Page 2 of Most Likely to Score
“Do you still run across the bridge most mornings in the off-season?”
I grin as my feet pound the pavement and the waves curl in the waters below. “Jillian Moore are you spying on me?”
“No, Jones. You’re just a creature of habit and superstition.”
I faux grumble. “Guilty as charged. But I’m pretty sure you’re reading my to-do list.”
“Do you put exercise on your to-do list?” she counters.
“Right along with eating breakfast, eating lunch, eating dinner. I don’t want to forget some of life’s great pleasures.”
“Meals would definitely qualify as pleasure,” she says playfully.
“Other things do too,” I say, a little suggestive. I mean, c’mon. I can’t resist.
“No doubt,” she says, laughing lightly but then the laughter fades. Jillian dives straight into business mode. “Well, I would love to grab a photo of you as you’re finishing your run.”
I blink. “That’s a new request,” I say, and I’m not sure what to make of it. But I’m a go-with-it kind of guy, so I say, “Works for me.”
“Great. Just pretend you don’t see me when I’m at the San Francisco side of the bridge,” she says then hangs up.
Okay.I’m not really sure how I’m supposed to do that but what the lady wants the lady shall get. I tune back into my playlist, some upbeat jams perfect for running, then I cover the distance across the bridge. It’s surprisingly warm for nine a.m. As I get closer to the end of the bridge, I whip off my T-shirt, tuck it into the waistband of my shorts, then run down the path that curls around the edge of the bridge.
And hello, beauty. She told me she’d be here, and yet my breath still catches when I see a gorgeousChinese woman with jet-black hair, snapping photos of me shirtless and running.
I slow to a stop in front of her. “Well. I wouldn’t exactly nominate you for paparazzi of the year but that was a pretty impressive ambush.”
She rolls her brown eyes. “It’s not an ambush. I told you about it.”
“Fair enough. Now you’re going to have to tell me why you’re snapping photos of me.”
She gives a coy shrug. “What can I say? I had a feeling that you would take your shirt off when you were running. And I wanted to get a fun candid shot of you to submit.”
“All right, submit for what? Color me intrigued.”
“For our social,” she says matter-of-factly.
Not sure why she decided shehadto have a pic of me for our social today, but I won’t argue. I don’t mind when the team highlights me. Hell, a good shot should help my goals to cultivate, as my brother and my agent would say, amore positive image. And what’s more positive than my chest and abs? “Post away,” I say.
But the shot doesn’t appear on the team’s feed that day, or the next. Other pics of my teammates working out show up. Guys doing volunteer work. News about the upcoming training camp.
Oh well. Maybe she decided not to post it. Maybe she’s holding it. Maybe she wanted it all for herself.
Yeah, right.
“No biggie, right?” I say to my dog as I’m teaching Cletus a new seesaw trick in the backyard.
He wags his tail as he follows my lead on theseesaw. When he jumps off, my phone rings. I give him a scratch on the head as a reward, then answer Jillian’s call. “Hey there. You holding onto that pic?”
“Maybe I am. Or maybe I want another one for a story,” she says, a little tease in her voice. But the sound disappears when she says, “Will you be at the facility tomorrow afternoon for your workout?”
“How did you know I was working out at the team facility tomorrow? Youdidhack into my to-do list,” I say. “Admit it.”
“I don’t have to hack into it to know tomorrow’s Wednesday. You almost always work out of the team facility on Wednesday.”
“Damn. You make me seem like a creature of habit.”
“You’re an athlete. Most are,” she says. “I just wanted to call to confirm.”
