Prologue
Jones
I can lay claim to some pretty impressive stats, and for the last few years as a star receiver for a winning NFL team I have, but my favorite one to share is this—ten and three-quarter inches.
Pretty big, huh?
You don’t get into the double digits too often.
That’s nearly as long as a football.
And that makes me a one-of-a-kind guy.
C’mon.
I’m talking about my hands.
And yes, other parts are close to a foot long, too.
But they don’t call me The Hands for nothing. These hands have won championships. These hands have caught circus catches in the biggest games. These hands are a beautiful target for game-winning passes. I know exactly what to do with these hands.
Especially when it comes to enjoying the soft, sweet flesh of a woman. A touch here, a touch there, and I can have her melting beneath me. They’re a multi-purpose asset, and these hands—and other parts—have come out to score quite often after hours. There’s no better way to enjoy a career as a pro baller, as far as I’m concerned.
Except when it comes time to clean up my act.
Turn over a new leaf. Start fresh. Remake myself into a good, upstanding citizen and kick those party-boy ways to the curb. Fine, I can do that. I can absolutely do that.
And hell, do I ever need to after some of the shit I’ve had to deal with in the last few years.
But a little help would be nice, and there’s only one person I can turn to. One luscious, delicious, fantastic person. None other than the woman I’ve been lusting after for years.
Damn shame we’re going to be spending so much time in close quarters in the next few weeks, especially since everything needs to remain hands-off.
That is, until it doesn’t . . .
1
Jones
I’m buck naked.
I often am.
I’m not an exhibitionist. I simply find I don’t have a need for clothes most of the time, unless I’m on the field or at a public appearance. Obviously.
Pretty sure I was one of those naked kids. You know the type. Runs around in the sprinkler in his backyard in the buff. Streaks down the hallway with nothing on. Oh wait, that was me in college, too, and I did that stunt on multiple occasions. So often in fact, I was nicknamed Flash. I was fast. Still am. Like a motherfucking silver bullet.
Right now, I’m all in with the birthday suit attire, the costume for the annual Sporting World body issue.
Okay, perhaps I’m exaggerating. I do have one thing on—my Adam’s fig leaf comes in the form of my hands holding a strategically-placed football to cover the goods.
The pigskin is doing its part to make this photo printable in the magazine, though all the shots of star athletes in this issue are in the nude. A tennis player will lob a ball, the racket covering her breasts and her lunge obscuring other not-safe-for-work parts. A swimmer will glide through crystal waters, the angle ensuring it’s not a triple-X centerfold shot.
The photographer with the ponytail and lip piercing snaps pictures of me and asks for a smile.
I oblige.
“Love it,” Christine says emphatically, her lips and that metal hoop in the bottom one the only parts of her face visible since the lens covers the rest. “How about a little tough-guy look now?”
Because tough guys hold footballs in front of their junk.
“This is my best badass pose,” I say, narrowing my eyes and staring at the camera like I’d stare at the secondary of the Miami Mavericks.
“Oh yes, more of that, right, Jillian?” Christine shouts to the other person here in the studio with us.
That person is Jillian, and she hasn’t looked my way since I strolled in here and dropped my drawers. Damn shame.
From her spot leaning against the far wall, the team publicist answers in a crisp, professional tone I know well. “Exactly. We love his tough-guy face.”
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 at the 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.
2
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 of eyes up many 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 of stairs before he took her, powerful thighs that suggest unparalleled stamina, and an ass that defies gravity.
I know because I’ve looked at his photos on many occasions. In the office. Out of the office. On my phone. On the computer.
In every freaking magazine the guy’s been in.
It’s my job to be aware of the press the players generate.
But it’s not my job to check out his photos after hours; however, I partake of that little hobby regularly. He gives my search bar quite a workout.
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 my mentor taught me when I began as an intern at the Renegades seven years ago, straight out of college. Lily Eckles 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.”