Page 9 of Most Likely to Score
But every now and then, the ladies photograph him. Like the morning after the team’s Super Bowl win two years ago. That’s when a buxom blonde named Chelsea tweeted a selfie with Jones sleeping in her bed. Her face in the frame with our snoozing star receiver, she captioned the pic so cleverly with her newly acquired knowledge: “It’s true what they say about a size of a man’s hands.”
Yep. Our player had become more famous for swiping right than for his game-winning touchdown pass.
I wouldn’t call it a PR disaster, because what single pro baller doesn’t want to celebrate his Super Bowl winin that kind of biblical fashion? But it became a feeding frenzy for the media outlets, hounding us for details on Chelsea. Who was this woman who had Jones Beckett in her bed?
The cat was out of the bag. Jones used Tinder. Whoop-de-doo. That was how he became the poster boy for the hookup app for a few months. That is reason #1089 why I don’t take my unrequited crush on him seriously. I’m one in a long line of women who have a crush on him.
I’m better off devoting my dating energy on men with jobs in buildings rather than ballparks. Truth be told, though, it’s been a year since I dated anyone seriously. My job is my focus. I love it madly, and that’s why I don’t mind showing up at the office at seven thirty on most mornings, like I do several days after the shoot.
That gives me quiet time to get a head start on the day. At my desk, I pop in my earbuds, and turn on my favorite playlist, full of sexy jams. I dive into my emails, including one from my friend Jess, a photographer who lives in Los Angeles now. I’ve known her since I was five, when her family moved to San Francisco. Her parents are white Americans too, and they adopted her from the city of Changsha in Hunan when she was one. Our parents connected through the adoption agency they both had used, meeting at an annual picnic with other adoptees and their parents. Jess and I have been friends since then. When we were younger, we liked the same things—trampolines, going to the park, ice cream, laughing. When we were in middle school, we joked about how often we gotthe look.That’s what wecalled it when our teachers would meet our parents for the first time. There was always the blink, the slight jerk of the head, the register of surprise when an Asian girl didn’t have matching Asian parents, but white parents instead. Later, in high school, when I took a Chinese language class, my teacher even assumed my parents were of Chinese heritage and suggested I practice speaking Chinese at home with them if they did. Sigh. That was fun. But I’m glad I had Jess to laugh about it with since she understands the assumptions I face all too well.
I read her email and she says she’s coming to town soon and would love to get together. I write back in all caps and with exclamation points then tackle my messages from reporters. With training camp starting in a few weeks, questions are pouring in. Which rookies will get playing time? Will we re-sign our star running back, Harlan Taylor? How has our quarterback, Cooper Armstrong, been looking in the off-season? That last question comes from Sierra Franklin, one of the local TV reporters who also hosted the bachelor charity auction I organized last year. Funny thing about that auction—she met her fiancé that same evening. He worked at the hotel where the auction was held, and they hit it off and are getting married in September.
I write back.
Cooper looks amazing, but not as amazing as I know you’llbe in your wedding dress. You’re going to be a beautiful bride! Can’t wait for your big day!
I clean out the rest of my inbox, and I’m powering through my morning round of press clippings when Lily calls me into her office. Leaving my earbuds and phone behind, I head down the hall, knock on her door, and push it open the rest of the way.
She’s a whirling dervish, radiating fire and excitement. I adore Lily. Her drive and tenacity are unparalleled. She stands at her desk, bracelets jangling on her wrists, wild red hair thick with springy curls, her green shirtsleeves billowing as she stabs the computer monitor.
“Look,” she shouts, poking the screen again. “Look at this.”
I step closer, train my gaze to the screen, then pump a fist. “Yes.”
She sashays over to me on her four-inch platform heels, doing a victory dance and offering her hand to high-five. I smack back.
She grabs my shoulders for emphasis. “Cover.He’s the freaking cover.Sporting Worldjust sent me a sneak preview. The issue runs in a few days, and you did it.”
Did I? Or did Jones, with his insanely photogenic style? I simply attended the shoot.
I give credit where it’s due. “It’s all Jones. He truly knows how to work it.”
She waves a hand. “These men. They might haveGod-given talent, but don’t let them take all the credit. You pitched the right guy.”
I shrug happily. “Fine. We rock,” I say with a proud smile, then I look at the winning shot. An amusing scowl graces his face, and an intense glare marks his blue eyes, making him appear tough as nails, untouchable even, like he is on the field most of the time. He’s pulled footballs out of the air that should have been incomplete passes. He’s saved potential interceptions on countless occasions. And he’s fought off the scariest defensive coverage, scrambling, doubling back, and finding the holes so he could catch and cradle the ball.
He’s fearless, focused, and fast as hell on his feet.
Lily drops into her cushy leather chair, sighing happily as she twirls in the seat. “This is such a popular issue, and I also love thatfinallyJones Beckett is in the spotlight for something other than the size of his prick.”
My jaw itches to drop at her bluntness. But in PR, you learn to keep a smile on your face nearly all the time. I show no reaction, even though she’s totally right.
“Remember Chelsea?” she asks, as if I could forget.
I smile sarcastically. “Good old Chelsea, queen of the naughty selfie.”
Lily laughs, dragging her hand through her copper curls. “And how about Annika Van der Holden?” she asks, referring to one of the models he was seen with, as she continues taking a stroll down Jones’s Most Notorious Press Moments Lane. “Do you remember that shot?”
Inside, I cringe as the memory of Jones, holding a bottle of champagne and planting a kiss on Annika’s cheek, flashes before me. Nothing wrong with models. But in her case, she wore a vagina-length dress in the photo.
“I do remember it. I wanted to buy her a new dress, maybe put a coat on her shoulders.”
Lily smacks her desk. “You and me both. And then there was the shot of him, his asshole agent, Chuck Margulies, and some random topless woman sticking their heads out of the sunroof in a limo. Although, in the topless woman’s case, it was more than her head sticking out the sunroof.” She points to the screen, her bracelets jingling a pretty tune. “But this? This is what we want.”
Our marching orders for the last few years have been to maintain a pristine image for the team. We’ve had a good run. Our starting quarterback is engaged to the woman he’s loved his whole life, and they’re both huge charity supporters. Our kicker is involved in literacy efforts in the city. While Jones is a generous supporter of charity like most of the guys, his wild-child status, not to mention getting caught in the crossfire in the fiasco with his agent, has tainted his coverage. Maybe the body issue can help rehab that image.
Which brings me to something I need and want from my boss.
