Most Valuable Playboy(2)

Violet stretches her arm behind her, silver bracelets jingling as she grabs some hair gel in a black tube from the chrome coffee table. “We need to domesticate your lovely locks, Cooper. I don’t have a riding crop with me, but I think this gel will do.”

I give the tube a skeptical stare. “You’re not going to put a ton of goop in my hair, are you?”

She adopts a serious expression. “Absolutely. It’s a brand-new product I’ve been testing at my salon. It’s called Goop for Guys. It’s so perfect for you.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “But I won’t tell anyone you have to use . . . product to look so pretty.”

“More like pretty ugly.” A deep voice booms the insult across the suite. Jones is the king of put-downs, and one of my closest friends on the team. At the moment, he’s lounging in a chair, scrolling through his phone, and wearing a custom-fitted dark navy suit.

The team publicist, Jillian, organized the event and chose the tailored suit theme for this year’s auction, our annual holiday fundraiser for the San Francisco Children’s Hospital. Her exact words were, “Suits are like catnip to women, and to men, too, and I want my team of pretty kitties to raise even more money this year.”

That’s a tall order, but most of the dough comes from the entrance fee—a donation to simply walk in the door. We’ve already circulated amongst the crowd, chatting with fans in the ballroom, finishing the mingling session while the speakers played “It’s Raining Men.” That song presaged the final event of the night—the auction itself, also affectionately known as the annual parade of Renegade Man Meat, when the single men on the team strut their stuff.

I glance over at Jones, picking up the insult volley. I eye his midsection suspiciously. “How’s your girdle fitting you tonight? Is that why you look so nice and trim?”

He pretends to adjust it. “Yeah, I borrowed yours.”

“It’s a comfort fit. I can see why you’d need it.”

“You can wear it next. A blushing bride always needs one.”

That’s what the guys call me now. Bride. But hey, I’ll take it over bridesmaid since it comes with the starting job after three long years on the sidelines.

Violet shakes her head as she flips open the tube. “The two of you—”

“Are clever, brilliant, and handsome devils? Why thank you,” I say, straightening my vest. I went three-piece, all the way. If Jillian wants us to wear suits to rake it in, I’ll damn well do my best to bring home a four-peat. I’ve been the recipient of the highest bid the last three years, and since I love streaks, I want to keep it up this year, too.

For the kids.

I want to win for the kids. The hospital does amazing work, and I gladly support it.

Plus, bragging rights do rock.

That’s all that will be rocking this year. I need all my focus on the field, which means no full-benefits package with this date, even if the opportunity should present itself. I spent the last three years idle on the bench but busy after hours. This season is a whole different beast now that I have a record and reputation to think about. We’re closing in on a wild-card spot in the playoffs, and these days the only scoring I plan to do is on the field.

Violet tips her chin at my attire. “I like the vest. You rarely see anyone wearing a vest here.”

We live in casual country, home of the hoodie, and land of the jeans. “Is that your way of telling me you’re a vest woman?”

She laughs then lowers her voice. “I’m an everything woman.” She lets that comment hang between us, and for a moment, my head is in a fog. Everything. What sort of everything does Violet Pierson like? Everything in bed? And why the hell am I thinking these thoughts about her? Violet’s not only my friend, she’s also my best buddy’s sister. “And you’re going to clean up, my friend, since there are few things hotter than an athlete dressed in a suit.”

“Yeah?” I ask, meeting her eyes as she squeezes the goop onto her hands, and my mind continues to wander down the everything yellow brick road. Every position, every night—is that her sort of everything?

“Of course. You have a great face, a nice body, and that top-notch suit fits like a glove,” she says, listing these attributes like they’re hardwood floors, a quiet dishwasher, and a front-loading washing machine. Violet meets my eyes, and her tone is cheery. “Don’t worry. I’m only saying nice body in an empirical sense.”

I put on the brakes, since it’s not very sexy to be described like an appliance.

“Right. Of course.” I nod, wiping the everything thoughts from my brain, too. “It’s a completely objective compliment.”