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

Guys like Jones don’t date girls like me.

And by girls like me, I don’t just mean Asian girls. Though I do.

But mostly, I mean girls with serious jobs. I’m the director of publicity for the team. That’s not what Jones is looking for in his arm candy of choice.

Jones Beckett has dated go-go dancers, cheerleaders, and models, as well as a soccer star and an actress best known for baring all. He doesn’t date girls with office jobs who aspire to have a VP after their name. He dates girls who are vice presidents of hot racks, executives in charge of the lap dance, and heads of the department of perfect tits and ass.

He’s been photographed 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?

SHE WAS A WOMAN ON TINDER.

That’s it. That’s all.

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. For starters, I’m one in a long line of women who have a crush on him.

Second, Jones isn’t just a player. He’s a playa.

That’s why a crush is a crush is only a crush.

Besides, even if I were to let myself entertain it more—which I won’t—all I have to do is remind myself that none of the girls he’s dated look like me. They look like they are from California, Texas, Mississippi.

Blonde. Blue-eyed. All-American.

I’m from here, but my blood comes from China. My very American, very Californian parents adopted me from the city of Wuhan in the province of Hubei when I was nine months old. So, while I’m 100 percent Cali girl, I also have eyes a little narrower, lashes a lot straighter, and hair that can’t be any color but black.

In any case, I’m better off devoting my dating energy on guys more like me—men with jobs in buildings rather than ballparks. Truth be told, though, it’s been a year since I dated anyone seriously. My job is my focus. I love it madly, and that’s why I don’t mind showing up at the office at seven thirty on most mornings, like I do several days after the shoot.

That gives me quiet time to get a head start on the day. At my desk, I pop in my earbuds, and turn on my favorite playlist, starting with Bishop’s “Be My Love.” I dive into my emails, including one from my friend Jess in Los Angeles, who I’ve mentored. She’s coming to town soon and would love to get together. I write back in all caps and with exclamation points then tackle my messages from reporters. With training camp starting in a few weeks, questions are pouring in. Which rookies will get playing time? Will we re-sign our star running back, Harlan Taylor? How has our quarterback, Cooper Armstrong, been looking in the off-season? That last question comes from Sierra Franklin, one of the local TV reporters who also hosted the bachelor charity auction I organized last year. Funny thing about that auction—she met her fiancé that same evening. He worked at the hotel where the auction was held, and they hit it off and are getting married in September.

I write back.

Cooper looks amazing, but not as amazing as I know you’ll be in your wedding dress. You’re going to be a beautiful bride! Can’t wait for your big day!

I clean out the rest of my inbox, and I’m powering through my morning round of press clippings when my boss, Lily, calls me into her office. Leaving my earbuds and phone behind, I head down the hall, knock on her door, and push it open the rest of the way.

She’s a whirling dervish, radiating fire and excitement. I adore Lily. Her drive and tenacity are unparalleled. She stands at her desk, bracelets jangling on her wrists, wild red hair thick with springy curls, her green shirtsleeves billowing as she stabs the computer monitor.

“Look,” she shouts, poking the screen again. “Look at this.”

I step closer, train my gaze to the screen, then pump a fist. “Yes.”

She sashays over to me on her four-inch platform heels, doing a victory dance and offering her hand to high-five. I smack back.

She grabs my shoulders for emphasis. “Cover. He’s the freaking cover. Sporting World just sent me a sneak preview. The issue runs in a few days, and you did it.”

Did I? Or did Jones, with his insanely photogenic style? I simply attended the shoot.

I give credit where it’s due. “It’s all Jones. He truly knows how to work it.”

She waves a hand. “These men. They might have God-given talent, but don’t let them take all the credit. You pitched the right guy.”

I shrug happily. “Fine. We rock,” I say with a proud smile, then I look at the winning shot. An amusing scowl graces his face, and an intense glare marks his blue eyes, making him appear tough as nails, untouchable even, like he is on the field most of the time. He’s pulled footballs out of the air that should have been incomplete passes. He’s saved potential interceptions on countless occasions. And he’s fought off the scariest defensive coverage, scrambling, doubling back, and finding the holes so he could catch and cradle the ball.

He’s fearless, focused, and fast as hell on his feet.

Lily drops into her cushy leather chair, sighing happily as she twirls in the seat. “I feel like I could celebrate with a full-fat latte.”

I laugh as I grab a seat. “Now you’re really going crazy.” Lily is the queen of skinny lattes.

“This is such a popular issue, and I also love that finally Jones Beckett is in the spotlight for something other than the size of his prick.”

My jaw itches to drop at her bluntness. But in PR, you learn to keep a smile on your face nearly all the time. I show no reaction, even though she’s totally right.

“Remember Chelsea?” she asks, as if I could forget.

I smile sarcastically. “Good old Chelsea, queen of the naughty selfie.”

Lily laughs, dragging her hand through her copper curls. “And how about Annika Van der Holden?” she asks, referring to one of the models he was seen with, as she continues taking a stroll down Jones’s Most Notorious Press Moments Lane. “Do you remember that shot?”

Inside, I cringe as the memory of Jones, holding a bottle of champagne and planting a kiss on the twig’s cheek, flashes before me. I mean, the very lovely model. Who wore a vagina-length dress in the photo.

“I do remember it. I wanted to buy her a new dress, maybe put a coat on her shoulders.”

Lily smacks her desk. “You and me both. And then there was the shot of him, his asshole agent, Chuck Margulies, and some random topless woman sticking their heads out of the sunroof in a limo. Although, in the topless woman’s case, it was more than her head sticking out the sunroof.” She points to the screen, her bracelets jingling a pretty tune. “But this? This is what we want.”

Our marching orders for the last few years have been to maintain a pristine image for the team. We’ve had a good run. Our starting quarterback is engaged to the girl he’s loved his whole life, and they’re both huge charity supporters. Our kicker is involved in literacy efforts in the city. While Jones is a generous supporter of charity like most of the guys, his wild-child status, not to mention getting caught in the crossfire in the fiasco with his agent, has tainted his coverage. Maybe the body issue can help rehab that image.

Which brings me to something I need and want from my boss.

My pet project, so to speak.

Our players work on many charitable endeavors, but I’m also allowed to shepherd a project each year. I’ve organized an annual bachelor auction that’s been a huge hit, but with the quarterback now off the market, I might need to shift to a new effort.

I have one.

I clear my throat. “There’s something I’d like to work on, Lily. It intersects with what we’ve been talking about. We haven’t done this before, but I’ve been researching, and I think it could be an amazing charity project.”

“Do tell.”

When I share the details, her eyes light up. She stabs her desk with a manicured finger. “Yes. Do that. But I think it should be with one guy. One who would benefit most from this.”

I tense. “And who would that be?”

She smiles, nodding to the screen.

Equal parts excitement and nerves flare through me. Working that closely with Jones can’t possibly be good for my libido. I’ll have to double down, triple down on my stony-faced stoicism in the presence of his hotness, and that won’t be easy.

But working that closely with him might be very good for my job, so I’ll have to find a way. “I’ll put together a proposal for him.”

I rise and make my way to the door, when Lily calls out, “By the way, the VP of publicity post is opening up in the fall.”

I blink and square my shoulders.

“I’d love to see you land the job,” she adds with a knowing smile when I turn around.

My heart zips through the sky. There’s nothing I want more than to keep moving up, and the chance to rise from director of publicity to VP is tremendous. “It’s open? You think I can nab it?” My question comes out as a squeak. I can’t wait to tell my dad. He’s going to be so excited.

She smiles broadly. “A project like this can go a long way toward making a case with the GM for why it should be you.”

I nod enthusiastically as a million ideas for magazine pitches, photo ops, and fundraisers flash through my brain. “I’ll reach out to Jones right away.”

Screw my libido. He might be the path to a promotion.