Most Valuable Playboy(54)

Soon, I lose track of the game. Instead, I can’t take my eyes off Violet. She and Natalie have moved to a corner of the couch. Violet is kneeling by Natalie’s side, her fast hands lacing chunks of red hair into a neat, tight braid down one side of the young girl’s head. When she reaches the end, I take a closer look and see Violet has looped the bottom through with a French braid she’d already woven down the other side. Holy hair skills.

Violet grabs her phone, snaps a picture, and shows the back of Natalie’s head to a girl who, a mere year ago, didn’t even have hair.

“I look like a roller derby girl now,” Natalie says in awe.

“You’re Smashalie,” Violet declares.

My heart expands in my chest, thumps hard against my rib cage, and I know that this is the moment when I want to take Violet home with me. It’s not because she’s sexy. It’s not because she’s clever. It’s because she’s good.

She’s so good that I want to find a way to turn this pretend relationship into the real thing, because it already feels that way for me.





24





Life gets in the way.

When we leave the hospital, I swear I’m ready to say, “Be mine. Screw this pretend stuff.”

After Jillian says goodbye and takes off for the training facility, Violet and I head to my car. I take her hand, and like I did the other night at my house, I decide to just go for it. “Hey, Vi. Would you ever want to go out on a date—”

“Cooper Armstrong. Can I just ask one question?”

I whip around and nearly groan when I see a local sports radio host known as Todd the Talker striding across the asphalt and cutting in. Todd invited me on his show earlier this year after a weekend when I played like crap, and he pointedly asked, “Why should we, the fans, consider you anything besides the insurance plan that didn’t pan out?”

To his credit, a few weeks later, he was the first to declare I’d turned the ship around. “What can I do for you, Todd? I didn’t expect to see you here today.”

He thrusts his cell phone at me, so I guess he’s recording this. I also surmise he’s not going to tell me how he found me, but I remember another reason I don’t like social media since I suspect he follows the team’s Twitter and a photo has already been posted from my visit here today. “Is it true the Renegades are waiting to see if you make it to the playoffs before they re-sign you?”

I flash a practiced smile at the sandy-blond dude with a chipped front tooth. “That’s entirely up to the GM.”

“If you don’t make it, we hear that New Orleans is first in line to sign you as a free agent, given its woeful quarterback situation. Would you go to New Orleans?”

“New Orleans is a great town.”

“So, does that mean you’re going to New Orleans?”

I laugh. “You’d be better off talking to the team or my agent. I let them handle the negotiations. My job is to throw the ball and get it to the end zone.”

Todd is relentless, even in the parking lot, even by the passenger door of my car, even with Violet next to me. “But if you don’t land a wild-card slot, what happens then?”

I draw a breath. “My focus is on the game. That’s where it needs to be all season long anyway. And that’s where all my attention belongs. On the game.”

Todd glances at Violet and makes a move to thrust the phone at her. I give a quick shake of my head and wrap an arm around her shoulders. “Thanks, Todd. Good luck with your story.”

Once inside my car, Violet lets out a big breath. “He’s a little, how shall we say, aggressive.”

“Understatement of the year.” I drag a hand through my hair and heave a sigh.

“You okay?”

I shake my head. Then I nod. Yes. No. Maybe. I rub the back of my neck. “Just wish I knew what was coming next.”

“I can imagine.”

“I get that this is part of the business, but I don’t know where I’ll be next year,” I say, turning to meet her eyes. A million thoughts swirl in my head. Her business. My business. The landlord. The contract.

“Maybe it’s best if you focus on football then, Cooper,” she says softly.

I flinch, giving her a look as if she’s crazy. “Are you breaking up with me?”

She laughs and shakes her head. “No. I’m in this for as long as you need me. I meant the other stuff.”

I frown. “You’re cutting me off from giving you orgasms?”

“Ha. Do I look like a masochist?”

I pretend to give her a thorough once-over, appraising her. “Nope.”

“More like the opposite these days,” she says, nudging me with her elbow. Then, her expression turns serious. “I mean, I don’t want anything to get in the way of your focus. So why don’t we wait till after you make the playoffs to talk about dates and all that jazz?”