“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.

  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 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.

  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.

  Everywhere, there were dicks. It was a parade of appendages and swinging parts, sticks and balls as far as the eye could see.

  I love my job, I want to be respected, and I absolutely want to be taken seriously.

  That’s why I won’t even risk looking at Jones’s ridiculous body, not now from my spot against the wall in the studio, and not even when the photographer, who I know well from having worked on tons of Sporting World spreads with her, lowers her camera and calls me over. “Come see these shots, Jillian. Pretty sure they’re the definition of cover-worthy.”

  That piques my interest big time. A cover was always my secret hope. There are never any guarantees which athlete will make it from the pages all the way to the cover, and with a dozen elite stars from all sorts of sports tapped for the shoot, the odds are slim. But the chance to have one of my guys on the cover would be quite a coup for the team. And helpful for him.

  I join her and peer at the back of her Nikon as she toggles through shot after shot of the sexiest man I’ve ever seen. My mouth goes dry. A pulse of heat races down my body as I ogle him in the viewfinder. Fine, I’m not unbiased, but I dare anyone to disagree that he’s cover-worthy.

  “Are any decent? Or do you think we need to shoot the whole round again on account of me being so unphotogenic?” Jones calls out, that deep, rumbly voice tingling over my skin.

  “That’s true. You really do take awful pictures,” I say drily, since he knows he takes nothing of the sort.

  “That’s what I figured. They’re all hideous, no doubt.”

  I glance at Christine. “You can find a way to Photoshop these and make him look decent, right? Maybe halfway normal?” I ask, a desperate plea in my voice.

  Christine laughs. “I’ll certainly do my best, but I can’t promise anything. I’m not a miracle worker.”

  “That’s a shame. Why don’t I check them out with you?” Jones suggests in a serious tone, going along with the ruse.

  My pulse quickens to rocket speed when I hear him drop the football to the floor with a thunk.

  Dear Lord, he’s naked right now. One hundred percent naked.

  Eyes up, eyes up, eyes up.

  “I’ll just grab my towel,” he says, and I breathe a massive sigh of relief. He won’t be standing next to me in his naked glory after all. God bless towels so very much.

  Jones strides over to us, and I’m so glad he has that towel around his waist. As he moves next to me to check out the pictures, his bare arm a mere millimeter away, he shifts something to his shoulders.

  I gasp when I realize what he draped on them.

  His towel.

  His freaking towel is on his shoulders.

  Jones Beckett, object of my dirty dreams, is in my personal zone, without a stitch of clothing on.

  Christine appears unfazed. I want to know her trick.

  I draw a quick, quiet breath, calling on all my reserves as the three of us crowd the camera, admiring this man’s ability to pose. “These are fantastic,” I tell him, keeping the mood as light as I can.

  May he never know he’s killing me with his nearness.

  “Glad you like them,” Jones says, no teasing or sarcasm now.

  I glance up briefly from the small screen, and a bolt of heat runs from my chest down my body as his gaze meets mine. His blue eyes are the color of a lake under the summer sky. His jaw is strong and square. His hair is dark and cut short.

  I look away, and review the photos. Flipping through every gorgeous shot.

  “I’m going to go back up this card now,” Christine says when we’re through and excuses herself to huddle with her laptop in another section of the studio.

  It’s just Jones and me, some lights, and some equipment. A black cloth hangs on the back wall. All noises echo. I flash him a professional smile and swallow past the dryness in my throat, fixing on my professional demeanor like it’s a well-tailored skirt. “Great work today. I’m so glad you could make time to do this issue.” As one of our marquee players, the man is in demand, so I need to make sure he knows how grateful I am.

  “No need to thank me. It was all my pleasure.” Then he glances at the towel on his shoulder, like he just realized it was there. “Oops. My bad.” In a flash, he drops a football to the floor, then whips the towel around his waist.

  Wait. He was holding the football against his dick the whole time? He must have picked it back up and carried it over. I didn’t notice because . . . I WAS TRYING NOT TO NOTICE.

  Plus, he does have fast hands.

  “Now, I’m properly dressed,” he says.

  “Yes, of course. You can walk down the street like this,” I say, giving it right back to him. I don’t let on I thought he was naked as a jaybird when we were looking at pics.

  “Hmm. Not a bad idea. I do like the way this fabric falls on my waist,” he says, like he’s a fashion blogger.

  The man is a fun, lovable wiseass, and I need to do my best to always remember that about him—this is a game.

  “Yes, it’s so trimming,” I tease back.

  He raises an eyebrow, then his gaze drifts downward. “Yup. I’ll wear it to dinner.”

  Then he turns, strolls away, and adjusts the towel. Unhooking it. But never removing it. Never showing his parts. Just being the wiseass he is.

  But two can play reindeer games. I stare straight at the back of his head and call his name. He swivels around, a question mark in his eyes.

  I point to the football on the floor. “Jones. You need to pick up your underwear.”

  “Man, I am just dropping balls left and right tonight,” he deadpans, as he walks back to me, bends, and grabs the ball. Then tosses it up and catches it. “Now I’m fully dressed.”

  I try not to peek at his abs. I swear I do. But I catch a glimpse of them and all the breath nearly rushes out of me. I need to get the hell out of the photo studio.

  I’ve had a crush on this man since he joined the team. I might be able to act like a robot thanks to extensive training, but I’m only human. I head to the door in desperate search of a change of scenery, when my brain snags on something I forgot.

  I curse under my breath then square my shoulders, calling out to him, “Jones, I need a picture of you for the team’s social. As part of the body issue promos.”

  I swear I can feel his satisfied Cheshire cat grin forming behind me.

  “You want me in my football?”

  “Keep the towel on. I’m not scooping Sporting World and showing you holding a ball. Just a simple shot of you here at the photo studio. Smile for the fans who love you.”

  “Will you post it this time?” he teases.

  “I suspect you don’t mind I tricked you last time,” I counter.

  He smiles. “I don’t mind at all.”

  When I raise my phone, and he flashes a smoldering grin for the camera. Wow. Just wow.

  When I post it to our feed later, I know hearts will melt and panties will fly off tonight.

  But not mine.

  They definitely won’t be mine. Because they can’t be mine.

  6

  JONES

  I have other hobbies besides needling Jillian with potential nudity. But the things I’d enjoy most in the off-season are all the activities I can’t do. Mountain biking? No way. Paintball. Hell no. That could lead to one hell of an NFI—non-football injury—and I know some serious nimrods who have earned complete and absolute dipshit status from firing off pellets of paint and pulling Achilles tendons in the process.

  And how about the idiots who ride ATVs over dirt hills, only to crash, crack a fibula, and end up on the injured reserve? No, thank you.

  Knock on wood, I’ve lived a mostly injury-free life for the last five years in pro ball, and I intend to keep it that way. I’ve only missed two games, and both were due to minor muscle strains.

  Durable is my middle name.

  That’s why, since today I’m not playing the one sport that’s allowed—golf—I’m parked next to my big brother in my spacious kitchen, my dog, Cletus, in my lap. The camera is rolling, and there are two glasses of beer on the island counter in front of us.

  I raise the glass, take a sip, let it swirl around on my tongue, and then spit it in the bucket we nicknamed Pliny for his favorite beer. But this isn’t just a spit for show. This beer is nasty.

  “It stinks like a sunflower, and it tastes as if it’s been sitting all day in the heat of the swamp. I believe that officially makes it swamp-ass swill.”

  Trevor nods as if he’s reluctantly accepting my answer. “Fair enough. But wait. I have more.” He gestures like some sort of magician as he reaches below the counter for another brew or two. “What other beauties have I brought today for sampling?”

  Yeah, he’s a little over the top. It’s part of his shtick. The oldest of the four of us, Trevor is a former brewmaster who now hosts a popular online video series about tasting beer. He’s a bona fide beer expert, and besides being a pro baller, that’s about the coolest job you can have. He has a more serious video show, too, a taste-testing one, that’s beloved by beer experts and beer lovers alike. This is the one we do for fun, where we goof off. Both shows make bank, though, since he’s a genius when it comes to business. He knows all the ins and outs of turning his passion into a money-maker, thanks to a degree in finance.

  After we test a few more beers, spitting them all out in the bucket, Trevor flashes a smile at the camera. “That’s all in today’s edition of Two Bros Who Like Brew. I’d like to thank our regular color commentator, my one and only little brother. Jones, as always, your opinions are born of immense depth and great knowledge of the field of beer. Truly, your insight astounds me.”

  I point at him as Cletus yawns in my lap. “As does yours when it comes to football. Like the time you told me how I should run almost out of bounds then back in to catch a forty-five-yard pass from Cooper Armstrong while avoiding defensive coverage.” I shake my head in amusement at that ridiculous bit of Monday-morning quarterbacking from him.

  “Ouch. He questions my knowledge of the game, folks. You witnessed it firsthand.”

  We say goodbye, then he signs off and hits the stop button on his digital camera.

  “More than one million views of the last episode. Damn, I am so funny.” He blows on his fingers, too hot to handle. Cletus yaps at him. “Even your dog agrees with me.”

  “I’m pretty sure that was a bark of disagreement. Right, little dude?” I look at Cletus, who tilts his head to the side, clearly a yes. “All right, you’re a good boy.”

  I set him down, reach for a tiny biscuit, and ask him to spin. My brown and white ten-pound dog executes three perfect circles, so I give him the treat. Cletus has won awards in dog agility trials because he’s so fucking awesome he blows all the competition away. His jumps are magnificent, and his pole-weaving is a thing of beauty. Natch, I taught him everything he knows.

  He rushes off with his treat, squirreling it away in one of his many dog beds. He has a couple in every room, but I swear he’s not spoiled.

  I stand to my full height. I’m seven inches taller than Trevor. One of the tallest receivers in the NFL at six feet, five inches, I don’t fit into my family. No one else comes even close to six-foot, not our other brother, David, and not our dad. My sister, Sandy, is a foot shorter, and our mom is the shortest of all, a little less than five four.

  “Thanks again for doing my show with me,” Trevor says.

  I smack his shoulder. “You know I love it. You don’t have to thank me.”

  “I know, but I appreciate your time. You’re in demand.”

  I scoff. “You’re family. There’s no pressure on my time from you. I’m just glad you’re back in town,” I say, since he used to be based in New York.

  “Me, too. Also, you are in demand. Speaking of, are you ready for tomorrow? Time to roll up our sleeves and plan your next steps with the new agent.”

  I groan and scrub a hand over my jaw. “I hate that word. Agent basically means thief.”

  Trevor pats my shoulder and nods sympathetically. “Yeah, but Ford is one of the good ones. He’s not going to screw you out of your money.”

  I scoff. “They all do, don’t they?”

  “Not all of them.” He tips his forehead to the door. “I’ll swing by in the morning, and we’ll talk to him on the course.”

  I might have made some questionable choices. I might have partied too hard and too long. But I never screwed anyone who didn’t want it.

  Can’t say the same for my old agent.

  7

  JILLIAN

  I’m not lacking in confidence. But this crush? C’mon. I’m a smart woman. I know better.

  Guys like Jones don’t date women like me. I’m the director of publicity for the team.

  Jones is looking for arm candy. He’s been photographed with stars and models, with one beautiful babe after another.

  But every now and then, the ladies photograph him. Like the morning after the team’s Super Bowl win two years ago. That’s when a buxom blonde named Chelsea tweeted a selfie with Jones sleeping in her bed. Her face in the frame with our snoozing star receiver, she captioned the pic so cleverly with her newly acquired knowledge: “It’s true what they say about a size of a man’s hands.”

  Yep. Our player had become more famous for swiping right than for his game-winning touchdown pass.

  I wouldn’t call it a PR disaster, because what single pro baller doesn’t want to celebrate his Super Bowl win in that kind of biblical fashion? But it became a feeding frenzy for the media outlets, hounding us for details on Chelsea. Who was this woman who had Jones Beckett in her bed?

  The cat was out of the bag. Jones used Tinder. Whoop-de-doo. That was how he became the poster boy for the hookup app for a few months. That is reason #1089 why I don’t take my unrequited crush on him seriously. I’m one in a long line of women who have a crush on him.