Most Valuable Playboy

I write back, instructing him to never reply to a kissing photo again.

When I get into bed, my text notification winks at me. I groan, thinking it’s Ford. But it’s Violet.

Violet: There’s something I have to tell you.



* * *



Cooper: Tell me.



* * *



Violet: You’re not a weird kisser.



* * *



Cooper: I’m not? I was pretty sure I was. :)



* * *



Violet: Not at all.



* * *



Cooper: A little bizarre? It’s okay. I’ve had a day to process your condemnation.



* * *



Violet: Not even a little, I swear. Not even the smallest amount of bizarre.



* * *



Cooper: What am I then?



I wait, my skin warm, my heart doing funny things in my chest as I stare at the bubbles that tell me she’s tapping out a reply.

Violet: You’re the opposite of weird.



* * *



Cooper: Ah, so a normal kisser, then. I can live with that.



* * *



Violet: No. God, no.



* * *



Cooper: An average kisser?



* * *



Violet: I’m almost afraid to tell you because I don’t want it to go to your head, and it might be big already.



* * *



Cooper: It’s big. Everything is big, Vi.



* * *



Violet: Can you see me roll my eyes from across the bridge?



* * *



Cooper: I can see it and I can feel it. But please, let’s not digress. I can handle the praise. Heap it on me.



* * *



Violet: You’re an amazing kisser.



* * *



Cooper: Yeah?



* * *



Violet: That’s what I wanted to say in the car last night. But then your phone rang, and there was craziness, and yada, yada, yada. So, now I can tell you. Your. Kisses. Rock. I mean for a pretend boyfriend. :)



* * *



Cooper: So do yours. For a pretend girlfriend. :)



* * *



Violet: Good. I didn’t want you going to bed thinking your kisses were anything but epic.



* * *



Cooper: I’ll take epic. But I’m not sure I can sleep now.



* * *



Violet: You need your beauty sleep. Good night, Cooper.



* * *



Cooper: Good night, Violet.



* * *



Violet: See you soon.



* * *



Cooper: See you soon.



* * *



Violet: Why does a moon rock taste better than an earth rock?



I laugh as I ask why.

Violet: Because it’s a little meteor.



I find a laughing seal emoji and text it to her. I don’t send Ford a screenshot of that. He’d have a field day with it. Just like I’m having a field night right now because it feels like neither one of us wants to say goodbye. Like I could text her all evening long.

It’s only as I start to drift off that I realize I’m supposed to be keeping it in my pants this season. But we only kissed, I remind myself. My dick is safely in my drawers, thank you very much, and no way will it come out to play. I might want her, but at the end of the day, we’re only friends who pretend.



A few years ago, the Miami Mavericks drafted a quarterback in the fourth round named Quinn Mahoney. Boasting strong college stats and an impressive bowl record, he was regarded as a solid, steady choice. He turned out to be a steal since the Mavericks went all the way to the Super Bowl with him in his second season.

Mahoney is a thinker. He’s quick on his feet, possesses razor-sharp instincts, and is fast in the pocket. I admire the fuck out of him.

Mahoney is also the reason I’m up at the crack of dawn, lacing my sneakers, and pulling on a running T-shirt.

The dirty little secret about quarterbacks is this—you don’t have to be fit to play the position. Ironic, isn’t it?

Look around, and you’ll see the guys in the league who are in the best shape are usually running backs and receivers. But the guys who lead the team downfield? Most won’t be posing for the Abs-R-Us calendar. You don’t have to be a specimen to know where to throw and launch a ball with on-the-money accuracy. A quarterback’s best asset is between his ears and in his chest—brain and instinct.

But hell if I’m going to ever have anyone say about me what was said about Mahoney in his draft report.

Frumpy body with hardly any muscular definition. Mahoney doesn’t look the part. His uninspired body type will turn off some teams.

Mahoney has a ring, a wife, a baby, and a fat contract, so his frumpy body didn’t change his fortune.

Still.

Maybe I’m vain, but I don’t want that kind of epithet thrown at me. But more than that, I like being fit. I like how it feels. I like how it looks. I like the effort it takes to get there. And I don’t ever want a woman to say Cooper Armstrong is uninspiring when he removes his shirt. I especially don’t want Violet to say that. If the situation ever presents itself, I want her to rip off my shirt, tear off my shorts, and murmur, “Your body is unreal.”

Then I’d show her how inspired this unfrumpy body can make her feel.

Crap. Fuck. Dammit.

I did it again.

My brain went there.

Out-of-bounds.

I lift my hand as I run up a steep hill. “This is your fault for being my closest companion,” I mutter.

My hand doesn’t reply.

“You could at least make a joke.”

Still nothing. I lower my hand.

I force myself to remember the rules. Violet’s a friend, a fake girlfriend, and my best friend’s sister.

On top of that, I have a season on the line and a pact with my guys. Winning is my only job right now. And honestly, that’s the real reason I run from Pacific Heights down to the marina and back up Divisadero on Thursday morning as the dark sky hugs the city by the bay. The streets are quiet. My only company is a lone car gliding by now and then and the rare early morning exercise warrior. The first time I ran this steep stretch of road, years ago, it felt like my lungs were on fire and my thighs would burn to ash. Now, it feels like a good workout.

As I reach the top of the hill, my breath coming fast and hard, I turn around and inhale the view. My reward. The city lies at my feet. From here, I drink in the hills and homes, the curl of the early morning fog, and the Golden Gate Bridge, a beautiful beast standing proud between the Pacific and the bay.

My gaze drifts farther, imagining what’s beyond the bridge on the other side, in a little rental cottage tucked into the hills of Sausalito. Surely the woman who lives there is fast asleep under the covers. I wonder what she looks like sleeping. How her hair looks fanned out across her pillows. If she snores or breathes quietly. If she starfishes or curls up on her side near the edge of the bed.

I blink away the possibilities, shelving them in a drawer of things I will never know, right alongside what causes static electricity, and why the hell do baby carrots taste astronomically better than the regular small ones?

My phone buzzes in my shorts pocket with an incoming text. I grab it as I head the other direction, and it’s like a reward for heeding the five a.m. workout wake-up call.

Violet: Since second grade, anything kid-related, and the time you threw the game-winning 26-yarder to Jones with 1:30 left against the Seattle Stallions.