Most Valuable Playboy

I mean, fake girlfriend.

Fake girlfriend who I nearly real fucked.





27





Holly: Is today the day?



* * *



Violet: Yes. She just left.



* * *



Holly: And??? How did it go? Did she tackle you to the floor of the salon and demand all the details of your never-ending, undying love for him?



* * *



Violet: Shut. Up.



* * *



Holly: Well?



* * *



Violet: I trimmed an inch off the ends and did a blowout. She looked lovely. She was heading to the airport, ready to take off in her brother’s private jet to Baltimore.



* * *



Holly: La-dee-dah. What did she talk to you about while you did her hair? I’m dying to know.



* * *



Violet: We mostly chatted about favorite celebrities. We bonded over our shared love for Leonardo DiCaprio’s talent, Chris Pine’s hair, and Ryan Gosling’s face. Also, we both adore Isla Fisher and Gal Gadot, so there was that, too.



* * *



Holly: I love Chris Pine’s hair, too. I swear the guy has two heads’ worth of hair. But back to the topic—SHE DIDN’T QUIZ YOU ON COOPER?



* * *



Violet: Oh, she did. She absolutely wanted to know how we were doing. I said he was great. I said I thought he was amazing. I said I’ve been in love with him since second grade.



* * *



Holly: Did you really?



* * *



Violet: Yes.



* * *



Holly: Are you going to tell him how it went?



* * *



Violet: Not yet. He hasn’t asked. I think he forgot when the appointment was. But honestly, there’s nothing to tell, and he needs to focus on the game, not a harmless little haircut.



* * *



Holly: Speaking of the game, want to watch at my house on Sunday?



* * *



Violet: If you make your world-class popcorn, I do. Also, I have great news. I signed the new lease. All is well in Hairlandia.



* * *



Holly: Yay! So, what does that mean for the little game of k-i-s-s-i-n-g in a tree?



* * *



Violet: I honestly don’t know. I have this feeling, Holly, that once the contract is done . . .



* * *



Holly: He’s going to drop you like a hot potato?



* * *



Violet: Yes.



* * *



Holly: Don’t think that.



* * *



Violet: He’s a twenty-six-year-old professional quarterback with a winning record, scads of women throwing themselves at him, and an excellent shot at the playoffs. His contract is in flux. He’s not looking for a commitment from a woman. He’s looking for a commitment from a team.



* * *



Holly: Sweetie . . .



* * *



Violet: It’s the truth. I’m taking what I can get. I’m savoring what this is. I know it won’t last. It just can’t.



* * *



Holly: Why?



* * *



Violet: He’s already in love with the game, and I’m not sure he has the room for anything else.



* * *



Holly: You’re not a thing.



* * *



Violet: I know that. But I also understand and respect his priorities.



* * *



Holly: You don’t have to be so levelheaded and tough about this, sweetie.



* * *



Violet: But I do have to be strong. If I don’t, my heart will break.





28





After a dinner out with the guys, we stroll through the lobby of the team hotel, heading straight for the elevator banks. I avoid the hotel bar at all costs, and I don’t make eye contact with any of the football groupies.

The problem is, I nearly smack into Maxine as she rounds the corner. She’s dressed to the nines in a red sequined top and black jeans with towering heels. But she’s not alone. She’s with her brother, and he’s decked out in a swank gray suit and a pink tie that looks like it alone cost a thousand dollars. You don’t get to own a team without rolling in the dough, and Jasper Scott looks the part.

“Gentlemen.” Jasper flashes us a smile that shows off gleaming white teeth. “Good to see my stars”—his eyes drift to the elevators—“heading upstairs.”

His meaning is clear. He has no patience for the guys picking up the groupies, even though it’s a part of the game.

“We like to get our beauty sleep,” Jones offers, speaking for the four of us.

“How wise,” Jasper says in his smooth voice. He raises a hand to scratch his jaw, and his three Super Bowl rings nearly blind me.

“We’re just getting a nightcap,” Maxine offers, her eyes on me the whole time. She doesn’t even look at Jones, Harlan, or Rick. “But then, we don’t have to be on the field bright and early for practice.”

“Bright and early,” I say with a smile, since tomorrow is Saturday, and it’s a light workout before the Sunday game.

She waggles her fingers at me. “Sleep well.”

Once inside the elevator, I breathe a sigh of relief and rest my forehead against the panel. “Did she look like she wanted to eat me for dessert?”

Harlan pats my back. “Poor, poor pretty boy.”

“Is it hard being so good-looking?” Rick asks in a faux concerned voice.

I raise my face and narrow my eyes. “You fuckers have no idea.”

“No idea what it’s like to be so lovely and charming that all the ladies throw themselves at you?” Jones asks, lifting his imaginary violin and playing a lament.

I sigh. “Why do I bother talking to you assholes at all?”

Harlan answers, “Because we make you look good on Sundays.”

Rick taps his chest. “Don’t look at me. I make myself look good.” He pantomimes kicking a ball.

“And yet, I love all you fuckers,” I say when we reach our floor.

I give a quick wave good night and head to my room. The door clicks shut behind me, and I wash my hands, brush my teeth, and undress. When I’m down to nothing, I grab my phone and contemplate texting Violet. Maybe even to mention Maxine’s hair. I bet she was in the salon this week, but then, if anything had gone down I needed to know, Violet would have told me.

We’ve only texted a few times since I’ve left, and most have been from her of the go team variety. I don’t need to text her about another woman. Besides, if I text her about anything more than the simplest stuff, chances are I won’t be able to stop.

I turn off the light, turn off the text notifications on my phone, and don’t wake up until my phone rattles on my nightstand in the morning like the world is ending. I rub my eyes, stare at the screen, then sit bolt upright when I see who’s calling.

I answer immediately. “Yes, sir?”

“Cooper, can you meet me in my suite before practice?”

“Yes, I can, Mr. Scott.”

Fifteen minutes later, I’m showered, dressed, and heading to what feels like an execution for real this time.





29





When I was in third grade, the teacher asked me to come to the blackboard and work on a math problem. I said, “Maybe. We’ll see.”