Page 83 of Most Likely to Score
“It means you’ll be in the public eye in a whole new way. You won’t just be a woman introducing a press conference. You won’t just be somebody who’s casually known to a few reporters. You’re going to a whole new level. This means you’re potentially going to be out in the public as the girlfriend of a Super Bowl–winning, all-pro receiver who’s one of the best players in the National Football League.”
I gulp. When she puts it like that, it sounds so big and terrifying. But it also sounds like exactly what I’ve known all along. What I’m ready to tackle. “I’m aware of that.”
Lily points at me. “People will take pictures of you. You’ll have to pose for pictures with him. You’ll be known as Jones Beckett’s girlfriend. People will speculate about you. They’ll want to know what you have that attracted him. They’ll want to know how the ultimate playboy finally settled down.” She stops and expels a harsh breath. “Are you ready for that?”
Squaring my shoulders, I answer her truthfully. “I am.” The last several years have trained me. Managing a life in the public eye is something I’ve done for others, and I can do it for myself, too.
“And what if it goes south?”
A pebble wedges itself under my heart, pushing and prodding, a reminder that this could fall to pieces. “I’m prepared for that. And if it does, I won’t let that affect my work. Look at Kevin—I still treat him with respect, the same way I would any other reporter.”
She leans back in her chair, nodding a few more times as if she’s taking this all in. “I’ve known you for nearly eight years and admired you the whole time. And if there’s one thing I believe in, it’s your ability to make good decisions. If you have fallen in love with Jones Beckett . . .” I can’t help but smile, because it’s such a relief to have said it aloud to someone other than my best friend, and Lily continues, “And obviously you have, based on that ridiculously goofy look on your face, then it is clearly the right decision for you. I hope he knows how lucky he is to have won your heart. He better protect it like it’s as precious as the football he carries to the end zone. And if he doesn’t, he will have to answer to me.”
I smile like an idiot in love. “So this means you’re not firing me?”
She rolls her eyes. “You’ll have to quit for me to let you get away.”
I laugh. “Then neither one of us needs to worry.”
I leave as if I’m walking on a ray of sunshine, and nothing can ruin my mood.
Not a thing.
As soon as I reach my office, I text Jones to tell him the good news.
I tackle some calls to the media, then check myphone an hour later, but he hasn’t written back. He’s probably practicing. Today will be a busy day for the guys, so I carry on, flying high on hope, eager to see him again.
Later that night, when I’m home catching up on the news on my phone, his name flashes on my screen. Butterflies soar in my chest, and my fingers fly to scroll open the message.
Jones: That’s great. I’m thinking of you.
“What?” I blurt to my phone, my brow furrowed.
But that’s all he wrote. The butterflies crash-land in my belly. I read the message once more, trying to find the true meaning behind words that feel terribly empty. But I can’t. Because that’s the most un-Jones-like message he’s ever sent. He’s not anI’m thinking of youguy.
He’s all-in, or he’s not in at all.
But I’m not the type of woman to pressure, or to cling, so I take a deep breath and tell myself to let it go for now.
I click back to the news. It’s more reassuring right now, and that’s really saying something.
Katie hunts through a rack of silk blouses. Once she locates her prey, she grabs it and brandishes the soft teal-blue shirt, positioning it over her chest and arching an eyebrow as she turns her lips into Betty Boop’s. “What do you think? Is this going to be perfect for you coming out as the receiver’s girlfriend?”
I offer a faint smile. It’s hard for me to focus on shopping since I’ve only heard from Jones once, and that was the abysmal text last night. “It looks great. Do you really think I need a whole new wardrobe now?”
“There’s never a bad time for a wardrobe revamp.” She eyes me from head to toe in the Hayes Valley boutique where we’re shopping on Saturday afternoon. She fancies herself my personal dresser. She taps her finger against her chin. “But I wonder if we should put you in dresses more?”
“No.”
“Do you hate dresses now?”
I roll my eyes. “Oh yes, that’s it. I’ve developed a deep hatred for dresses. I simply prefer blouses and skirts.”
“That’s fine. We can work with that. You’ll keep up the look as the office doll who nabbed the guy with the ball?—”
“Wherever that rhyme is going, it should retire.”
She pouts as she riffles through more clothes. “Must find you a sexy new skirt now. Aha!” Nabbing a short black number, she thrusts it at me.
