Most Valuable Playboy

“Then you need to wear it.”

Her dress was more than pretty. It was stunning. The lavender material hugged her trim waist and covered her breasts enough to be classy, but not so much to be prim. Her long brown hair was twisted up onto her head, held in place with a silver clip as soft strands framed her face.

We danced to fast songs and swayed to a few slow songs, then we hung out downtown, drinking diet sodas from the convenience store, and debating the best and worst prom songs, prom couples, and prom outfits. We grabbed a pint of ice cream and watched a movie in the cozy living room at my house. One of those fast and even more furious car movies that was mindless and a perfect popcorn flick for that night.

At the end of the movie, she put her head on my shoulder and murmured, “Thanks for taking me. Someday, if you ever need a date, I’ll be your fill-in girl.”

Now, back in the present, the fading memory only affirms what she said to me in her car on the way over. The kiss was weird, because we have history, because we’ve never been real, because we’re only friends. She was simply repaying a favor.

Trent leans back in the barstool, stretching his arms behind him. “I’m glad we cleared that up. I just couldn’t see you two together.”

I furrow my brow. “Because that’s the most ridiculous thing in the world?”

He laughs. “It kind of is, Coop.” He waves a hand at me. “You’re a playboy, and she’s, well, she’s my sister.”

But that’s not the real issue. The real issue is she’s just not into me.





7





If games are battles, then practices are duels.

No one goes easy on the opponent in a duel, and the same is true for a practice. Especially after a tough game like last weekend, when we eked out a win by a mere three points, and especially with a coach like Mike Greenhaven. He’s the living, breathing manifestation of the word intensity. You know how Tommy Lee Jones looks all the time? As if he’s doing math every second of every day?

That’s Greenhaven. He only cracks a smile when we’ve won the Super Bowl.

Correction: when Jeff Grant won him the Super Bowl.

Those two were as tight as coach and superstar could be. They were the unbeatable NFL combo. Double G. Grant and Greenhaven. G squared. Sometimes, I wished they had last names starting with D so their nickname in the press could have been Double D. That would have amused the hell out of me. But it probably wouldn’t have fazed the man who sets our agenda.

Greenhaven presides over practice from his post on the sidelines, arms crossed, his unflinching eyes missing nothing. He might even have eyes in the back of his head, as well as his knees. Toes, too.

Our game this coming Sunday is against Dallas, and he’s putting us through our paces. We work harder, and longer, and later. Just like we did earlier in the season after we choked the first two games. Or really, after I lost them for us, when I threw a whopping total of three interceptions between them.

Man, those were two of the worst games of my life. The fans let me have it. The sports talk radio guys tied my noose and were ready to hang me. The local reporters lamented the retirement of Jeff Grant all over again, calling me the Big Flop, the Multimillion Dollar Bust, and The Insurance Plan That Didn’t Pay Out.

I found my footing after that, adjusted to the speed and intensity of the game, and stopped googling myself. That’s when we won nine of the next eleven games, putting us in playoff contention. Our biggest rivals, the Los Angeles Devil Sharks, already secured the division, and that’s why we’re hunting for a wild-card slot.

This morning at the training facility where we practice, we run through the playbook, and since Greenhaven graduated from the school that favors the passing game, that means my right arm is in motion all morning long. Throwing to one of our wide receivers. Firing long bombs to the tight end. As the fog starts to break, I gun a pass to Jones. He reaches high while on the run and grabs it, as if he’s poised to win a leaping competition, but the ball spills from his fingers when out of nowhere, the cornerback slams into him.

I curse, frustration crashing into me. But the offensive coach barks orders for us to do it again. There’s no time to be pissed. No space to be annoyed.

“Do it better this time.”

I bear down, focusing on the perfect timing, and when I launch the ball, Jones snags it and gets out of bounds before the cornerback can hit him. He pumps a fist subtly.

Greenhaven doesn’t like self-congratulatory gestures.

We go again, running drills, running routes, ten more times, twenty, thirty. Run it till you can do it from muscle memory, till it feels like taking a breath. That’s what the plays should be. So damn natural and easy. By the time the sun shines high overhead, peeking through the fog that’s burning away, Greenhaven grabs his megaphone and tells the team to run a few laps. I’ve jogged twenty feet when he pulls me aside.

“Armstrong,” he says gruffly.

“Yes, sir.”

“Dallas is tough. Their line is the fiercest in the league.”

I nod, knowing that from observing them, and all the other teams, over the last few years. I studied every second of every game I didn’t play in. I’ve been assembling a plan of attack against every defense in the league for years. I know how to read coverage pre-snap and make split-second decisions. With Dallas, that also means moving at the speed of sound.

“You need to get rid of the ball quickly. Think fast. Think on your feet. Nothing less.”

“Yes, sir.”

He clamps his hand on my shoulder. “One more thing. I already told the Mack Trucks. I don’t want to see you sacked.”

He means the Renegades offensive line, the guys whose job it is to make sure I have time in the pocket. Greenhaven convinced Jasper Scott to strengthen the offensive line several years ago, trading for many Mack Truck men. “You’re only as good as your quarterback, but the quarterback can only be good if he has a great line,” Greenhaven had said.

Jasper had listened to Greenhaven, approving every request to shore up those positions. When Greenhaven wants players, chances are he gets them, since the man knows what it takes to win. There’s another reason Greenhaven despises sacks. He wants his legacy to live on not only in the number of rings he wears, but also in the number of concussions his men don’t suffer. That works for me. Fewer sacks equals fewer chances for my skull to whack against the inside of the helmet.

“That sounds good to me, sir.”

He nods, a sign that I’m dismissed. But he doesn’t let go of my shoulder. “By the way, congrats on the nice haul last night,” he says drily.