Most Valuable Playboy

“I always get it in,” I say, because I can’t resist. He went there first. I turn to Harlan. “Think you’ll find a nice guy to bid on you this year?”

He scowls and taps the side of his nose. Two years ago, a prominent local businessman placed the winning bid on our running back. Harlan, not being a homophobe, went on a platonic date with the guy. The next year, Harlan’s bids came from nearly all dudes, so during his time on stage he tapped the side of his nose, and his female agent got the message to place the winning bid.

“Violet, why don’t you save those bills and bid for me?” Harlan asks in his Southern drawl. “I don’t care if I go for less than the others.”

She laughs and glances at me, raising her hands, like scales. “Hmm. I can’t decide. Cooper, should I bid for Harlan or you? You or Harlan? Are you as cheap as the others?”

I scoff, lifting my chin. “I’m a premium kind of guy. But if you wanted to bid on me, I’d foot the bill for it.”

What the hell just came out of my mouth? I’m not angling for Violet to bid on me or anyone else. I like the come-what-may thrill of the auction. It’s worked out pretty well for me in the mutual attraction department three years running, including last year when local news anchor Lourdes Mariano won me, and that black-haired vixen was as unbuttoned in the limo as she was buttoned-up on air.

I can absolutely live with my decision to stay laser-focused on the game. But I’m a competitive bastard, and I want to emerge victorious.

“If you’re paying, I’ll be sure to bid sky-high,” Violet says, then she points at Harlan. “You’re next in the hot seat.”

Harlan taps the arm of the chair. “It is indeed hot.” He doesn’t take his eyes off her when he says that, and my shoulders tense as she moves in front of him.

I try to ignore his flirty comments as she works on his long hair, but out of the corner of my eye, I notice him inch closer to Violet. Closer than he needs to be. A strange burst of annoyance spreads in my chest as she combs his hair, smoothing and neatening it.

“Can you cut my hair sometime?” His eyes lock on hers. “What’s the name of your salon?”

“You are welcome anytime at Heroes and Hairoines,” she says.

I snap my gaze to the running back. “You know your speed comes from your hair.” I couldn’t give two fucks about the length of his hair, but I don’t want him pulling up a chair in her salon.

“Dude. You haven’t cut it all season, and we’re winning,” Jones adds, his blue eyes intense, since he’s the keeper of our superstitions, and the four of us have plenty.

“No shit. I’d wait till the end of the season,” Harlan says, raising his hand to his hair. “Can’t fuck with our luck when we’re so damn close to a playoff slot.”

“Don’t jinx us.” Jones crosses his fingers. “And don’t cut your hair, man.”

Harlan makes the sign of the cross on his chest.

Jones points at Rick. “Einstein chews that pink bubblegum his little sister gave him before every quarter now to make sure we kick ass.”

Rick raises his chin and nods, agreeing. “And I brush my teeth on the sidelines, too, once I’m done with the gum.”

“Do you use bubblegum toothpaste too?” Jones asks.

“Hell yeah. I added that in once Coop started kicking ass in game three. I amped up the whole ritual then, and it’s working.”

Jones tips his chin at me. “Plus, Cooper has kept the snake in its cage.”

I point to my crotch. “That’s why we’re winning, I’m sure.” I’m not actually as superstitious as he is, but Jones is my go-to guy on the field, so I respect his feelings.

The look in his eyes is intensely serious. “You gotta honor the power of the rituals. Don’t mess with them. Don’t fuck with them. Just fucking trust them. Michael Jordan wore his college shorts under his uniform during the whole six years when the Bulls were epic in the nineties. Look at me,” he says, tapping his ankle. “I haven’t changed my game socks all season.”

Violet crinkles her nose. “How is it you’re still single, Jones?”

He flashes her a dimpled smile. “Talk about miracles, all right. But it mostly comes from an iron-clad commitment to the cause.”

A few minutes later, Jillian strides in, looking polished in a dark gray dress, her sleek black hair twisted on her head.

“You all look gorgeous, as always,” she says, with the crisp and business-like smile that comes with her role as team publicist. “The media is ready and waiting. The crowd is enthusiastic.” She waves her jazz hands to demonstrate. “It’s showtime. Everyone ready?”

“Yes, we are,” Jones says, and as he chats with her, Harlan pulls me aside, lowering his voice. “Listen, I know Violet is your friend and all, but would you be cool with me—?”

The cloud of annoyance swells, but before he can finish asking my permission to ask her out, Jillian interrupts. “Gentleman, we have a crowded ballroom. More than three hundred attendees are ready and waiting. We have lots of eager ladies who want to bid on you. A few men, too, and some mighty handsome ones, I might add. I must say the choices look excellent. Let’s head backstage to the ballroom. We start in ten minutes.”

As the guys file out, Violet calls to me. I stop and turn. She’s a tall woman, and even taller in a pair of black, high-heeled boots that jack her up on those trimmed, toned legs. But I’m six-four, and I easily have six inches on her in those shoes.

I look down. She reaches a hand up and smooths a strand of hair out of place on my forehead.

“This is your first year out there as the starting quarterback,” she says with a soft smile.

I smile. “Crazy, huh?”

“You’ve killed it every year as the backup. You’re going to kill it harder as the starter. Plus, you’ve played great the first three months.”

I reach above her head and knock on the wall. “Knock on wood. We need to keep playing great.”

“You will, because my ritual is intact, too.”

I arch a brow, curious. “You don’t say. You’ve come to the superstitious side, Vi?”

Her eyes glint. “I wear my Cooper Armstrong jersey to bed every night and have since your week-three win.”

“Excellent.” I wag a finger at her. “And it pains me to say this, but no matter how tempted you are, don’t switch to lingerie.”

She play-punches my shoulder. “Don’t you switch to lingerie, either.”

I gesture to my chest and down to my thighs. “One hundred percent birthday suit at bedtime.”

“All right. Get out there. They’ll bid even more this season for a date with the new quarterback.” She takes a beat. “But not if this piece of hair keeps sticking up.” She runs her finger over a strand.

“I have faith you can fix it for me. Because you’re a miracle worker.”

“Of course I am, and I can.” She smooths it out over my ear, and it feels better than it should when she touches me. She steps back and observes her handiwork. “Empirically.”

I smile. “Clinically.”

She moves her hands to my tie, straightening it. I already did that, but I see no reason to stop her.