Most Valuable Playboy

Plus, bragging rights do rock.

That’s all that will be rocking this year. I need all my focus on the field, which means no full-benefits package with this date, even if the opportunity should present itself. I spent the last three years idle on the bench but busy after hours. This season is a whole different beast now that I have a record and reputation to think about. We’re closing in on a wild-card spot in the playoffs, and these days the only scoring I plan to do is on the field.

Violet tips her chin at my attire. “I like the vest. You rarely see anyone wearing a vest here.”

We live in casual country, home of the hoodie, and land of the jeans. “Is that your way of telling me you’re a vest woman?”

She laughs then lowers her voice. “I’m an everything woman.” She lets that comment hang between us, and for a moment, my head is in a fog. Everything. What sort of everything does Violet Pierson like? Everything in bed? And why the hell am I thinking these thoughts about her? Violet’s not only my friend, she’s also my best buddy’s sister. “And you’re going to clean up, my friend, since there are few things hotter than an athlete dressed in a suit.”

“Yeah?” I ask, meeting her eyes as she squeezes the goop onto her hands, and my mind continues to wander down the everything yellow brick road. Every position, every night—is that her sort of everything?

“Of course. You have a great face, a nice body, and that top-notch suit fits like a glove,” she says, listing these attributes like they’re hardwood floors, a quiet dishwasher, and a front-loading washing machine. Violet meets my eyes, and her tone is cheery. “Don’t worry. I’m only saying nice body in an empirical sense.”

I put on the brakes, since it’s not very sexy to be described like an appliance.

“Right. Of course.” I nod, wiping the everything thoughts from my brain, too. “It’s a completely objective compliment.”

“Totally clinical.”

I adjust the vest anyway. Just in case it empirically looks better this way. Or clinically, for that matter.

She runs her gel-covered hands through my hair. “Let’s at least try to tame you for the cameras.”

The auction is being carried live on local TV, and that’s why Violet is here—to give us a little touch-up before we go on air. She’s a hair stylist, which happens to be one of my favorite professions in the world.

One afternoon during my sophomore year of high school, the grizzled old dude who’d cut my hair forever was out, and his twenty-two-year-old granddaughter filled in for him at the barbershop. I glimpsed the angels in heaven when she leaned in to cut the front of my hair, and I’ve been a big fan of haircuts ever since.

But I’m not checking out Violet like that, even though her breasts are precariously close to my face as she styles the mop on my head.

I’m absolutely not thinking of the angels I’m seeing.

I can’t think of her that way.

She’s Trent’s sister, and he’s been my best friend for twenty years, since all the way back in elementary school. That places her firmly in the not-allowed-to-even-consider-whether-she-might-be-hot category. I’ve never thought of her as a babe, not once in all the years I’ve known her. Which is all the more impressive considering she has a rocking body, lush chestnut-brown hair, and big amber eyes. Oh, and she has a wicked sense of humor. But I don’t think of her as smoking hot, even tonight when she’s wearing those black jeans, the kind that look as if they’ve been painted on, and that silvery tunic thing that clings to her chest.

Nope.

That’s why I talk to her like a buddy. Or an appliance, for that matter.

“Just don’t make me look like a douche,” I say.

Jones chimes in from his post on the couch. “Yeah, he can do that just fine on his own.”

Violet glances over at him then back at me as she finishes. “Yes. Fine being the operative word. I’d say Cooper looks quite fine indeed.” She gives me a wink.

Ha, take that, Jones.

She shifts her gaze to the couch and our kicker, Rick. I’d like to say he’s our secret weapon, but everyone knows the broody-eyed Stanford grad has the best foot in the league. That right toe of his has hurled the pigskin more than forty yards when he’s needed to, and he’s only missed one field goal so far this season. Harlan’s here, too, his suit jacket hanging over the back of his chair. He’s our star running back, and even though I prefer to throw the ball, I’ll hand off to him, too. He’s escaped hordes of humongous linemen with his quicksilver feet.

These guys have seen a hell of a lot more action than I have, since they surrounded the Renegades superstar Jeff Grant, who retired last year. Despite the ribbing, they’ve welcomed me as the new quarterback, due in part to the fact that it’s December, we’re sporting a 9–4 record, and we have a real chance to clinch a wild-card spot in my first season as the starter.

Violet parks her hands on her hips, surveying the guys in the room. “Look at you boys. Such pretty Renegades.” She waves a hand dismissively. “Don’t mind me. I’m just getting into the spirit of objectification for tonight.”

“You want to bid on me, don’t you, Vi?” Rick calls out, flashing her a gleaming white smile that contrasts with his dark skin.

“It’s all I can think about,” she says with an over-the-top purr. She leans close to the chrome table, rooting around in her purse. She finds her wallet, flips it open, and shows him a few tens. “Will that be enough for you?”

“We’re running a discount on Einstein,” Harlan says, scratching his stubbled jaw. “You can have him for a ten and a six-pack.”

When we found out Rick had earned a perfect score on the Wonderlic, the cognitive test we have to take before the draft, we naturally had no other option than to nickname our resident brainiac kicker after the world’s most famous genius.

“Hell, I’ll throw in your favorite bottle of wine if you take him off our hands now,” Jones adds.

Rick rolls his eyes and flips us the bird. “Watch me clean up tonight, just like I have to clean up all your messes on the field when you guys can’t get it in.”

“I always get it in,” I say, because I can’t resist. He went there first. I turn to Harlan. “Think you’ll find a nice guy to bid on you this year?”

He scowls and taps the side of his nose. Two years ago, a prominent local businessman placed the winning bid on our running back. Harlan, not being a homophobe, went on a platonic date with the guy. The next year, Harlan’s bids came from nearly all dudes, so during his time on stage he tapped the side of his nose, and his female agent got the message to place the winning bid.

“Violet, why don’t you save those bills and bid for me?” Harlan asks in his Southern drawl. “I don’t care if I go for less than the others.”

She laughs and glances at me, raising her hands, like scales. “Hmm. I can’t decide. Cooper, should I bid for Harlan or you? You or Harlan? Are you as cheap as the others?”

I scoff, lifting my chin. “I’m a premium kind of guy. But if you wanted to bid on me, I’d foot the bill for it.”

What the hell just came out of my mouth? I’m not angling for Violet to bid on me or anyone else. I like the come-what-may thrill of the auction. It’s worked out pretty well for me in the mutual attraction department three years running, including last year when local news anchor Lourdes Mariano won me, and that black-haired vixen was as unbuttoned in the limo as she was buttoned-up on air.