Most Valuable Playboy(23)
Ford’s eyes light up at that one. “I do like game-winning passes.”
“Yeah, me, too. Shocking, isn’t it?”
He claps me on the back. “Listen, you don’t need to make a reality show about how you and your new woman like to go on picnics and tandem bicycle rides. All we need are a few dates, a few pictures on Instagram, a few comments in the press. Boom.” He swipes one palm against the other.
I scowl. “You know I hate all that social media shit, and I don’t even have an Instagram account.” Life is for living, not for living online. I’ve no interest in snapping stories or chatting photos or hashtagging my days away when I can keep my head up and enjoy the real world rather than a screen.
“Man, I might need to rescind my comment about brains. You honestly think I’d make you handle a social media account? You send me a few pictures, and Tucker will take care of it. My assistant is aces at social shit, and we reserved your Twitter and Instagram handles a long time ago. We’ll just fire it up.”
Damn. Ford covers all his bases. “Fine.” I heave a sigh and shift gears. “Violet isn’t going to be happy about this.”
He cocks his head to the side. “Why won’t she be happy? You’re friends. You’ve known her forever.”
“Hard as it may be to believe, she’s not into me that way.”
His reaction is instant. Ford doubles over. He grabs his stomach, then sets his palms on his thighs and laughs, cries, and guffaws. Nothing has entertained Ford Grayson quite like that admission. “Oh, that’s a good one. That’s awesome. Tell that to me again. I can’t hear that enough.”
“By the way, did I mention Stuart Waters called me?” I say casually, naming his biggest rival.
He straightens, and his eyes turn into pistols. “And you said, ‘No, no, no, never ever. Ford Grayson is my guy.’”
I laugh, taunting him. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
Ford breathes deeply and raises his arms heavenward. “I am calm. I am a tree. I am peaceful.”
“No, he didn’t call,” I say. “But thanks for having a laugh at my expense.”
“It’s karma.” He lowers his arms. “Karma is coming back for you.”
“How so?”
“Years of you cleaning up with the ladies. Years of women throwing panties, bras, and stockings at you—”
“Stockings? When was that?”
“You can’t even remember the riches the Good Lord rained down? It was the time Tucker and I went with you to the club in that warehouse in SoMa last year. By my count, you had six free drinks sent your way, and we gladly finished them for you while you danced with the ladies. Then a woman threw her fishnets at you.”
I draw a blank.
He shakes his head, bemused with me. “You don’t even remember?”
I scratch my jaw and shrug. “I think you might have mistaken me for someone else when it comes to the fishnet story.”
“Some other young, cocky rising star I rep who earned a multimillion-dollar contract at age twenty-two to ride the bench and back up a great? It was definitely you, and you took the fishnets home along with the woman who wore them.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t someone who started games at twenty-two?”
He shoots me a look. “No one starts at twenty-two.”
I wave behind me. “Look, those days are in the rearview mirror. I’m not a player off the field anymore. I’m all about the game. The team. Leading the guys to victory. My days of catching fishnets are over.”
“No fucking shit they are. That’s because your number-one fan”—he taps his heart—“is going to score a big fat payday for you. That four-year rookie contract will pale in comparison. You’ll be buying your mama a couple mansions.” He hands out imaginary dollar bills like he’s holding a fat stack of greenbacks.
“Jesus, man. You’re as cocky as Einstein.”
Ford waggles his eyebrows. Rick is his client, too. “And his foot is golden. God, I love kickers and quarterbacks and linemen.” He knocks his knuckles on my head. “Now, listen, you take that smart head of yours and your multimillion-dollar arm, and you keep up the act with your girl.”
“How long?”
“At least through the next two games. Maybe longer. But definitely as long as it takes for me to score you the sweetest deal. And meanwhile, you don’t score. You’ve spent the whole season not scoring with chicks so you can score on the field, and far be it from me to mess with your superstitions when they involve your two favorite things.”
I arch a brow. “What are my two favorite things?”