Most Valuable Playboy

I furrow my brow, trying to make sense of her message. With the street unfolding blissfully on the downhill, I jog lightly as I reply.

Cooper: I tried Google Translate with womanspeak as the language, but it came out as gibberish. Also, what are you doing up now?



* * *



Violet: I open at eight, and there’s a morning spin class calling my name. Anyway, the womanspeak translation is this—I’m practicing what to say in case anyone quizzes me about us at the game on Sunday. Those are my answers for what I suspect will be the top three questions.



Interesting. It’s hardly six a.m. and she’s already texting me.

Don’t read into it, dickhead. She’s covering her bases.

As I pick up the pace, zipping past a hipster coffee shop opening its doors, I text her back. Yup, I’ve become that idiot who’s running while staring at his screen in the inky-blue dawn. And I don’t care.

Cooper: Is this a game of Jeopardy? Clearly, the last one is what was your favorite play your boyfriend made this season? By the way, excellent choice. One of my favorite plays, too.



* * *



Violet: Yes, and anything kid-related is the answer to what is your favorite charity to support? since I figure that’s a question anyone dating an athlete would need to have an answer to. Plus, it’s true.



* * *



Cooper: That’s my answer, too, so we’re in sync. But I think you’re mixed up on since second grade. I met you when I was in second grade and you were in first, so since second grade can’t be your answer to how long we’ve known each other.



I scratch my head as I slow at a light. A street sweeper trudges along as I jog in place. The light changes, and I run, replying before she can finish hers. And now I’m that idiot who’s running, and texting, and grinning like a fool. And I still don’t care.

Cooper: Got it! Must be the first time I pulled your pigtails. That’ll melt the hearts of anyone asking you.



* * *



Violet: I never wore pigtails. But it’s my answer for anyone who asks when I first had a crush on you. How is that for a totally adorable answer? ;)



As I run, I stare at the winking emoticon, like I can turn the symbol upside down and find some hidden meaning. I study it, searching for her true intention, until I nearly trip on a cracked section of sidewalk.

I regain my footing, reminding myself that her answer is a joke. Like Sierra at the auction, she’s weaving the story everyone wants to hear—the hometown girl crushing on the guy who made good. It’s a story that’ll go down easily, something the press, the fans, and the player’s wives will eat up with a spoon because there’s nothing cuter than childhood sweethearts.

Cooper: It’s perfect.



* * *



Violet: By the way, I don’t actually think anyone will ask, but in the movies, when a guy or a girl has a fake boyfriend or girlfriend, they always need to get their stories straight. Got any other questions for me as I prep?



I choose a true one. Something I absolutely want to know.

Cooper: Yes. Truth. Do you really sleep in my jersey?



As I turn onto the next block, her reply dings. There are no words in it. It’s a multimedia image, and it takes a frustratingly long time to load as I blast by a row of Victorian homes.

Then it lands.

I stop running.

I can’t do anything but stare. There’s a shot of her from the neck down in bed. She wears a long blue shirt with the number sixteen on it, the fabric hitting near the tops of her thighs. Her legs are bare and beautiful, stretched out on rumpled red sheets.

God help me.

I’m dying to know what she’s wearing under that shirt, but this image will feed me for days.

The phone dings with another reply. It’s a shot of the empty bed, and the words: And now I’m up. Time to spin.

I text her goodbye, and when I return to my house, my heart pounds harder, but I don’t think it’s from the run. I head to the kitchen, pour a glass of water, and down it as I click open the photo again. And I stare, and I stare, and I stare.

I might possibly salivate over those legs. So toned and creamy white. My God, even her toes look pretty with bright green holiday polish on her nails. And those red sheets. I want to run through the city, across the bridge, and down the hills. I want to bang on her door, scoop her up in my arms, and spread her out on those sheets.

Then kiss every square inch of those legs.

And that keeps me occupied quite nicely in my shower. But then, as I run a towel over my wet hair, I ruminate on the questions she prepped for. What will my answer be if someone asks how long I’ve liked her? Violet has her finger on the trigger of her phony answer. I suppose my fake reply would be the same. Since second grade.

But my real answer? The one I keep locked tight in my chest would be this—since last night. It’s been at least since last night that I’ve known how very much I like Violet Pierson.

Real like. Real emotion. Real fucking scary.

My heart beats harder, wishing she had a real answer that matched mine.

But my heart pounds in a whole new way when I run into Jillian that morning at our training facility and she shouts, “You’re in big trouble.”





14





Her heels click across the concrete floor as I head to the locker room.

I clench my teeth. Jillian must have found out that Violet and I are a sham, and now she’s going to lay into me for lying to her.

But am I lying? I flash back to this morning and the texts, to last night and the kisses, and there’s nothing made-up about the way my best friend’s sister has staked a claim on my mental real estate in the last forty-eight hours.

I turn around. “Why would I be in trouble when I’m so good?”

“This,” Jillian says, her eyes narrow and accusatory as she brandishes her cell phone at me.

The tension prickles over my shoulders, but I’ve dealt with linemen who want to kill me. Though, in all fairness, Jillian’s eyes right now are as intense as the Dallas defense.

I step closer to see what’s on her screen.

It’s the selfie from last night at the fountain.

She flicks her thumb to another shot on my new Instagram account. This one is of Einstein and me after he kicked a game-winning field goal earlier in the season. I chuckle to myself. Of course Ford would work another of his clients into the shot. But the dude is brilliant. Ford had his assistant post a picture of me from a few months ago, lacing up in the morning with the running shoes from the sneaker company I endorse, and then a shot of me playing basketball with kids at a local community center.

But Jillian fixates on the kiss, stabbing her finger at the screen.