Most Valuable Playboy

“Good. There’s a lot I have to tell you. Lot of stuff that went down here before the game. Things I learned.”

“Oh,” she says, her tone suddenly heavy.

“It’s not bad. But it’s better shared in person.”

“I understand.”

I reach the bus. “I’ll let you know when I land. It might be late, though.”

“I’ll either be awake or asleep,” she deadpans.

I laugh. “Yes, those would be the two options.”

As we say goodbye, something seems different in her voice. As if it’s missing some excitement. Some enthusiasm for me. Maybe I’m imagining it, maybe I’m reading too much into one short phone call. I tell myself it’ll all be clear when I see her. But as I sink down into a plush seat on the team bus, I find myself wondering if maybe this is more one-sided than I thought. Perhaps it’s been pretend for her all along.



The snowflakes attack the tarmac, building aggressively into a crazy-ass snowstorm that grounds our flight for the night. We can’t take off on Monday morning, either. By then, the manager of operations is dealing with fifty-three cranky, big-ass players who want to return home because the one thing we like best after winning is our routine.

Living in limbo in Baltimore on a short week is not routine at all.

We pass the time practicing, playing ping-pong and video games, and watching game film at the hotel. We finally take off late Monday night, and by the time we land on the West Coast, it’s the middle of the night.

I text Violet an emoji of a bird landing, and then foolishly hope she’ll reply with come over or I’m waiting on your porch in my birthday suit, but it’s three in the morning and my phone, understandably, is silent. An hour later, I’m home, where my bed and I spend eight hours together before it’s time for a late practice and playoff prep all day Tuesday and into the evening.

I’m not complaining. This is where I want to be right now in my career.

But I also want to be someplace else. Someplace clear with her. When I leave the training facility late that night, it’s too late to see her. If I see her now, I won’t get enough rest, and I’ll play like crap. So I don’t ask if she’s free now. I text to ask when I can see her tomorrow. She replies that she has an early afternoon on-site appointment in the city tomorrow with a new client, so she can meet me at my house before.

Before.

Why does that word feel so fucking ominous?

Because it’s not after.

Because it’s not open-ended. Because it tells me what I need to know. She’s sandwiching me.

I’m not the end to her day.





33





I open the door, prepared to be tough. Prepared to handle the it’s time to end this speech that she surely plans to hurl in my direction on her pit stop to her appointment.

But that strategy flies onto the street when I see her. She stands on my porch, a December breeze whipping her dark hair around her face. A black skirt is painted on and her boots are so tall she looks like she can slay dragons in them. A leather jacket completes the sexy-as-a-rock-star look.

Her lips shine, like she just slicked on gloss.

For a split second, I read her like I’d do another team. Like she’s the enemy. In those eyes I find determination, hardness, an edge that wasn’t present the last time I saw her.

But then her gaze wanders, drifts down my body, and maybe she’s inventorying me like I just did to her, taking in my jeans, bare feet, and charcoal-gray Henley shirt.

When she returns to my eyes, the cool veneer is gone. In hers, I see heat.

I see a spark.

I see my girl.

But neither one of us say anything, and it feels as if we’re facing off. Like something happened when I was out of town. Or maybe something happened when I bolted from her home last week.

She breaks the silence, raising her chin. “Your hair is a mess. You still need a trim.”

I run my hands through unruly locks. “I’ll make an appointment. Unless you’re too booked.”

“I’ll see if I can fit you in.”

That feels like the operative phrase. Like she’s fucking fitting me into her life. “You’re welcome anytime. Besides, the lease is signed. Woo-hoo!”

She thrusts her arms in the air in victory, and I smile, then lift her up in celebration. A soft sigh escapes her lips the moment we touch, and that’s all it takes. I carry her inside, shut the door with my foot, and push her up against the back of it. I hear the faint sound of my phone ringing on the couch, but I ignore it.

Then it happens. All at once. Our lips crash together. We kiss fiercely, like we’re ravenous. Her scent—peaches and cool December air—intoxicates me. It unravels me. All my plans to talk to her, to tell her how I feel, become secondary to the heat of her body. To the feel of her soft, sexy lips. To the way my pulse spikes and my blood heats being this close to her.

Talk. What’s that? I can’t even string words together. All I can manage are grunts and growls. This is primal. This is physical. This is so fucking intense as I push against her and kiss those lips that own me.

I thread my hands through her hair. “Vi, I thought about you so much.”

She breathes out hard, nodding as she drops her purse to the floor. “Me, too. You, that is.”

I push her skirt to her hips. My gaze drifts down, and my throat is dry. She wears pink panties with white foxes on them.

I can’t speak.

I’ve been reduced to nothing but muscles and blood and heat and desire. That’s all that works in me, and it’s working in overdrive. My hand slides between those gorgeous thighs, then across her panties, and I’m done.

She’s so fucking wet.

“Need to get these off,” I mutter, and she nods vigorously.

“Yes. Off.”

I kneel, tugging her panties down, helping her step out of them in her high-heeled boots, while she shrugs off her jacket. She wears a pink sweater, and I could fucking die. She’s so sexy. She’s so pretty. She’s so mine.

But she’s not mine.

She’s only mine for now, and I’ll take what I can get. As soon as I stand, she grabs at the hem of my shirt, and I yank it off.

I pat the back of my jeans for my wallet, but it’s on the kitchen counter. Besides, I’m honestly not sure I have a condom in it. It’s been months since I needed one.

“Vi,” I say, heavily. “I don’t think I have a—”

“—I do.”

She grabs her purse and snags a condom in five seconds flat.

“You’re prepared,” I say, surprised for some reason that she’s carrying.

She levels me with her gaze, her eyes intense and her tone brutally honest, it seems. “Cooper, I’ve been prepared for this since the first night at your house. I’ve been ready for a long time.”

Those words grab hold of me, touching my heart, rekindling my hope. I try not to read too much into them, but they feel so true. I take the condom from her hand as she lets go of her purse, and I kiss her once more. “I’ve been ready for a long time, too,” I say softly.

A desperate oh comes from her, and I sweep my thumb over her lips, almost as if I can catch the sound, hold it close, keep her.