Most Valuable Playboy

After I leave, I tug my Giants hat low and drop on my shades, feeling like a fucking orgasm dispensary, and I couldn’t be happier, even when a man with a beer belly and a dark mustache stops me. “Cooper Armstrong?”

“Hey there,” I say with a smile, going into friendly-with-the-fans mode, since I don’t know this guy from Adam.

But he seems to know me. He extends a hand. “I’m Ren Watling. I own this building.”

Dickhead.

“Nice to meet you, Ren,” I say, since he’s Violet’s landlord. I shake his hand.

“Business has been great. I’m thrilled. I hope you come around more often.”

My lips twitch in a smile. “I hope to come around more often, too.”

Later that night, after I cook myself a dinner of salmon and green beans and study the playbook, my phone dings with a text message.

Violet: Thank you for the afternoon delight. By the way, do you like my new giraffes?



When the multimedia image loads, I find myself with a shot of Violet from the waist down in her new panties and nothing else.

Giraffes are my new favorite animal.





22





When practice ends on Tuesday, I shower at the training facility, put on jeans and a nice navy-blue button-down shirt, and grab my keys. I’m meeting Jillian and Violet at the children’s hospital in forty-five minutes, so I make my way toward the players’ lot. But before I can leave, a herd of elephants sounds behind me, shouting my name.

I spin around to see two frazzled intern types. One is a skinny guy with a beaky nose, and the other is a tall dude with a military-style haircut.

“Coach wants to see you,” the skinny guy shouts.

“He asked us to find you,” the military guy adds.

“Okay,” I say, as a fleet of nerves launches in my chest.

I take a deep breath and smile. Don’t let on that you’re as nervous as a reality show contestant who might be cut.

I walk alongside them, making idle chitchat as we head down the corridor. And now, on this week’s episode of Passers on the Chopping Block is none other than Cooper Armstrong.

We round the corner to Greenhaven’s office, and every step feels like I’m one step closer to the guillotine. Last summer, I watched an LGO docu-special on NFL training camps where the head coach of the Los Angeles Devil Sharks called a defensive back into his office and let him go on camera.

“I’m going to release you, Troy,” the coach said in a coolly even tone.

The defensive back simply nodded and thanked the coach for the opportunity.

My chest ached watching that, a throbbing sympathy pain. Troy could have been any of us, at any moment, on any day.

Like today.

My heart lodges in my throat, beating painfully with a wish to stay.

Ironic how the game itself rests in my hands on any game day, but my own fate isn’t mine to hold. All I can do is lift my chin high when we reach the wooden door with Greenhaven etched into the plaque in simple white letters.

“Here he is,” the skinny guy says, pointing to the coach, who’s on the phone.

“There’s the coach,” the other dude says to me, also stating the painfully obvious.

The coach motions for me to come inside. The chorus boys walk away as I cross the threshold into the decision chamber.

Will he stay or will he go? Only Greenhaven knows if Armstrong will get the ax.

Greenhaven holds up his finger to signal he’s nearly done with his call. “It’ll be done by five, I trust,” he says firmly.

My shoulders tighten.

“I don’t want any trouble this time,” he adds, in that rough voice that terrifies three-hundred-fifty-pound linemen and two-hundred-twenty-five-pound quarterbacks alike.

He cracks a smile. “Thank you. Let me know when it’s done.”

He hangs up the phone, clears his throat, and strides around his desk, leaning against the front of it.

“Sorry about that. I was ordering a gift for my wife.”

I blink, knitting my brow. “Oh.”

“Emily loves antique tea sets, and she saw one a few weeks ago when we were in wine country on a day off. I’m having it sent to her at the house, but when the delivery company stopped by earlier, no one was there, even though I left instructions . . .” Greenhaven stops and waves a hand in the air. “Who cares? Bottom line—I want to make her happy.”

“Of course. I’m sure she’ll love it, sir.”

Just rip off the Band-Aid, man.

He hasn’t even asked me to sit down. Isn’t he supposed to issue his directive from the power pose behind the desk? Instead, he’s leaning all casual-like, and I have no fucking clue what he wants.

“I think she will, too,” he says then takes a breath and scratches his chin. “In any case, Emily asked me to find out if Violet has any eating restrictions.”

I shake my head in surprise. “Excuse me?”

He laughs and waves a hand like he needs a conversational do-over. “Wrong order of info. First, she wanted me to invite you and Violet over for dinner, and second, she wanted to know if Violet has any food restrictions.”

Relief pours through every vein in my body. My shoulders relax. A smile occupies all the real estate on my face. “She doesn’t have any, sir. And thank you very much. Dinner sounds great.”

He claps me on the back. “Excellent. I’ll get you a date shortly.”

He says goodbye and returns to his desk, and I’m dismissed with a dinner invite instead of a pink slip.

Except he didn’t give me a date, and now I’m left wondering if the dinner will happen if we don’t win this weekend.





23





Shane’s light blue cast is propped up on the cushy couch. The curly haired thirteen-year-old isn’t even my teammate, but he shouts encouragements as I work the controller. “Go long!”

“I’m trying, man.” I jam on the Xbox thumb stick, aiming the onscreen ball at the receiver, but my shitty-ass screen-self throws a pick instead. The cornerback intercepts it and runs straight into the end zone.

“Dude! Did you see that?”

The triumphant cheer comes from Tina, a ten-year-old with glasses who just had her fifth corrective surgery on her right foot. She’s a huge Renegades fan and wears a number sixteen shirt that could double as a dress. Shane, meanwhile, is recovering from a broken leg, courtesy of a car accident, and he’s sporting a sweatshirt.

Joining us is Carlton, who looks sharp in his eye patch, since he had retina surgery. He’s on my team here at the children’s hospital, since the kids figured he’d need the extra help, given he only has half his vision.

Turns out I’m the one who needs help. My dirty little secret? I suck at Madden Football.

Violet, however, kicks unholy ass. She takes over for Shane, and proceeds to march her team downfield and straight into the end zone. “Take that,” she shouts.

I stick out my tongue.