Most Valuable Playboy

I regain my footing, reminding myself that her answer is a joke. Like Sierra at the auction, she’s weaving the story everyone wants to hear—the hometown girl crushing on the guy who made good. It’s a story that’ll go down easily, something the press, the fans, and the player’s wives will eat up with a spoon because there’s nothing cuter than childhood sweethearts.

Cooper: It’s perfect.

* * *

Violet: By the way, I don’t actually think anyone will ask, but in the movies, when a guy or a girl has a fake boyfriend or girlfriend, they always need to get their stories straight. Got any other questions for me as I prep?

I choose a true one. Something I absolutely want to know.

Cooper: Yes. Truth. Do you really sleep in my jersey?

As I turn onto the next block, her reply dings. There are no words in it. It’s a multimedia image, and it takes a frustratingly long time to load as I blast by a row of Victorian homes.

Then it lands.

I stop running.

I can’t do anything but stare. There’s a shot of her from the neck down in bed. She wears a long blue shirt with the number sixteen on it, the fabric hitting near the tops of her thighs. Her legs are bare and beautiful, stretched out on rumpled red sheets.

God help me.

I’m dying to know what she’s wearing under that shirt, but this image will feed me for days.

The phone dings with another reply. It’s a shot of the empty bed, and the words: And now I’m up. Time to spin.

I text her goodbye, and when I return to my house, my heart pounds harder, but I don’t think it’s from the run. I head to the kitchen, pour a glass of water, and down it as I click open the photo again. And I stare, and I stare, and I stare.

I might possibly salivate over those legs. So toned and creamy white. My God, even her toes look pretty with bright green holiday polish on her nails. And those red sheets. I want to run through the city, across the bridge, and down the hills. I want to bang on her door, scoop her up in my arms, and spread her out on those sheets.

Then kiss every square inch of those legs.

And that keeps me occupied quite nicely in my shower. But then, as I run a towel over my wet hair, I ruminate on the questions she prepped for. What will my answer be if someone asks how long I’ve liked her? Violet has her finger on the trigger of her phony answer. I suppose my fake reply would be the same. Since second grade.

But my real answer? The one I keep locked tight in my chest would be this—since last night. It’s been at least since last night that I’ve known how very much I like Violet Pierson.

Real like. Real emotion. Real fucking scary.

My heart beats harder, wishing she had a real answer that matched mine.

But my heart pounds in a whole new way when I run into Jillian that morning at our training facility and she shouts, “You’re in big trouble.”

14

Her heels click across the concrete floor as I head to the locker room.

I clench my teeth. Jillian must have found out that Violet and I are a sham, and now she’s going to lay into me for lying to her.

But am I lying? I flash back to this morning and the texts, to last night and the kisses, and there’s nothing made-up about the way my best friend’s sister has staked a claim on my mental real estate in the last forty-eight hours.

I turn around. “Why would I be in trouble when I’m so good?”

“This,” Jillian says, her eyes narrow and accusatory as she brandishes her cell phone at me.

The tension prickles over my shoulders, but I’ve dealt with linemen who want to kill me. Though, in all fairness, Jillian’s eyes right now are as intense as the Dallas defense.

I step closer to see what’s on her screen.

It’s the selfie from last night at the fountain.

She flicks her thumb to another shot on my new Instagram account. This one is of Einstein and me after he kicked a game-winning field goal earlier in the season. I chuckle to myself. Of course Ford would work another of his clients into the shot. But the dude is brilliant. Ford had his assistant post a picture of me from a few months ago, lacing up in the morning with the running shoes from the sneaker company I endorse, and then a shot of me playing basketball with kids at a local community center.

But Jillian fixates on the kiss, stabbing her finger at the screen.

I scrub a hand over my chin. “Yeah, it seems I might have kissed her last night. Am I in trouble now for kissing?” I ask, batting my eyes innocently.

She taps the toe of her red pumps and wags a finger at me. “You’re in trouble for telling me it was none of my business that you and Violet were involved, and then going and posting a kissing selfie.” She pokes my chest with a perfectly manicured silver nail. “And that was the cutest kissing photo ever.”

She might as well be floating right now.

“Did you mean ‘evah’?”

Jillian laughs.

“Also, I’m not the one who said it was none of your business,” I say, pointing at myself. “That was Jones who said it the other night.”

Like he heard his cue from offstage, the man who defended my privacy after the auction rounds the corner of the corridor, appearing behind Jillian. When he sees me talking to her, he slows down and pads quietly, like a cartoon mouse sneaking behind a cat.

She huffs. “Then Jones is in trouble, too.”

Jones narrows his eyes and brings his finger to his mouth. I adopt the stoniest expression ever in the history of stony expressions.

“He should be punished,” I say.

“Absolutely,” Jillian says, while Jones whips out his imaginary flogger and smacks his own ass. I’ve been bad, he mouths behind Jillian’s back.

The corner of my lips twitch. “Anyway, sorry I didn’t tell you all the details. But you know how it goes.”

Jillian brings a hand to her chest, and I swear I see hearts and flowers fluttering above her head. “I’m dying to know more. Off the record. Just for me.”

Might as well serve it up. “We’ve been friends forever, and she’s great. She’s funny, supportive, smart, kind, and she keeps me on my toes. How could I not be into her?” When the words come out, there’s not a false note in them.

Even though Jones wraps his arms around nothing and kisses his air-girlfriend.

A huge smile takes over Jillian’s face. “Oh, this is just too perfect. And that’s why I’m so excited to share some good news with you.” She lowers her voice to whisper, “Since you’re my new favorite Renegade.”

Jones points to himself, doe-eyed, and pretends to cry.

“You mean Jones isn’t your favorite Renegade?” I ask, figuring it’s a perfect time to give Mime Jones as much shit as I can.

Her brows knit in confusion. “Jones? No. Why?”

“Oh, just because he’s such a swell fella,” I say with a too-big smile.

Jones points to her and then to himself, mouths she wants me, then flicks out his tongue.

She gives me a look as if that’s the craziest idea. “Swell? Jones? Maybe you mean swollen head. But enough about him. I wanted to find you because the hospital from the auction called and invited you to take a short tour of its new facilities, and I thought, wouldn’t it be perfect for you and Violet to stop by, show your support, and see the kids? What do you say? Can you go with her?”

I smile. “Of course. I’ll have to check her schedule, but Vi and I love helping charities for kids.”