Chapter 15 Jones
JONES
What is this feeling in my chest?
It’s like a ball of steel lodged in my sternum. I’m tight, a little tense, a bit frustrated.
It’s not exactly like when we’ve lost a big game, but this is damn close to how I feel when I’m home in January watching the playoffs on TV rather than competing in them.
In fact, this is like when I watched our rivals, the Los Angeles Devil Sharks, hoist the Vince Lombardi trophy over their heads last year when they won the Super Bowl.
“Meow.” From his spot on top of the wine barrel, Smoky bats at my shoulder again with a white paw that was burned in the fires a few months ago.
The little dude is now nearly recovered, thanks to the local rescue that found and saved the stray, putting him in a foster home till he’s able to be adopted.
I give the cutie a kiss then return him to my shoulder for another shot, as per the photographer’s orders.
“Perfect! A five-pound kitten perched on a two-hundred-fifty-pound athlete,” the photographer coos as he snaps a shot.
Briefly, I glance over at Jillian, waiting for her to correct the guy. She knows my stats like the back of her hand and nearly always fires off corrections. But she doesn’t shout he’s two hundred fifty-eight since she’s too busy charming my new sponsor.
That’s when I know what this emotion is.
Jealousy.
Raw, bitter jealousy.
As Smoky clambers over my shoulders while I lean against the wine barrels, I can’t stop sneaking glances at Liam and Jillian, chatting in the corner.
When I tune into their conversation, they’re not even talking about pet food or sports.
They’re talking about school because it turns out he went to Stanford, just like her.
Fuck.
My ego is a little bit crushed. Now I have to contend with a brainiac CEO who has the good fortune to be a ringer for a movie star. Clearly, I have no choice but to ham it up. I kiss the orange kitten on the nose, inducing oohs and ahhs and huge smiles from everyone here at the shoot.
Including Jillian.
Take that, brainy boy. I’ve got a kitten and I’m not afraid to use it.
I smooch the little fellow once more as the photographer encourages me to keep it up.
As we move through different poses and set-ups, heading outside to the vineyard for the final round, I might walk a little taller, I might strut a little prouder, and I might generally do my best to make sure the camera—I’m only doing this for the camera—is having a field day with the pussycat and me.
When the shoot ends—complete with social media pics for the new deal—the kitten stretches in my arms, shuts his eyes, and purrs.
“You’re a natural charmer,” Liam remarks with an easy smile.
“Smoky’s the one with all the moves.” As I stroke the critter’s soft head, it occurs to me I could take a clue from him in how to let go.
Be chill. Be cool. Liam is my new business partner, and I can’t be envious of him, especially since there’s no real reason to be.
After I hand off Smoky to the humane society rep, I join Liam and Jillian at the outdoor table on the patio, sliding quickly into chatting about the partnership, upcoming plans, and the next steps with the deal.
The entire time, I’m the casual, laid-back guy he hired, not the jealous asshat I was in my head a few minutes ago.
As we segue away from business and riff on the toughest defenses in the league, Jillian’s phone rings.
She picks up and listens then says, “Well, that doesn’t sound very helpful, Dad.”
A pause comes next, and I eavesdrop on her conversation even while Liam asks a question about the Baltimore secondary.
“I know you’re terrible at putting things together,” Jillian says. “It’s not something you learned at journalism school.”
My ears prick with interest, though I still manage to share my thoughts with Liam on that team’s new cornerback.
Jillian continues, “I’ll come do it.”
That gets my attention even more.
“Dad. Let me help you, or at least let me use TaskRabbit and send someone over.” A quick silence follows. “Dad. It’s what they do.”
I clear my throat, reach across the table to set a hand on her arm, and smile. “I’ll put your dad’s desk together.”
Her eyes light up. “You will? Are you sure?”
I nod. “Absolutely.”
Liam laughs and holds up his hands. “Better him than me. I am not handy.”
I puff up my chest. “Fortunately, I am.”
She tells her dad she has a better solution, and he seems to agree to it. I relax for the rest of the conversation dissecting the pass rush, because I have something Liam doesn’t have.
The chance to help Jillian where she needs it most right now.
I pat the top of the desk then knock it with a fist. “Sturdy as a three-hundred-fifty-pound lineman,” I say to Aaron Moore. “Wait—this desk is way sturdier.”
Jillian’s tall, gray-haired father smiles from behind his horn-rimmed glasses as he surveys the newly assembled oak desk in his office. “My, that’s some fine work. And to think Jillian said you were just a pretty face.”
“Dad!”
I peer over my shoulder to catch a glimpse of red splashed across her cheeks, as she lounges in a leather chair in the corner of his office. But there’s no denial from either one of them, and I won’t deny, either, that I’m digging the fact that she told her dad she thinks I’m handsome.
Her dad winks at her then turns to me. “Thanks for doing this. Think it’s cool for me to tell all the guys at the wine bar tonight that the all-pro receiver put together my desk?”
I smile as I set the screwdrivers in the tool set. “I’d expect nothing less. But only if you mention my pretty face.”
“Jillian? You don’t mind if I mention to the other fellas that you think Jones Beckett is pretty?”
Her jaw drops. “Dad! Are you trying to hit a new record for embarrassing me? You do know I work with Jones? As in professionally?”
Aaron drops his voice to a stage whisper. “Don’t worry. I’ll tell all the other widowers that she said you were a cutie-pie.”
With a shit-eating grin, I nod. “Deal.”
He extends a hand. “But seriously, I can’t thank you enough for helping. Ever since my Vivian passed away, I’ve had to tackle all this fixing stuff on my own, and I’m terrible at it.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Your wife was the handy one, sir?”
He nods proudly, gesturing to their home. “She was. She kicked my butt around the house. Knew how to fix a furnace, rewire a dryer, hang a door.”
“Damn,” I say with an appreciative whistle as I snap the tool set shut. “That’s impressive.”
“You’re telling me.” He points to his daughter. “She taught this little lady how to fix a broken sink and how to install a new electrical outlet.”
“You don’t say? Jillian, you’ve been holding out on me. I had no idea you were so handy. And you didn’t even offer to help me with the new desk.” I pout.
She tips her chin at her dad as his golden retriever mix slumbers at her feet. “He refuses to accept my help.”
Her dad jumps in. “She’s my daughter. I can’t let her do that stuff for me,” he says then winks. “Plus, I mostly wanted bragging rights with the guys when she said you’d do it.”
Jillian points to me. “Besides, you seemed all too happy to fix the desk, which gave me time to answer this pile of emails from reporters wanting to know about you and Paleo Pet, so there.” She takes a beat.
“And I made some trades on my fantasy baseball team that’ll put even more distance between my Fire-Breathing Dragons and everyone else. ”
I shoot her a smile, laughing at the name of her fantasy team, as I inch the desk a little closer to the wall. “I was happy to do it.” I swipe one hand against the other. “There you go. Jones Beckett, Furniture Assembly Specialist, at your service.”
“You’re a good man. How can I thank you?” her dad asks.
I rub a hand along the back of my neck and peer into the hall.
The walls are lined with photographs, classic school shots of Jillian from over the years.
“I’d really love it if you could show me some pictures of Jillian.
Including, but not limited to, shots where she has braces, missing teeth, and terrible haircuts, since then I’ll forever have something to hold over her. ”
Her brown eyes widen. “Jones. You’re a troublemaker!”
Her father nods enthusiastically, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
“I’ll show you the whole lot, but bear in mind even with missing front teeth and a haircut she gave herself when she got bubblegum stuck in her bangs, she was still the loveliest kid ever.
A ray of sunshine, too. We always used to say we were so damn lucky because we were matched with the happiest kid ever. She smiled all the time. Still does.”
As if on cue, she demonstrates, and it looks all-natural. It’s the genuine kind that comes from deep within as she listens to her father tell stories.
“She has a great smile,” I say to him, but I’m looking at her.
And she’s looking back at me. For a moment, our gazes hold, and I swear something flickers between us that wasn’t there before. She’s lingering longer, looking deeper, keeping her eyes on me more than she has in the past.
I’ll take that, even though I shouldn’t want it at all.
But I can’t unwant it, not now, not even in front of her dad.
He ushers me down the hall, giving me the tour of each school photo hanging on the wall, from her first-grade shot with a bowl haircut, to her second-grade one with two missing teeth, to a seventh-grade image when she wore braces with light blue rubber bands.
In every single shot, she flashes a bright, cheerful grin. “I sometimes wonder where that smile came from. I wish I could take credit for it,” Aaron says, tapping a frame.
“I bet you can, sir. You’re a good father. You bring out that smile by giving her a home and loving your kid.”
“That’s always been easy, from the first day I met her.”