Most Valuable Playboy

“I like the sound of that,” she says softly, and my heart threatens to kick into overdrive.

I rein it in. “One more thing. Do you want to sit any place special on Sunday? I can get you tickets with the players’ wives and girlfriends in a suite, which is cool but it’s kind of cliquey. Or I can get you tickets on the fifty-yard line with Trent and Holly and my mom.”

She inhales deeply. “Gee. I don’t know. Sit with a bunch of women I don’t know, or sit close to the action? I just can’t decide. Okay, if I have to, I’ll be at the fifty-yard line with pompoms.”

I laugh. “Now that’s a sight I eagerly await.”

“You have a little quarterback-cheerleader fantasy I need to know about? Because I’ll have you know I don’t have an ounce of cheerleader blood in me.”

“I know that about you. Trust me. I do.” Violet was never the ponytail and pompoms girl. She was into fashion, indie music, jewelry, and her friends. In high school, I’d run into her tangled up in a group of girls, laughing, listening to their iPods, trading tunes, and looking out for each other. She’d wave and say hello. I’d always give her a hug, wrapping my arms around her, inhaling her hair, enjoying her softness against me. The memory is so visceral.

Whoa.

I liked to touch her back then?

Of course you did, dickhead. She was a babe then, still is, and you like babes. Doesn’t make you the Sherlock of Romance to put that together.

“Hey, Vi?”

“Yeah?”

“Since high school,” I say, firmly.

“What do you mean?”

“If anyone asks when I first had a crush on you, that’s what I’ll say.”

“Oh. Is that so?” she asks, and I can hear the smile in her voice. The invitation, too. Like she likes this idea.

“We can’t very well have the same answer, can we? So, since high school sounds about right.”

When I end the call, I don’t need anyone to tell me what our conversation means. It means she’s coming to my game this weekend, and for a guy like me, there’s something a whole lot of awesome about playing in front of the woman you like. Every guy wants to show off for their girl.

“Hello there, handsome.”

I startle, sitting ramrod straight.

“Hi, Maxine.”





16





Her dark brown eyes glint with mischief as she flicks a shock of black hair off her shoulder. She sits next to me, closer than the seats should allow. Maxine is a bit like a cat on a laptop—she has no sense of personal space. Or really, no regard for it. Her elbow brushes against me, her knee touches mine, and I inch away.

I’m a huge fan of personal space.

“How are you?” she purrs.

“I’m great,” I say, as chipper and cheery as I can be.

She studies me, concern etched into her features as she purses her lips, slashed with a wine-red lipstick. “Are you sure? I watched practice yesterday. You seemed a little off. Is everything okay with you and your . . .”

She trails off, but I know exactly what she’s getting at. She’s hunting for trouble in paradise, so I stick to what happened on the field. “Off? We were off for like five minutes,” I say, thinking she’s referring to the botched throw to Jones.

“You were better today, though. So smooth and agile,” she adds.

If she knows my practice improved from one day to the next, that means she’s watching me. Has she planted bugs on me? A dart of worry hits me as I wonder if she heard my call with Violet. I didn’t notice her come over, but a quick peek at her ballet flats tells me she might simply be quiet in those shoes. Maybe she was slinking through the stands furtively for a while. I offer a quick plea to the universe that she didn’t hear the “pretend girlfriend” conversation.

“I appreciate the compliment, Maxine,” I say, keeping my tone even as I mentally cycle back a few minutes. Did I hear any footsteps when we were chatting?

Maxine brings a hand to her chest. “I don’t just dole out praise, Cooper. I speak the truth. You threw with precision today. With dead-on accuracy.” Her eyes linger on my arms.

“Thank you. That’s the goal.”

“I’ll make sure Jasper is aware, too. I like to let him know when I think someone’s playing well. It’s the least I can do for the team.”

I furrow my brow, wondering if Maxine has some unwritten role as Jasper’s confidante? Is she a scout, in her own way, sharing observations of the players? I have no idea, and that’s why I need to be careful, and all the more reason why I’m grateful I have the new girlfriend-shield activated around me. It gives me some sort of immunity from Maxine’s come-ons, whether they’re direct like the other night, or of this new praise-your-stats variety.

And since I have no clue how to respond to these tidbits she’s doling out, I lean on the master tactic of saying nothing with a smile. “I’m glad you’ve been enjoying the season so much,” I say, a Crash Davis-style answer delivered with a practiced grin.

“Speaking of enjoying the season,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows as if she’s in on a naughty secret, “how is your lovely girlfriend?”

In spite of the sheer level of un-fucking-comfortability I feel next to this woman—which incidentally, registers at fifty on the Richter scale—the mention of Violet steadies me. “She’s great. Truly great.” I can hear only truth in my tone. I’m not pretending. Violet is fantastic.

Maxine smiles with a sigh. “That’s so nice. I do love a love story.”

I’m about to protest that we’re not in love, but that would be a dumbass move. “Glad you like ours.”

She rubs her hand on my arm. “I do.” She sighs. “And admittedly, I’m a little jealous.” Her voice sounds strangely sad, even wistful. “But then, all of San Francisco is jealous of her. Do you know how many hearts you broke when the city learned you were taken? The Golden Gate Bridge cracked a little that night.”

I manage a small laugh. “I hope the bridge stays sturdy. We need her not to fall.”

“Lombard Street wept unrequited tears,” she adds with a big smile.

For a flash, I feel like I’m seeing a new side of Maxine. Like she’s not the man-eater I’ve known her to be. As if she’s simply a romantic, albeit with misplaced affections.

“Let’s hope its tears clean up the street, then.” I glance at the time on my phone, figuring I can reasonably excuse myself now. “I should take off.”

“I’ll let you go. I know how important it is for players to get some rest.” Maxine runs her hand over her dark curls. “By the way, my hair is getting a little long, don’t you think? I’ve been meaning to find a new stylist. Good thing I know just the perfect place to try. I hear she’s amazing.”

My stomach craters. She’s been lulling me into a false sense of security with her sweeter side. She’s like a fucking linebacker who appeared out of nowhere to slam me to the ground.

She blows me a kiss. “Ciao, love. I’ll be watching the game on Sunday.”

Seems she’s been watching me all along.





17