Most Valuable Playboy

I square my shoulders. Just deal with it. That’s what I’ve always done. Face life’s challenges with a smile and don’t fucking complain.

3

“Sold! To the woman in the pink dress for thirty-four hundred dollars. Enjoy your night with the kicker.”

Rick waves to the crowd and heads backstage, holding out a palm. “Pay up, fuckers. I went for more than a six-pack.” He taps his head. “Brains and beauty for the win.”

Jones and I smack his palm, laughing, as Harlan heads to the stage.

The auburn-haired sports reporter Sierra Franklin is hosting the auction. She brings the mic to her mouth and gestures grandly to Harlan as the rest of us watch from the wings.

“Let’s give it up for the Renegades running back. He’s one of the leaders in the league in running touchdowns the last two years, but he also is known for his foosball skills,” she says to the ballroom full of women decked out in little black dresses, or in tight jeans and sky-high heels with sexy tops sloping off shoulders. A few wear Santa hats and wave sprigs of mistletoe above their heads. A couple of men can be spotted in the crowd, too. “When Harlan’s not busy tearing it up on the turf, you can find him flicking the poles at a local foosball league. Plus, just look at all that hair.”

Harlan shakes out his long, golden-blond hair.

Sierra claws at the air. “He’s like a beautiful lion.”

Someone from a table in the front cheers, and another woman roars like a lioness, then shouts, “I want the king of the jungle to be mine.”

I nudge Jones and whisper. “King of the Jungle. Damn, that’s good. We need to use that, stat.”

He holds up a fist for bumping. “You know it. And he does have a lovely mane, Coop.”

I laugh. “So lush and pretty.”

“I must get his shampoo recommendation.” Jones runs a hand over his own short, dark hair.

“You be sure to share.”

From our spot backstage, we watch as Sierra opens the bidding on Harlan and his golden mane. The cheering woman from the front lifts her paddle to offer three hundred dollars, while the gal who imitated the queen of the pride weighs in with four hundred. Quickly, the bidding escalates. As the women shout increasingly bigger numbers, Harlan preens on stage, but that’s the name of the game.

Jillian paces near us in the wings. She’s a ball of tension, mouthing the numbers to herself, adding up the take for charity. Jones crosses the few feet over to her. “You’re doing good,” he whispers.

She flashes a smile and lets out a breath. “Thank you. But I’m still counting on you for a big haul.” She taps his chest.

“Don’t worry. It’ll be unreal,” he says.

“The team management is matching the bids for the players. We can bring in so much tonight for the hospital. It would be an amazing thing to do for them, and it helps the team’s image.”

The Renegades already have a pristine image, since the management and coach run a tight ship, but Jillian wants to keep it that way.

“We will do everything we can to keep up the pace,” Jones says.

Sure enough, when Jones heads to the stage after Harlan scores a winning bid of thirty-three hundred dollars, the man eats it up. Jones removes his jacket, letting it hang on his shoulder so everyone can see his broad frame. That’s fair play. I used that move last year. The pose just works. Violet once said that a well-tailored suit is to women what lingerie is to men. If the ladies love suits as much as I love pretty, lacy little things on the fairer sex, that’ll be good for the fundraiser.

“Jones Beckett is known as The Hands, and with good reason. Look at those hands,” Sierra says with a whistle of admiration.

From my vantage point, I see Jones hold up his massive paws. The dude was born to catch. His hands are ginormous, and they can wrap around a football. They’re also like a homing beacon for a long, beautiful pass downfield.

“And the fingers. My God, those fingers,” Sierra adds, fanning herself as the crowd goes apeshit.

Someone leans close to my ear, and I tense instantly, worried it’s Maxine. Then I relax when she says softly, “What is it about bidding on men that turns women into animals?”

It’s Violet.

“You tell me,” I say quietly.

She laughs. “I think it’s the role reversal. The idea that for so long women have been ogled and now they finally get to turn the tables. It’s the Magic Mike effect.”

“What’s that?”

“That movie had a huge turnout of women in groups in its opening weekend. Women went with friends and sisters for girls’ night out. It’s not that different from when women go to strip clubs. They travel in packs, and they have fun with each other. It’s not sad and depressing. It’s female bonding.”

“Then maybe a pack of ladies will bond together to bid on me. I did ask Holly to have her friends toss some bills my direction.”

She nudges my side. “Stop it. You don’t need my sister-in-law’s friends. You’ll be fighting off the women.”

“Yeah, that’s the issue, as I’ve just learned,” I say with a heavy sigh, more open with her, since she’s not programmed to hassle me like my buddies are.

She raises an eyebrow in a silent question. But the noise from the front drowns us out when a bidding war for Jones escalates quickly. Numbers fly back and forth at light speed. Finally, the winning woman lands a date with Jones for forty-four fifty. Damn, that’s a sweet number, and well above last year. Jillian cheers and gives him a hug when he returns backstage as Sierra chats with the audience, tossing out questions to the crowd.

Violet grabs my elbow. Her eyes are serious. “Is everything okay? Did something happen with Maxine? You mentioned her before you left the suite.”

Sierra calls out to me, and I step toward the stage, my voice going deadpan as I answer Violet quietly, “I wouldn’t use the term okay to describe my interaction with her.”

“What happened?”

I hate complaining. I hate being this guy. But I would do just about anything to escape Maxine. “Let’s just say I’d rather ride the bench again than have her win.”

Now, it’s my turn.

I turn around, stroll onto the stage, and wave to the crowd. The ballroom is stuffed full of people with happy shining faces and eager generosity. It warms the cockles of my heart to see so many here to help us give back. Yeah, I don’t know what cockles are, either, but mine are toasty, and our fans are amazing.

I give Sierra a peck on the cheek. Her eyelids flutter, and she clasps her hand to her cheek. “I’ll never wash this cheek again,” she says to the crowd, and laughter bounces across the big room. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, for the pièce de résistance, this year’s starting quarterback at long last, and the winner of the Most Valuable Playboy auction the last three years in a row. After all, who wouldn’t want to take this handsome and talented man out for a night on the town? Everyone loves the quarterback.”

Someone scoffs. “He wasn’t the quarterback the last few years.”

With a wink, Sierra expertly pivots to the positive. “And now we’re lucky to have him at the helm.”

I lean into the mic. “And it’s an honor to have stepped into the shoes of a legend. I will keep doing everything I can to make the fans proud.”

Sierra smiles approvingly.