Most Valuable Playboy

“But we’ve won way more than we’ve lost, though,” Rick says. “So, is it the superstitions, or something else?”

“When you have a ritual you believe in, you do it even if you lose,” Jones answers, his deep voice full of certainty. “Wade Boggs ate chicken before every baseball game, win or lose, rain or shine. He’s a Hall of Famer now. He didn’t alter the routine. Serena Williams bounces the tennis ball five times before every serve, no matter what. And for us, we have a winning record, so we keep doing it.”

Rick raises a finger, his voice inquisitive, as if he’s in class. “So, does it extend to the post-season? If we make the post-season.”

Like we’re synchronized swimmers the four of us lean forward and rap our knuckles on the back of the seats in front of us. “Knock on wood,” I murmur, even though it’s plastic.

“We need a guru of superstitions and what they mean,” Rick continues. “We need to make sure it’s all good.”

“Guys,” Jones says, as he wraps his hands tighter over the back of the chair in front of him. “Here’s what the superstitions are about for us. The rituals are a pact. It means we have each other’s backs.” He draws a circle in the air around us. “Whether it’s the four of us, or whether it’s the eleven guys on the field on Sunday—we do this together. We’re a team.”

He holds up his fist, and I knock mine to his, then Rick piles on, then Harlan slams his hard against the top. “To the pact,” Jones says, and we echo his words.

Soon, the guys stand and file out, and I tell them I’ll catch up. I’m alone in the stands.

I grab my phone and tap out a text to Violet. But before I hit send, I dial her number instead. God bless texting, but sometimes a voice is better.

She picks up on the second ring. “I’m in the middle of coloring a blonde red and white for Christmas, so make this good.”

Her voice is worlds better. “You didn’t actually answer the phone while dyeing hair, did you?”

“Of course. I can multitask like nobody’s business. Just kidding. I’m actually in the back office paying bills. I finished a tint early so I have ten minutes before my two p.m.”

“I won’t keep you long. But Jillian asked if we can visit the children’s hospital. Would you be able to?’’

“Of course. I’d love to,” she says, her tone genuine. “I meant it when I said I love helping with kids.”

“Does next Tuesday work for you? Pretty please,” I ask, making my voice as sweet as pie.

“Well, since you said pretty please, the answer to Tuesday is yes. That’s my day off next week anyway.”

I smile. “Have I mentioned you’re a most excellent pretend girlfriend?”

“Have I mentioned you’re a most excellent pretend boyfriend?”

“Why, no. You haven’t. Do tell me what an amazing fake boyfriend I make.” I kick back, lifting my sneakers onto the seat in front of me and crossing my ankles.

She sighs happily. “My salon is packed again today, and every single stylist is booked solid for the next few weeks. Suddenly, everyone wants a cut from here, or a holiday up-do for an event.”

I run my palm over the back of my head. “Speaking of, my locks are getting shaggy.”

“You are welcome here anytime,” she says, then laughs. “My God, if you were in the salon, I’d sell out appointments for the year.”

I sit up straighter. “Yeah? And the landlord would be off your back?”

“Probably. But you don’t have to do that. I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

I scoff. “First, you can take advantage of me anytime. Second, you’re helping me with this whole boyfriend–girlfriend deal. If cutting my shaggy hair helps you, I’m all yours.”

“I like the sound of that,” she says softly, and my heart threatens to kick into overdrive.

I rein it in. “One more thing. Do you want to sit any place special on Sunday? I can get you tickets with the players’ wives and girlfriends in a suite, which is cool but it’s kind of cliquey. Or I can get you tickets on the fifty-yard line with Trent and Holly and my mom.”

She inhales deeply. “Gee. I don’t know. Sit with a bunch of women I don’t know, or sit close to the action? I just can’t decide. Okay, if I have to, I’ll be at the fifty-yard line with pompoms.”

I laugh. “Now that’s a sight I eagerly await.”

“You have a little quarterback-cheerleader fantasy I need to know about? Because I’ll have you know I don’t have an ounce of cheerleader blood in me.”

“I know that about you. Trust me. I do.” Violet was never the ponytail and pompoms girl. She was into fashion, indie music, jewelry, and her friends. In high school, I’d run into her tangled up in a group of girls, laughing, listening to their iPods, trading tunes, and looking out for each other. She’d wave and say hello. I’d always give her a hug, wrapping my arms around her, inhaling her hair, enjoying her softness against me. The memory is so visceral.

Whoa.

I liked to touch her back then?

Of course you did, dickhead. She was a babe then, still is, and you like babes. Doesn’t make you the Sherlock of Romance to put that together.

“Hey, Vi?”

“Yeah?”

“Since high school,” I say, firmly.

“What do you mean?”

“If anyone asks when I first had a crush on you, that’s what I’ll say.”

“Oh. Is that so?” she asks, and I can hear the smile in her voice. The invitation, too. Like she likes this idea.

“We can’t very well have the same answer, can we? So, since high school sounds about right.”

When I end the call, I don’t need anyone to tell me what our conversation means. It means she’s coming to my game this weekend, and for a guy like me, there’s something a whole lot of awesome about playing in front of the woman you like. Every guy wants to show off for their girl.

“Hello there, handsome.”

I startle, sitting ramrod straight.

“Hi, Maxine.”

16

Her dark brown eyes glint with mischief as she flicks a shock of black hair off her shoulder. She sits next to me, closer than the seats should allow. Maxine is a bit like a cat on a laptop—she has no sense of personal space. Or really, no regard for it. Her elbow brushes against me, her knee touches mine, and I inch away.

I’m a huge fan of personal space.

“How are you?” she purrs.

“I’m great,” I say, as chipper and cheery as I can be.

She studies me, concern etched into her features as she purses her lips, slashed with a wine-red lipstick. “Are you sure? I watched practice yesterday. You seemed a little off. Is everything okay with you and your . . .”

She trails off, but I know exactly what she’s getting at. She’s hunting for trouble in paradise, so I stick to what happened on the field. “Off? We were off for like five minutes,” I say, thinking she’s referring to the botched throw to Jones.

“You were better today, though. So smooth and agile,” she adds.

If she knows my practice improved from one day to the next, that means she’s watching me. Has she planted bugs on me? A dart of worry hits me as I wonder if she heard my call with Violet. I didn’t notice her come over, but a quick peek at her ballet flats tells me she might simply be quiet in those shoes. Maybe she was slinking through the stands furtively for a while. I offer a quick plea to the universe that she didn’t hear the “pretend girlfriend” conversation.