Most Valuable Playboy(36)

She taps an earlobe. “I have ears, Jones.”

“It was fun regardless,” he says in a flirty tone.

She shakes her head, though she’s clearly amused with his antics.

“Let me know the details, Jillian, and we’ll be there. Meanwhile, I’ll get this asshole out to the field, where he can make trouble with some balls.”

“You can’t resist throwing your balls to me, can you, Coop?”

I drape an arm around him. “I only throw to you so much because I know how much you love balls. Say it. Say I love balls.”

“You love balls.”

I shake my head and pat his chest. “You’re the one who loves balls. Say I, Jones, love balls.”

“I will never say that.”

I stroke my chin. “Let’s see. I’m pretty sure McCormick would love to become my go-to guy for the pass routes,” I say, naming a new guy on the team. I meet Jillian’s eyes. “McCormick would love to catch some balls, don’t you think?”

She nods seriously. “No doubt the rookie would enjoy some action from you.”

Jones growls at me. “Fuck you, you control-freak quarterback.”

I laugh. “All quarterbacks are control freaks.”

He turns to Jillian and holds his hands out wide. “I love balls.” His voice booms, and he embraces the challenge. “I fucking love balls, and I’m not afraid to say it.”

But I don’t let him off easy. I clamp my hand on his shoulder. “Jones, you look so good catching all those balls. Why do you look so good catching them?”

He squares his shoulders. Taps his sternum. “Because I love balls.” Then he grabs his crotch. “I fucking love my balls.”

Jillian’s smirk is officially priceless. “Have fun playing with your balls, Jones.”

We head to the field and practice our passing routes, where Jones shows off exactly how much he loves catching balls.





15





“Looking good, Cooper.”

I snap my gaze to Greenhaven after we finish a light practice—no pads for today.

He’s only called me by my first name once before. Since I signed, I’ve always been Armstrong. That’s it. Plain and simple. “Thank you, sir,” I say, still curious about the change in names.

But he gives no indication as to what it means, only a quick, crisp nod. Then, another first. He cracks a smile. It’s barely there, just a hint of a grin, and it disappears quickly on his gruff, weathered features. “Looking forward to Sunday?”

“Absolutely.”

He walks the other way, across the grass. For a moment, I watch him, his bulky figure cutting a solitary path up the field, crossing the fifty-yard line. I first talked to him the day I was drafted. As is the custom, the scouting director made the phone call to tell me I’d been picked in the first round, then said he’d put the head coach on the phone.

Talk about nerves. I was flooded with them, knowing I was getting an audience with the man.

When Greenhaven picked up, he said, “Congratulations, Cooper. We couldn’t be more pleased to have you as a Renegade.”

“I’m thrilled, sir. Absolutely thrilled. This is a dream come true.”

It was the culmination of everything I’d ever hoped for, and it was the start of a whole new future.

Only, it was the start of the longest wait of my life. Jeff Grant had been injured the season I was drafted, and the team picked me expecting Father Time was winning the battle with the star. But Grant was legendary for a reason. He recovered faster than anyone expected and returned even stronger, defying the odds for three endless years. During that time, I was Armstrong to the coach, and Grant was Jeff.

That’s a small thing, and it didn’t bother me. There’s a pecking order on a team, and you have to do your time. I hadn’t done mine yet.

Greenhaven has used my surname all season long, too.

Until now.

Maybe this means nothing. But maybe it means more. Maybe it means I’m his guy. Not just for a few games, but for longer. For a couple years, maybe even for several. Perhaps enough to make me the face of the franchise. The prospect makes me a little giddy—not gonna lie. That’s the dream among dreams come true. I turn the other way to head inside. I’m nearly tempted to text Ford and tell him what Greenhaven just called me.

But I don’t.

Because it feels like something that’s between player and coach.

And honestly, if I did, I’d sound like a pathetic ass trying to decipher a text message from a lover.

What does this mean, Jones? Does this mean she likes me, Harlan? Can you tell if she’s into me, Einstein?

I roll my eyes at the prospect.

Nope. I won’t be that guy. Instead, I’m going to enjoy this moment for what it is. Mine.