Page 19 of Most Likely to Score
He clasps a hand to his belly and guffaws. “That’s a good one.” He wiggles his hands. “C’mon, tell me another.”
“Fine, fine. You got me there. Obviously, I think with my dick. But I’m not a dick. I like the woman. I want to do something nice for her.”
He puffs up his chest. “You’ve come to the rightwingman, then. The Taylor family pies are way better than merelynice. I do believe they’ve been known to induce major swooning in womankind.”
He opens the oven and, evidently pleased with what he sees, he slides out the tray, grabs the pie, and sets it on a cooling rack. We head downstairs to his state-of-the-art home gym, work our asses off for thirty minutes, and then I grab the pie and head for the door.
“Good luck, man. You’re going to need it,” he says.
“Don’t I know it.”
I’m hoping this pie is the start of something.
When I get bummed about the money stolen by my ex-agent, I like to take a good, long look at my home—three stories, hardwood floors, modern fixtures. It’s all mine, and I own every square inch of it. I don’t like that I was hoodwinked, but in the scheme of things, I still have so much, and I also have what matters most. A place to lay my head and leave my hat. Or helmet, really.
That’s all I need. My family is healthy and happy, so I can’t complain, just move forward. Besides, it could be worse. I wasn’t the only one screwed. One of my teammates, Garrett Snow, was robbed of nearly everything. A second-year starter, most of his rookie bonus went up in smoke. Poor guy—he wound up injured in his second season, too, out with a torn ACL. I haven’t seen him in a while, so once I’m home, I fire off a quick email to the guy, checking in to see how he’s doing.
One hour later, with the pie in a small shopping bag, I lock the door to my home a block off Fillmore. I walk down the steps to the sidewalk on a summer afternoon that feels like winter, since that’s how San Francisco behaves at this time of year. The fog layer hangs heavy in the city today, the dampness seeping into my bones. I grew up in Sacramento, and it is devil’s horns hot there, so I gladly embrace the city by the bay and all that I have here—cool air, a home, and a steady job.
Okay, fine. Two out of three ain’t bad. There’s nothing steady about a gig playing pro ball, but I wouldn’t change a damn thing. I’m happiest when I’m chasing a target and carrying that football to the end zone.
That’s the closest thing to heaven as far as I’m concerned—crossing the white chalk by the goalposts and putting six points on the board. Fucking bliss. Beautiful, heart-pumping bliss.
I wait at the curb for about thirty seconds, then a black town car pulls up. I lift my thumb in the air like I want to hitch a ride.
The window slides down in the back, and Jillian pokes her head out, a pair of big red sunglasses on her face. She pushes them up into her hair. “Hey there. Want a ride? I have candy, and I lost my puppy. Will you help me find it?” she says in a singsong voice.
“Oh yes. Do you have Skittles, please?”
She tosses her head back and laughs. “Tropical Island flavor.”
I let my tongue fall out, like a dog, then I grab thehandle, yanking open the door. My throat goes dry when I see her seated on the cool black leather.
Holy sexiness.
I can’t even joke about hitchhiking and stranger danger or anything at all in the universe, because she stuns me. She wears jeans, pink sandals, and a silky soft blouse that falls perfectly against her breasts, revealing a hint of flesh. A slim silver chain with a heart locket hangs on her neck. That lucky pendant gets to touch her skin.
“You look . . .” I search for the right word. Hot? Luscious? Pretty? Good enough to lick from head to toe? So sexy I want to strip you down to nothing and get acquainted with every square inch of your body? I stave off a throaty groan of appreciation, swallowing it harshly. But I don’t entirely want to hide how I feel, either. I want her to know what I see when I look at her.
And compliments are part of the strategy to get her to see me in a new light. “You look beautiful.”
Her face is blank at first, as if she’s not sure what to make of me. Confusion flickers across her pretty brown eyes, the color of melting chocolate. Then, a spark of something flickers. Maybe happiness? Appreciation? She’s so hard to read.
“Thank you. You always look sharp.”
I’ll need to work harder to earn anything other than a professional compliment from this woman. I slide into the car, set the bag on the leather seat, and gesture to my getup. “You like mysharpbathing suit?” I point to my trunks, then flip-flops, then the T-shirt I’ll take off at the beach for the shoot.
She raises her nose, as if she’s sniffing. Maybe she’s ferreted out the scent of a delicious cherry pie. But she doesn’t mention it. “It’s perfect. Exactly what I wanted you to wear.”
I peer at her outfit. “You have a bikini on under that?”
“No way.” She shivers for effect as the car pulls away and threads into light morning traffic on the way to the bridge.
“You’re not going to swim while I shoot?”
“It’s sixty-nine degrees at Stinson.”
I snicker. “You said sixty-nine.”
