Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80153 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80153 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Wait. He was holding the football against his dick the whole time? He must have picked it back up and carried it over. I didn’t notice because . . . I WAS TRYING NOT TO NOTICE.
Plus, he does have fast hands.
“Now, I’m properly dressed,” he says.
“Yes, of course. You can walk down the street like this,” I say, giving it right back to him. I don’t let on I thought he was naked as a jaybird when we were looking at pics.
“Hmm. Not a bad idea. I do like the way this fabric falls on my waist,” he says, like he’s a fashion blogger.
The man is a fun, lovable wiseass, and I need to do my best to always remember that about him—this is a game.
“Yes, it’s so trimming,” I tease back.
He raises an eyebrow, then his gaze drifts downward. “Yup. I’ll wear it to dinner.”
Then he turns, strolls away, and adjusts the towel. Unhooking it. But never removing it. Never showing his parts. Just being the wiseass he is.
But two can play reindeer games. I stare straight at the back of his head and call his name. He swivels around, a question mark in his eyes.
I point to the football on the floor. “Jones. You need to pick up your underwear.”
“Man, I am just dropping balls left and right tonight,” he deadpans, as he walks back to me, bends, and grabs the ball. Then tosses it up and catches it. “Now I’m fully dressed.”
I try not to peek at his abs. I swear I do. But I catch a glimpse of them and all the breath nearly rushes out of me. I need to get the hell out of the photo studio.
I’ve had a crush on this man since he joined the team. I head to the door in desperate search of a change of scenery, when my brain snags on something I forgot.
I curse under my breath then square my shoulders, calling out to him, “Jones, I need a picture of you for the team’s social. As part of the body issue promos.”
I swear I can feel his satisfied Cheshire cat grin forming behind me.
“You want me in my football?”
“Keep the towel on. I’m not scooping Sporting World and showing you holding a ball. Just a simple shot of you here at the photo studio. Smile for the fans who love you.”
“Will you post it this time?” he teases.
“I suspect you don’t mind I tricked you last time,” I counter.
He smiles. “I don’t mind at all.”
When I raise my phone, and he flashes a smoldering grin for the camera. Wow. Just wow.
When I post it to our feed later, I know hearts will melt and panties will fly off tonight.
But not mine.
They definitely won’t be mine. Because they can’t be mine.
6
JONES
I have other hobbies besides needling Jillian with potential nudity. But the things I’d enjoy most in the off-season are all the activities I can’t do. Mountain biking? No way. Paintball. Hell no. That could lead to one hell of an NFI—non-football injury—and I know some serious nimrods who have earned complete and absolute dipshit status from firing off pellets of paint and pulling Achilles tendons in the process.
And how about the idiots who ride ATVs over dirt hills, only to crash, crack a fibula, and end up on the injured reserve? No, thank you.
Knock on wood, I’ve lived a mostly injury-free life for the last five years in pro ball, and I intend to keep it that way. I’ve only missed two games, and both were due to minor muscle strains.
Durable is my middle name.
That’s why, since today I’m not playing the one sport that’s allowed—golf—I’m parked next to my big brother in my spacious kitchen, my dog, Cletus, in my lap. The camera is rolling, and there are two glasses of beer on the island counter in front of us.
I raise the glass, take a sip, let it swirl around on my tongue, and then spit it in the bucket we nicknamed Pliny for his favorite beer. But this isn’t just a spit for show. This beer is nasty.
“It stinks like a sunflower, and it tastes as if it’s been sitting all day in the heat of the swamp. I believe that officially makes it swamp-ass swill.”
Trevor nods as if he’s reluctantly accepting my answer. “Fair enough. But wait. I have more.” He gestures like some sort of magician as he reaches below the counter for another brew or two. “What other beauties have I brought today for sampling?”
Yeah, he’s a little over-the-top. It’s part of his shtick. The oldest of the four of us, Trevor is a former brewmaster who now hosts a popular online video series about tasting beer. He’s a bona fide beer expert, and besides being a pro baller, that’s about the coolest job you can have. He has a more serious video show, too, a taste-testing one, that’s beloved by beer experts and beer lovers alike. This is the one we do for fun, where we goof off. Both shows make bank, though, since he’s a genius when it comes to business. He knows all the ins and outs of turning his passion into a money-maker, thanks to a degree in finance.