three weeks.

Her dog, Miss Moneypenny, a Golden Retriever mix, bounds over to me and plops herself down, asking nicely for food. “Hey, girl,” I say, scratching her silky chin as my mom walks over in a billowy green sweatshirt, a tennis ball in one hand and two Chihuahua mixes, James and Bond, by her side.

The spy franchise, rock music, and football—that’s what my home was filled with growing up.

“I got your favorite and Dan’s,” I say, holding up the bag.

“Always so thoughtful, even though I know I’m just a pit stop on your way to see your girlfriend.”

“Just as I know you’ll be happy to watch The Spy Who Loved Me with Dan, the dogs, and the Chinese food,” I point out.

“Touché.” She leans in to give me a kiss on the cheek and ruffles my hair as she takes the food. “Now.” Shifting her tone, she parks one hand on her hip and stares sharply at me. “Were you ever going to tell your dear old mom?”

“Mom, there’s hardly anything to tell.”

“Seems there’s something. Ready to confess?”

I laugh. “It’s complicated, but in a nutshell, I had to say all that stuff about us being together to prevent some trouble I was having with the owner’s sister.”

She arches a brow. “What sort of trouble?”

“Nothing you need to worry about. Just know I kind of need to pretend Violet and I are a thing for a little while.”

“That seems a bit dicey.”

“It’ll be fine, Mom.”

Mom has never stopped worrying about me in the dog-eat-dog world of pro sports. “Be careful, Cooper.”

“I’m always careful. You’ll keep my secret?”

She ruffles my hair. “Cooper, I’m your mother. Of course I’ll keep my mouth shut, even if I don’t understand why you need to do this.”

“It’ll all be worth it, I promise,” I say, then hand her the bag.

“Wait. Let me amend that. Keep bribing me with Chinese food, and I won’t blab.”

“We’ve got a deal.”

She opens the bag and inhales. “My mouth is watering.”

“Make sure Miss Moneypenny doesn’t eat it all,” I tell her, but her big dog is far more interested in the tennis ball.

“She would never steal food. She’s too well-trained,” Mom says proudly. She flashes me the happiest grin in the world. “Such a shame that training them is all I have to do all day long.”

I smile, too. “And that’s the way it should be.”

She’s the classic football mom. She worked hard when I was a kid, picking up extra money for uniforms and equipment with babysitting gigs in the evenings. She drove me to every practice, attended every game, and cheered the loudest. Mom had rented her whole life, and what she wanted most was to own a home here in Sausalito and to spend her days with her dogs. I made it happen for her, and I’m glad she lives nearby.

I drop a kiss to her forehead. “Enjoy dinner. I have to go see Violet.”

“Good luck getting in. There’s a line out the door.”

10

I wouldn’t say I’m famous.

I wouldn’t even classify myself as terribly well-known yet. I’ve snagged a pack of condoms at the CVS on Fillmore without the paparazzi reporting on it. I’ve bought salmon at Whole Foods without any speculation on whether I’ve started an all-fish diet. (The answer is no, because I like steak too much.)

Once your name is slapped on the back of jerseys, though, you give up full-time anonymity. You take the chance that someone might recognize you anytime you leave the house. But, I have this theory. People don’t always recognize you when you’re walking around town because they don’t expect to see you grocery shopping or buying your own prophylactics. You can blend in more easily.

Even so, I do take the necessary precautions. Grabbing a Giants ball cap from my car, I pull it low on my forehead and cover my eyes with shades, even though the sun is slipping behind the water. I walk from my mom’s house along the beach and into town, jagged rocks and sand on one side of me, the main drag on the other.

When I reach the shops along the waterfront, I stop at a lamppost and survey the scene on the other side of the street.

Violet’s salon hangs out next to a wine shop on one side and a bicycle store on the other. Her block is also home to a dress boutique, an ice cream parlor, and one of those stores that sells horrendous T-shirts with sayings like “Old Guys Rule” and “Gone Fishing.” Heroes and Hairoines shuts its doors at six on Wednesdays, and as I stare at the floor-to-ceiling windows of the salon, an hour before closing, I can safely say my mom was exaggerating.

But only by a smidge.

The line doesn’t snake out the door, but a parade of tourists—and perhaps locals, too—crowds the front, snapping shots of the salon even at dusk.