The Knocked Up Plan(77)

“You are welcome anytime at Heroes and Hairoines,” she says, and now I’ve got a new mission. Convince Harlan to never shear his locks for the rest of his life.

“Harlan, you know your speed comes from your hair,” I say, as offhand and casual as I can muster.

“Dude. You haven’t chopped it all season, and we’re winning,” Jones adds, since he’s the keeper of our superstitions and the four of us have plenty.

“Shit, you’re right,” Harlan says, raising his hand to his hair. “Can’t fuck with a streak, and we’re damn close to locking up a berth this season too.”

“Two more wins. Don’t jinx us.” Jones crosses his fingers. “And don’t cut your hair, man.”

Harlan makes the sign of the cross on his chest.

Jones points at Rick. “The Dicker chews that nasty black licorice before every quarter now to make sure we kick ass.”

Rick raises his chin and nods, agreeing. “And I brush my teeth too on the sidelines once I’m done with the licorice. Haven’t missed a quarter all season long.”

Jones tips his chin at me. “Plus, Cooper has kept the snake in its cage.”

I point to my crotch. “That’s why we’re winning, I’m sure.” To be fair, I’m not as superstitious as he is, but he’s my go-to guy on the field, so I have to respect his feelings.

The look in Jones’ eyes is intensely serious. “You gotta honor the power of the streak. Don’t mess with it, don’t fuck with it. Just fucking trust it. Look at me,” he says, pulling up the hem of his trousers at the ankles. “I haven’t changed my socks in more than three months.”

His socks are of the navy dress variety. He means his game socks. I’m honestly not sure if he has washed them. But I also don’t want to know either.

Violet crinkles her nose. “How is it you’re still single again, Jones?”

He flashes her a dimpled smile. “Talk about miracles, all right. But it mostly comes from an iron-clad commitment to the cause.”

A few minutes later, Jillian strides in, looking polished in a dark gray dress, her sleek black hair twisted on her head.

“You all look gorgeous as always,” she says, with the crisp and business-like smile that comes with her role as team publicist. “The media is ready and waiting. The crowd is jazzed. It’s showtime. Everyone ready?”

“Yes we are,” Jones says, and as he chats with her, Harlan pulls me aside, lowering his voice. “Listen I know Violet is your friend and all, but would you be cool with me —”

That cloud of annoyance swells, but before he can finish asking my permission to ask her out, Jillian interrupts, “Gentleman, we have a crowded ballroom. More than three hundred attendees are ready and waiting, as you know, since you spent time with them already in our cocktail hour. We have lots of eager ladies want to bid on you. A few men too, and some mighty handsome ones, I might add. I must say the choices look excellent. Let’s head backstage to the ballroom. We start in ten minutes.”

As the guys file out, Violet calls to me. I stop and turn. She’s a tall woman, and even taller in her black, high-heeled boots that jack her up on those trimmed, toned legs. But I’m six-four, and I easily have eight inches on her. I look down. She reaches a hand up and smooths a strand of hair out of place on my forehead.

“This is your first year out there as the starting quarterback,” she says with a soft smile.

I smile. “Crazy, huh?”

“You’ve killed it every year as the back up. You’re going to kill it harder as the starter. Plus, you’ve played great the first three months too.”

I reach above her head, and knock on the wall. “Knock on wood, and we need to keep playing great.”

“You will because my streak is intact too.”

I arch a brow, curious. “You don’t say. You’ve come to the superstitious side, Vi?”

Her eyes glint. “I wear my Cooper Armstrong jersey to bed every night and have since your week three win.”

“Excellent.” I wag a finger at her. “And it pains me to say this, but no matter how tempted you are, don’t switch to lingerie.”

She play punches my shoulder. “Don’t you switch to lingerie either.”

I gesture to my chest, and down to my thighs. “One hundred percent birthday suit at bedtime.”

“All right. Get out there. They’ll bid even more this season for a date with the new quarterback.” She takes a beat. “But not if this piece of hair keeps sticking up.”

She runs her finger over a strand.

“I have faith you can fix it for me. Because you’re a miracle worker.”

“Of course I am, and I can.” She smooths it out over my ear, and it feels better than it should when she touches me. She steps back and observes her handiwork. “Empirically.”

I smile. “Clinically.”

She moves her hands to my tie, straightening it. I already did that, but I see no reason to stop her.

“Hey,” she says, as the corners of her lips turn up. “What do you call an alligator wearing a vest?”

“I don’t know. What do you call an alligator wearing a vest?” I ask, since Violet likes to tell silly jokes.

Her eyebrows rise. “An investigator.”