Most Valuable Playboy(72)

“And you don’t want to tell me those things now?”

I move the phone away from my ear and stare at the picture of her on the screen. “No. I want to see your face. I want to see you in person. I want to tell you in person. The whole truth. Like I told the coach.”

She sighs heavily.

I can’t let her get away. “I don’t want you there as my fake girlfriend. I want you there as you. As my Violet. Okay?”

She takes a beat.

“Do you trust me?”

“I do.”

“Please come.”

“I’ll be there.”

When she hangs up, I text Jones and tell him to gather the guys. I grab something for Rick that I picked up at the store on the way over, a little gift for Jones, then an item I snagged from the front desk. I drop them in a plastic bag from the hotel. Ten minutes later, I meet them in Jones’s room.

They’re assembled, parked in chairs around the table.

“To what do we owe the honor of this impromptu team meeting?” Jones asks.

I place my palms together. “Gentlemen, we are going to cut Harlan’s hair tonight.”

Harlan sits up straight, his hand shooting to his long hair. “Blasphemy. What are you talking about?”

“Dude, we’re winning,” Rick adds.

I reach into the bag and toss him a pack of Big Red. “Time for cinnamon gum tomorrow.”

Jones smirks. “Let me guess. You have new socks for me next.”

“You know it,” I say, dipping my hand into the bag and tossing him a pair of my own freshly cleaned socks.

“What in the ever-loving hell?” Harlan asks in his drawl.

Jones stands up and taps Harlan’s skull. “You can’t figure this out?”

Awareness dawns on him. “Ohhhhh.” Harlan looks at me. “You fucking horndog.”

I shrug and hold my hands out wide. Had I broken the pact before we clinched, I might have felt worse. But I don’t, for many reasons. “Guys, we don’t win because of rituals. We win because we play like a team. You guys have had my back all season, and I’ve had yours. But we don’t win because of smelly socks, or pink bubblegum, or uncut hair.”

“Or you not getting your dick wet,” Jones mutters.

I smirk. “Exactly. We win because of how we play, and how we play together. As you can surmise, I broke my superstition. So, the way I see it, you three can step out on the field tomorrow doing what you’ve always done this season. Or you can have my back, and start a new ritual with me. Like a team.”

Jones pumps his arms at his sides and grinds his pelvis. “Cooper can’t keep the snake in the cage, boys. And if the snake is out, the socks are clean, the King of the Jungle’s hair gets cut, and the gum is a new flavor.”

We put our fists together and knock as a foursome.

Harlan sighs. “Since Violet’s not here, which one of you assholes is going to cut my hair?”

The three of us shake our heads.

“Seriously? You’re all too chicken to cut hair?”

“If you have clippers, I’ll give you a buzz cut,” Rick says, rubbing his hand over his own short hair. “But fair warning. I’d probably slip and shave your eyebrows too.”

Harlan sighs. “Thanks, but no thanks, Barber Rick.”

“Wait,” Jones says, grabbing his phone. “I have an idea. I saw Jillian here earlier.”

We all make obscene gestures in his direction. He doesn’t care, though, since he’s convincing the team publicist to play stylist for the night. Moments later, she arrives with a cheery smile on her face.

“Edward Scissorhands at your service,” she says as she marches into the room.

She wets Harlan’s hair and snips off a few inches as I tell them the rest of the plan for tomorrow. Jillian coos and says she can’t wait.

I can’t, either.





35





Some say the games you play after you clinch are meaningless.

I say there are no meaningless games. I’d like to think the fifty thousand fans at our stadium, and the millions watching the Thursday night game of the week, would agree. Our final bout is against a team with a losing record, the St. Louis Thunderbolts. But they don’t play that way. They play tight and tough and close.

We do, too. Rick chews the Big Red and kicks a field goal. Jones wears fresh-as-a-daisy socks and compiles seventy-nine receiving yards and two touchdowns, while Harlan, with his newly shorn locks, gets his feet in the end zone. As for me? Well, let’s just say that freeing the snake hasn’t hurt my game. I’m not perfect, not by any means. I fumble a ball, miss several passes, and get sacked twice. But I play well enough—like someone who can anchor a team for the next four years, which is exactly what I plan on doing.