Page 62 of Most Likely to Score
He takes me to the edge, talking dirty, talking sweet.
I’ll keep wanting this. I won’t stop wanting you.
Before I can even start to think about what this all means, I’m yanked under by another epic climax. He’s right behind me, flying in this land of ecstatic bliss by my side.
We spend the night together, and the morning comes far too soon, the dawn a cruel reminder that sultry, sexy Miami is nearly behind us and that we’reheading home to San Francisco, where our brief and explosive secret affair will become a fiery memory, one I will revisit over and over.
Endlessly, I’m sure, because I don’t know how I will ever get him out of my system.
But I’ll have to find a way.
25
JONES
Training camp is brutal. It’s supposed to be brutal. Exhaustion is my sole state of mind and body at the end of every day as Coach Greenhaven works us to the bone. We run routes like we’ve never run routes before. Last year, we went as far as the championship game, but we were knocked out by our biggest rivals, the Los Angeles Devil Sharks. This year, the goal is to go all the way to another ring.
Better, faster, stronger.That’s my motto as I rise at dawn, hit the weight room, then run drills and sprints on the practice field all afternoon.
During training camp, I’m all football all the time, and I love it.
Except when I see Jillian.
We train at a university an hour from the city, and she’s here regularly, since training camp is a media fiesta. At least a few times a week, I see her. Standing against the wall in the back of the press conference room, scribbling notes in her notebook, tapping outreplies to emails on her phone. Hanging out on the edge of the field, answering questions from reporters and bloggers. One afternoon as I grab water after an intense drill, I see a local sportscaster stride over to her. Kevin Stone is his name, and he dresses sharp. As he approaches, Jillian crosses her arms and raises her chin, a slight shift in her demeanor, as if she’s protecting herself.
Awareness slams me like a linebacker.
She used to date him. I remember her seeing him a year ago. Holy shit. Is he the asshole who detests room service? Wait. His crime is way worse than hating a great meal option. He’s the shithead who cheated on her. For a second, this feels a little like jealousy because it tightens my muscles and makes me grit my teeth. But I feel zero envy for that ass. He’ll never have that incredible woman again. Not after he broke her trust.
That’s what pisses me off. That’s why I’m wound up. That jackass hurt the woman I adore, and I have half a mind to march over, shoot him a withering glare, and tell him he lost out on the greatest chance ever.
But I don’t do that. I snap my gaze away and down another water. I lost a chance, too.
For vastly different reasons, but I’m in the same boat as that fucker.
She’s not mine, either.
On the second to last day of training camp, Jillian asksthe marquee players to sit for a news conference. That’s Cooper, Harlan, Rick, and me.
At the end of the presser, a sports blogger tosses out the final question in my direction. “Jones, how do you feel about your chances this year?”
The question has been asked every day, countless times, in press conferences all across the NFL and in every professional sports league. Reporters and fans have a bottomless appetite for pondering how far any team can go. Can we go all the way? That’s what everyone wants to know. Hell, that’s why we play.
As I clear my throat and prepare to answer, my eyes drift to Jillian, standing against the white wall near the front of the room. I’ve seen her in this pose hundreds of times before, dressed to the nines, her brown eyes taking in the whole room.
She wears a black skirt and a candy-apple red blouse with white polka dots. She’s so fucking business-sexy that it’s impossible for me not to want to strip those clothes off and fuck her against the wall.
But that’s what I shouldn’t think about.
Except, she’s looking at me now. Not in the way she used to before Miami, but really looking at me. Seeing me.Knowingme.
The question hangs in the air as that loaded word—chances—takes on a brand-new meaning.How do you feel about your chances this year?
Our eyes lock. A connection seems to pass between us, as if she knows what’s on my mind.She’son my mind.She’sthe chance I wish I could take. I repeat thequestion, buying myself time. “How do I feel about our chances?”
The reporter nods, an expectant look in his eyes, his phone pointing in my direction, recording my answer.
“If we play hard every day, we have a shot. And isn’t that all we can hope for?” My eyes drift back to her for a fleeting second. “To have a chance?” I add one more word, so she knows I mean her. “Presumably.”
