Page 5 of Most Likely to Score
She doesn’t even look up from her phone.
I keep working it for Christine, doing my best to make sure my blue eyes will melt whoever is looking atthe picture when the magazine hits newsstands and Internet browsers in another few weeks.
It’s an evergreen kind of issue, since the body edition is one of the most popular. Gee, I wonder why. I’ve no doubt this shot of me with a football for my skivvies will quickly surpass the previous most-searched-for image of yours truly—the game-winning catch I made in the end zone in the Super Bowl two years ago.
But, to be fair, there’s another shot of me that’s searched for maybe a tiny bit more. I like to pretend that shot doesn’t exist.
“The camera loves you,” Christine croons as the snap, snap, snap of the lens keeps the rhythm.
“The feeling is entirely mutual,” I say, pursing my lips in an over-the-top kiss.
Christine laughs. “You are my favorite ham in all of sports, Jones. That’ll be a perfect outtake for our website.”
“That’s a brilliant idea,” Jillian chimes in. “Make sure to send me a copy for social, please.”
“Absolutely,” Christine answers.
I sneak a peek at the dark-haired woman by the wall, that silky curtain of sleekness framing her face as she smiles a bright, buoyant, outgoing grin at the photographer then drops her head back down.
Damn.
Jillian Moore is one tough nut to crack.
I’m nearly naked in front of her, and she hasn’t once looked my way.
As the woman behind the lens shoots another photo with my favorite ball covering my favorite balls, Jillian doesn’t even spare another glance.
I’m going to need a whole new playbook to get this woman’s attention.
5
JILLIAN
I won’t look down.
I repeat my mantra over and over, till it’s branded on my brain.
This might very well be my biggest challenge, and I mastered the skill ofeyes upmany years ago.
But now? As I stand in the corner of the photo studio, I’m being tested to my limits.
I’m dying here. Simply dying.
The temptation to ogle Jones is overwhelming, and if there was ever a time to write myself a permission slip to stare, now would be it. An excuse, if you will. For a second or two. That’s all.
The man is posing, for crying out loud. He’s the center of attention. The lights shine on his statue-of-David physique. Michelangelo would chomp at the bit to sculpt him—carved abs with definition so fine you could scrub your sheets on his washboard, arms that could lift a woman easily and carry her up a flight ofstairs before he took her, powerful thighs that suggest unparalleled stamina, and an ass that defies gravity.
Still, I won’t let myself stare at him in person, not in his current state of undress. My tongue would imitate a cartoon character’s and slam to the floor.
If I gawk at him, I’ll start crossing lines.
Lines I’ve mastered as a publicist for an NFL team.
It’s something Lily, my boss and my mentor, taught me when I began as an intern at the Renegades seven years ago, straight out of college. She escorted me through the locker room my first day on the job and said, “The best piece of advice I can give you is this: don’t ever look down.”
I’d furrowed my brow, trying to understand what she meant. Was it some wise, old adage, perhaps an inspirational saying about reaching for the stars?
When she opened the door to the locker room, the true meaning hit me.
