Most Valuable Playboy

He waves behind him, indicating the ballroom beyond the stage. “She’s out front with some of her girlfriends. I’m about to join her, but I wanted to make sure you looked like a proper beauty pageant queen.”

“Get me a sash and I’m good to go.”

He rubs his palms, his blue eyes twinkling with mischief. “And now I’m going to enjoy the night out with the wife. There’s little that amuses me more than watching you parade around on stage in the swimsuit competition.”

I groan. I can only imagine what Maxine would do if she saw me in trunks. Me and my not-a-Vienna-sausage. For a second, I contemplate telling Trent about what just went down. Asking him to bid on me. But I’m not sure I can get the words out without sounding like a desperate ass.

“Have fun with the wife. If any of her friends want to bid, tell them I’m cheap this year,” I say, because that’s as close as I can get to admit I need help. I’ve never been good at asking for assistance.

“Dude, you’re always cheap,” he says then takes off.

As he leaves, I notice Jones is here, leaning against the wall. He narrows his eyes and looks me over. “You okay?”

I shake my head and catch my breath. I barely ran. Why the hell am I panting? Maybe because I was nearly octopussed. I wouldn’t be surprised if Maxine possessed eight arms. I consider my options. I could pull Jillian aside and ask her to handle it, but I’m not sure what I’d say. Maxine resides in a whole other realm, one without the same rules. The last thing I need is for Jasper Scott to think I have a problem with anything belonging to him—his rules, his team, or his sister.

This is finally my chance, and I can’t jeopardize it.

Besides, players get hit on. It’s a fact of life in pro ball, and one I can’t complain about. Any of the guys could walk into a bar and come out with numbers, panties, and a woman on each arm. It’s just the way it goes. Hell, I’m about to walk on stage and play to that very mentality. I drag a hand through my hair, trying to shake off Maxine’s attempts to turn me into her boy toy. Best to put her out of my mind. “I’m good.”

I square my shoulders. Just deal with it. That’s what I’ve always done. Face life’s challenges with a smile and don’t fucking complain.





3





“Sold! To the woman in the pink dress for thirty-four hundred dollars. Enjoy your night with the kicker.”

Rick waves to the crowd and heads backstage, holding out a palm. “Pay up, fuckers. I went for more than a six-pack.” He taps his head. “Brains and beauty for the win.”

Jones and I smack his palm, laughing, as Harlan heads to the stage.

The auburn-haired sports reporter Sierra Franklin is hosting the auction. She brings the mic to her mouth and gestures grandly to Harlan as the rest of us watch from the wings.

“Let’s give it up for the Renegades running back. He’s one of the leaders in the league in running touchdowns the last two years, but he also is known for his foosball skills,” she says to the ballroom full of women decked out in little black dresses, or in tight jeans and sky-high heels with sexy tops sloping off shoulders. A few wear Santa hats and wave sprigs of mistletoe above their heads. A couple of men can be spotted in the crowd, too. “When Harlan’s not busy tearing it up on the turf, you can find him flicking the poles at a local foosball league. Plus, just look at all that hair.”

Harlan shakes out his long, golden-blond hair.

Sierra claws at the air. “He’s like a beautiful lion.”

Someone from a table in the front cheers, and another woman roars like a lioness, then shouts, “I want the king of the jungle to be mine.”

I nudge Jones and whisper. “King of the Jungle. Damn, that’s good. We need to use that, stat.”

He holds up a fist for bumping. “You know it. And he does have a lovely mane, Coop.”

I laugh. “So lush and pretty.”

“I must get his shampoo recommendation.” Jones runs a hand over his own short, dark hair.

“You be sure to share.”

From our spot backstage, we watch as Sierra opens the bidding on Harlan and his golden mane. The cheering woman from the front lifts her paddle to offer three hundred dollars, while the gal who imitated the queen of the pride weighs in with four hundred. Quickly, the bidding escalates. As the women shout increasingly bigger numbers, Harlan preens on stage, but that’s the name of the game.

Jillian paces near us in the wings. She’s a ball of tension, mouthing the numbers to herself, adding up the take for charity. Jones crosses the few feet over to her. “You’re doing good,” he whispers.

She flashes a smile and lets out a breath. “Thank you. But I’m still counting on you for a big haul.” She taps his chest.

“Don’t worry. It’ll be unreal,” he says.

“The team management is matching the bids for the players. We can bring in so much tonight for the hospital. It would be an amazing thing to do for them, and it helps the team’s image.”

The Renegades already have a pristine image, since the management and coach run a tight ship, but Jillian wants to keep it that way.

“We will do everything we can to keep up the pace,” Jones says.

Sure enough, when Jones heads to the stage after Harlan scores a winning bid of thirty-three hundred dollars, the man eats it up. Jones removes his jacket, letting it hang on his shoulder so everyone can see his broad frame. That’s fair play. I used that move last year. The pose just works. Violet once said that a well-tailored suit is to women what lingerie is to men. If the ladies love suits as much as I love pretty, lacy little things on the fairer sex, that’ll be good for the fundraiser.

“Jones Beckett is known as The Hands, and with good reason. Look at those hands,” Sierra says with a whistle of admiration.

From my vantage point, I see Jones hold up his massive paws. The dude was born to catch. His hands are ginormous, and they can wrap around a football. They’re also like a homing beacon for a long, beautiful pass downfield.

“And the fingers. My God, those fingers,” Sierra adds, fanning herself as the crowd goes apeshit.

Someone leans close to my ear, and I tense instantly, worried it’s Maxine. Then I relax when she says softly, “What is it about bidding on men that turns women into animals?”

It’s Violet.

“You tell me,” I say quietly.

She laughs. “I think it’s the role reversal. The idea that for so long women have been ogled and now they finally get to turn the tables. It’s the Magic Mike effect.”

“What’s that?”

“That movie had a huge turnout of women in groups in its opening weekend. Women went with friends and sisters for girls’ night out. It’s not that different from when women go to strip clubs. They travel in packs, and they have fun with each other. It’s not sad and depressing. It’s female bonding.”

“Then maybe a pack of ladies will bond together to bid on me. I did ask Holly to have her friends toss some bills my direction.”

She nudges my side. “Stop it. You don’t need my sister-in-law’s friends. You’ll be fighting off the women.”