Most Valuable Playboy(20)
Jasper had listened to Greenhaven, approving every request to shore up those positions. When Greenhaven wants players, chances are he gets them, since the man knows what it takes to win. There’s another reason Greenhaven despises sacks. He wants his legacy to live on not only in the number of rings he wears, but also in the number of concussions his men don’t suffer. That works for me. Fewer sacks equals fewer chances for my skull to whack against the inside of the helmet.
“That sounds good to me, sir.”
He nods, a sign that I’m dismissed. But he doesn’t let go of my shoulder. “By the way, congrats on the nice haul last night,” he says drily.
I didn’t expect the coach to give a flying rat’s ass about the auction, or to know final tallies. But then, I shouldn’t be surprised, because this is the man who sees everything. He has a photographic memory of every play in every game. “Thank you, sir.”
“Glad to see you men raising money for a good cause,” he says in that solid, steady tone that reveals nothing. And yet, his words say everything. He has a zero-bullshit policy. He’d rather his players be upstanding citizens, giving back, representing the city proudly, than driving drunk, smashing cars, and knocking up underage chicks. A few of the teams in the league have racked up some pretty impressive stats in all of those areas. Greenhaven wants the opposite. Cool, calm, stable soldiers of the game.
“We’re just doing our part and grateful to be able to,” I say, Crash-Davising it all the way.
He lets go of my shoulder, and perhaps now I’m truly excused. I make a move to rejoin the guys, but Greenhaven adds, “And it’s always nice to see a woman provide a stabilizing effect on a man.”
I stop in my tracks, my muscles tightening.
Holy shit.
He doesn’t just see everything. He has an opinion on it, too.
“Yes indeed, sir. I couldn’t agree more,” I say in my best cool and calm tone. I blow out a long stream of air and trot back to the field. As I join the guys, I try to figure out what it means that our coach knows the finer workings not only of every opponent’s offense and defense, but also of our fucking love lives. What’s next? Is he going to know if I jack off in the shower tomorrow morning?
By the time we finish running, my muscles are sore and my lungs are spent. We watch game film for an hour, and when the practice mercifully ends midafternoon, all I can think about is doing a whole lot of nothing the rest of the day. Maybe take a nap. Cook a good, clean dinner with protein and vegetables, then watch game film to work on a plan of attack for the field, and study the playbook once more.
But when I turn on my phone after I’m showered and dressed, it’s clear none of that is on the agenda for this evening. I swear it feels like my phone has been weighed down with calls from my agent. I stare at the screen, scrolling through one message after another from Ford Grayson. The dude is one relentless motherfucker. I’m surprised he doesn’t jump out of my mobile device like a goddamn jack-in-the-box. In the midst of his notes, a voice mail notification pops up, but hell if I know how to work that thing. Does anyone even know how to retrieve voice mails anymore? It’s probably a credit card spammer anyway. I spot a text from Violet asking me to call her later.
I text back letting her know I’ll do just that, then I call Ford as I leave the locker room, hair wet and sticking up from the shower. “What’s going on, Ford? You lose your balls and need me to find them?”
“Oh,” he says with a hiss. “I am so going to make you pay for that comment.”
“You’ll make me pay and you’ll take your three percent.”
“Damn fucking straight I will. I might even ask for special dispensation to raise my rates to five percent for you on account of you being so goddamn hard to reach,” he says, firing off each word like a bullet. “It’s like getting an audience with Ethan Hunt once he’s gone rogue.”
“Please. Ethan’s got nothing on me. Anyway, what’s going on?” I ask as I walk down the hall.
“What’s going on? What’s going on?” I can feel his frustration radiating off him in fumes. His voice climbs an octave. He already speaks at the speed of light.
“Aww, you’re still upset with me. That’s cute,” I say, since I love to yank his chain.
“Don’t fuck with me, Coop. Don’t fucking fuck with me. Also, speaking of losing shit that matters, did you lose your ever-loving mind?”
I rap my knuckles against the side of my head, so loudly I’m sure he can hear. “Still here. Anyway, you need to relax. Want me to take you to the duck pond to settle you down?” I tease, since I know that’s where he goes when he’s ready to blow his gasket over whatever dickhead move whatever dickhead GM he’s dealing with is trying to pull.