The Knocked Up Plan(74)
Tonight is about the one game I’ve dominated.
For the last few years, I’ve cleaned up in the players’ annual charity auction, and maybe that’s because the one nickname I’ve relished most doesn’t even belong to me. The guy I’ve backed up has been called a lot of things — a legend, the greatest ever, a titan of the game — but the one I particularly enjoy is the “second-best-looking quarterback on the Renegades.”
Hey, I didn’t give him that name. The media did, deciding the dude who played second string had a prettier face — that’s me. Before this season, I hadn’t seen a grand total of 120 minutes of playing time in those first three years, but I’ve taken home the top honors in the charity auction where some of the loveliest ladies come to bid on the players they want to take out for a night on the town.
Ah, the memories of those dates have warmed my heart, and other parts, on the sidelines when the games were dull. Evenings in limos testing the strength of the leather backseat, nights in hotels that lasted way past dawn, the rule of no physical contact between the winner and the woman blissfully ignored by all parties involved.
Yeah, I’ve enjoyed the fuck out of being paraded on stage in front of hundreds of women, with slender arms raised in the air, and winning bids going my way over all the other guys. It’s been my one chance to shine, even to stand out.
Those days are behind me though, now that I’m finally leading the team down the field every single Sunday.
This time, I won’t be living it up and letting loose after hours since I’ve got a reputation to protect, and a season on the line.
The trouble is, the woman who has her eyes on me at the Most Valuable Playboy charity auction wants my full enchilada, and it’s not on the menu anymore.
Guess that means it’s time for me to use that brain and call an audible on the line of scrimmage.
* * *
Chapter One
* * *
My hair is sticking up.
In my defense, it’s always sticking up.
I have what’s known as permanent bedhead. Which can be awesome, if it means I look like I just strolled out of a most excellent roll in the hay, complete with hands having been run through my dark brown strands.
It’s not so awesome if I’m trying to look the part of a classy athlete dressed to the nines. I’m decked out in a charcoal gray tailored suit and parked in a swank leather chair in a suite at the Whitney Hotel in the heart of San Francisco with a bunch of guys from the team.
Violet’s trying to curb my bedhead. Her long fingers thread through my hair, aiming for a reverse roll-in-the-hay effect. “I swear, Cooper, you’ve had the most stubborn hair your entire life.”
I wiggle my eyebrows. “It takes after me. I can’t be tamed, either.”
She rolls her amber eyes, glancing down at me, her long chestnut hair spilling over her chest. “That’s right. You’re a wild mustang. Impossible to domesticate.”
I neigh.
She stops, sets her hands on my shoulders and gives me a sharp stare. “Can you count with your hooves too?”
I drag a wing-tipped foot along the carpeted floor one, two, three times. “I can go all the way to ten.”
“You let me know when you make it to twenty, Mister Ed. That’s when I’ll be thoroughly impressed,” she says, with a smile I’ve seen for the last twenty years. I’ve been friends with Violet since we were kids and I moved to her hometown a few blocks away from her house.
I rub my palms together. “Excellent. I have a goal to shoot for. You know I love goals.”
She laughs. “I do know that.”
Give me a task, and I’m nose-to-the-grindstone focused. I’ve been that way my whole life. My ability to execute is top notch. Run a mile in under six minutes? Sure thing. Throw a ball downfield twenty-five yards? Let’s do it. Win a scholarship to a top-tier school? Consider it done, and done with a smile.
Violet stretches her arm behind her, silver bracelets jingling, as she grabs some hair gel in a black tube from the chrome coffee table. “We need to domesticate your lovely locks, Cooper. I don’t have a riding crop with me, but I think this gel will do.”
I give the tube a skeptical stare. “You’re not going to put a ton of goop in my hair, are you?”
She adopts a serious expression. “Absolutely. It’s a brand new product I’ve been testing at my salon. It’s called Goop for Guys. It’s so perfect for you.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “But I won’t tell anyone you have to use . . . product to look so pretty.”
“More like pretty ugly.” The insult, naturally, comes from the king of put downs, one of my closest friends on the team, as Jones’ deep voice booms across the suite. He’s scrolling through his phone, lounging in a chair, wearing a custom-fitted dark navy suit.
The team publicist, Jillian, chose the tailored suit theme for this year’s auction, our annual holiday fundraiser for the San Francisco Children’s Hospital. Her exact words were: “Suits are like catnip to women, and to men too, and I want my team of pretty kitties to raise even more money this year.”
That’s a tall order, but most of the dough comes from donations simply to walk in the door. We’ve already circulated amongst the crowd, chatting with fans in the ballroom, finishing the mingling session while the tune It’s Raining Men played. That song presaged the final event of the night — the auction itself. Also known affectionately as the annual parade of Renegade Man Meat when the single men on the team strut their stuff.