The Knocked Up Plan

Ha, take that, Jones.

She shifts her gaze to the couch and our kicker Rick. Obviously, we call him Dicker the Kicker. Even though he’s the kicker, he’s a scary mofo, thanks to the thick beard and dark, broody eyes, as well as the best foot in the league. That right toe of his has hurled the pigskin more than forty yards when he’s needed to, and he missed only one field goal so far this season. Harlan’s here too, his suit jacket hanging over the back of his chair. He’s our star running back, and even though I prefer to throw the ball, I’ll hand off to him too. He’s escaped hordes of humongous linemen with his quicksilver feet.

These guys have seen a hell of a lot more action than I have, since they surrounded the Renegades superstar Jeff Grant, who retired last year. Despite the ribbing, they’ve welcomed me as the new quarterback, due in part to the fact that it’s December, we’re sporting a 9-3 record and staring down the chance to clinch a wild card spot in my first season as the starter.

Violet parks her hands on her hips, surveying the guys in the room. “Look at you boys. Such pretty Renegades.” She waves a hand dismissively. “Don’t mind me. I’m just getting into the spirit of objectification tonight.”

“You want to bid on me don’t you, Vi?” Rick calls out.

“It’s all I can think about,” she says, with an over-the-top purr. She leans close to the chrome table, rooting around in her purse. She finds her wallet, flips it open, and shows him a few tens. “Will that be enough for you?”

“We’re running a discount on him,” Harlan says, scratching his stubbled jaw. “You can have the Dicker for a ten and a six-pack.”

“Hell, I’ll throw in your favorite bottle of wine if you take him off our hands now,” Jones adds.

Rick rolls his eyes, and flips us the bird, showing his middle finger to everyone. “And watch me clean up tonight, just like I have to clean up all your messes on the field when you fuckers can’t get it in.”

“I always get it in,” I say, because I can’t fucking resist. He went there. I had to go there too. 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 agent got the message. He whispered to his female assistant to place the winning bid.

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

She laughs and glances at me, raising her hands, like scales. “Hmmm. 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. And if you wanted to bid on me, I’d even foot the bill for it,” I say, then I wonder why the hell that just came out of my mouth. I’m not angling for Violet to bid on me. Hell, I’m not fishing for anyone to bid on me. I do just fine on my own. Besides, I like the fun and come-what-may thrill of the auction. I never entered the event expecting to have the kind of luck I’ve enjoyed, with such pretty ladies snagging dates. There are never any guarantees that you’ll be attracted to the person who wins a date with you. But that’s what happened to me, and I’ve gone three-for-three in this category. Last year, the vixen-like black-haired local news anchor Lourdes Mariano won me, and that chick was as unbuttoned in the limo the night of our date as she was buttoned up on air. Thank the lord for soundproof windows in that long black car. That woman had a set of lungs on her. The year before, a venture capitalist in a sexy pinstriped suit secured the winning bid, and we hit it off all night long. My first year here, a pretty blonde socialite nabbed me.

Those trysts are behind me now. I’ve kept my pants zipped all season long. I’ve no plans to sleep around this year, no matter who wins me, since the field deserves all my focus. But I’m a competitive bastard and I do 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 something like annoyance spreads in my chest as she combs his hair, smoothing it and neatening it.

“Can you cut my hair sometime too?” he asks, his eyes locked on hers. “What’s the name of your salon?”

I snap my gaze to Harlan and narrow my eyes. “I thought you said you’d never chop it off. Samson and all,” I say, and I could give two fucks about the length of his hair, but I know I don’t want him pulling up a chair in her salon.

“You are welcome anytime at Heroes and Hairoines,” she says, and now I’ve got a new mission. Convince Harlan to never shear his locks for the rest of his life.

“Harlan, you know your speed comes from your hair,” I say, as offhand and casual as I can muster.

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

“Shit, you’re right,” Harlan says, raising his hand to his hair. “Can’t fuck with a streak, and we’re damn close to locking up a berth this season too.”

“Two more wins. 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. “The Dicker chews that nasty black licorice before every quarter now to make sure we kick ass.”

Rick raises his chin and nods, agreeing. “And I brush my teeth too on the sidelines once I’m done with the licorice. Haven’t missed a quarter all season long.”

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.” To be fair, I’m not as superstitious as he is, but he’s my go-to guy on the field, so I have to respect his feelings.

The look in Jones’ eyes is intensely serious. “You gotta honor the power of the streak. Don’t mess with it, don’t fuck with it. Just fucking trust it. Look at me,” he says, pulling up the hem of his trousers at the ankles. “I haven’t changed my socks in more than three months.”

His socks are of the navy dress variety. He means his game socks. I’m honestly not sure if he has washed them. But I also don’t want to know either.