Most Valuable Playboy

I can absolutely live with my decision to stay laser-focused on the game. But I’m a competitive bastard, and I want to emerge victorious.

“If you’re paying, I’ll be sure to bid sky-high,” Violet says, then she points at Harlan. “You’re next in the hot seat.”

Harlan taps the arm of the chair. “It is indeed hot.” He doesn’t take his eyes off her when he says that, and my shoulders tense as she moves in front of him.

I try to ignore his flirty comments as she works on his long hair, but out of the corner of my eye, I notice him inch closer to Violet. Closer than he needs to be. A strange burst of annoyance spreads in my chest as she combs his hair, smoothing and neatening it.

“Can you cut my hair sometime?” His eyes lock on hers. “What’s the name of your salon?”

“You are welcome anytime at Heroes and Hairoines,” she says.

I snap my gaze to the running back. “You know your speed comes from your hair.” I couldn’t give two fucks about the length of his hair, but I don’t want him pulling up a chair in her salon.

“Dude. You haven’t cut it all season, and we’re winning,” Jones adds, his blue eyes intense, since he’s the keeper of our superstitions, and the four of us have plenty.

“No shit. I’d wait till the end of the season,” Harlan says, raising his hand to his hair. “Can’t fuck with our luck when we’re so damn close to a playoff slot.”

“Don’t jinx us.” Jones crosses his fingers. “And don’t cut your hair, man.”

Harlan makes the sign of the cross on his chest.

Jones points at Rick. “Einstein chews that pink bubblegum his little sister gave him before every quarter now to make sure we kick ass.”

Rick raises his chin and nods, agreeing. “And I brush my teeth on the sidelines, too, once I’m done with the gum.”

“Do you use bubblegum toothpaste too?” Jones asks.

“Hell yeah. I added that in once Coop started kicking ass in game three. I amped up the whole ritual then, and it’s working.”

Jones tips his chin at me. “Plus, Cooper has kept the snake in its cage.”

I point to my crotch. “That’s why we’re winning, I’m sure.” I’m not actually as superstitious as he is, but Jones is my go-to guy on the field, so I respect his feelings.

The look in his eyes is intensely serious. “You gotta honor the power of the rituals. Don’t mess with them. Don’t fuck with them. Just fucking trust them. Michael Jordan wore his college shorts under his uniform during the whole six years when the Bulls were epic in the nineties. Look at me,” he says, tapping his ankle. “I haven’t changed my game socks all season.”

Violet crinkles her nose. “How is it you’re still single, Jones?”

He flashes her a dimpled smile. “Talk about miracles, all right. But it mostly comes from an iron-clad commitment to the cause.”

A few minutes later, Jillian strides in, looking polished in a dark gray dress, her sleek black hair twisted on her head.

“You all look gorgeous, as always,” she says, with the crisp and business-like smile that comes with her role as team publicist. “The media is ready and waiting. The crowd is enthusiastic.” She waves her jazz hands to demonstrate. “It’s showtime. Everyone ready?”

“Yes, we are,” Jones says, and as he chats with her, Harlan pulls me aside, lowering his voice. “Listen, I know Violet is your friend and all, but would you be cool with me—?”

The cloud of annoyance swells, but before he can finish asking my permission to ask her out, Jillian interrupts. “Gentleman, we have a crowded ballroom. More than three hundred attendees are ready and waiting. We have lots of eager ladies who want to bid on you. A few men, too, and some mighty handsome ones, I might add. I must say the choices look excellent. Let’s head backstage to the ballroom. We start in ten minutes.”

As the guys file out, Violet calls to me. I stop and turn. She’s a tall woman, and even taller in a pair of black, high-heeled boots that jack her up on those trimmed, toned legs. But I’m six-four, and I easily have six inches on her in those shoes.

I look down. She reaches a hand up and smooths a strand of hair out of place on my forehead.

“This is your first year out there as the starting quarterback,” she says with a soft smile.

I smile. “Crazy, huh?”

“You’ve killed it every year as the backup. You’re going to kill it harder as the starter. Plus, you’ve played great the first three months.”

I reach above her head and knock on the wall. “Knock on wood. We need to keep playing great.”

“You will, because my ritual is intact, too.”

I arch a brow, curious. “You don’t say. You’ve come to the superstitious side, Vi?”

Her eyes glint. “I wear my Cooper Armstrong jersey to bed every night and have since your week-three win.”

“Excellent.” I wag a finger at her. “And it pains me to say this, but no matter how tempted you are, don’t switch to lingerie.”

She play-punches my shoulder. “Don’t you switch to lingerie, either.”

I gesture to my chest and down to my thighs. “One hundred percent birthday suit at bedtime.”

“All right. Get out there. They’ll bid even more this season for a date with the new quarterback.” She takes a beat. “But not if this piece of hair keeps sticking up.” She runs her finger over a strand.

“I have faith you can fix it for me. Because you’re a miracle worker.”

“Of course I am, and I can.” She smooths it out over my ear, and it feels better than it should when she touches me. She steps back and observes her handiwork. “Empirically.”

I smile. “Clinically.”

She moves her hands to my tie, straightening it. I already did that, but I see no reason to stop her.

“Hey,” she says, as the corners of her lips turn up. “What do you call an alligator wearing a vest?”

“I don’t know. What do you call an alligator wearing a vest?” I ask, since Violet likes to tell silly jokes.

Her eyebrows rise. “An investigator.”

I laugh. “Good one.”

She shoos me off. “I need to pack up my supplies, and you need to get your butt to the stage.”

A husky voice floats down the hall, a smoky alto, belting out the chorus to “It’s Raining Men,” and it makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s Maxine,” I hiss.

She’s the owner’s can’t-keep-her-hands-to-herself sister, and she doesn’t just want men to rain down on her. She wants one guy to fall from the sky into her lap.

2

I brace myself as I walk down the hall. I consider my options. Duck into the stairwell to avoid the woman in red? There’s one ten feet ahead. Dart into a closet to hide for a while? Pretty sure I spotted one just beyond the next suite.

The trouble is, Maxine is sashaying toward me. Her dark eyes are dripping with desire. The sway of her hips tells me she’s not bothering to hide her intentions, and the tune she’s belting makes everything 100 percent clear. She’s at the part in the song where she raises her hands over her head and cries out “hallelujah.”

God help me now.