“Dude, how much weight did you put on in the off-season?”

The smart aleck comment comes courtesy of Cooper Armstrong as we round the far end of the practice field at our training facility two days later.

“You’re slower than a Pop Warner lineman today,” our kicker Rick goads, climbing on the insult train.

From behind my shades, I raise my eyes to their backs. The two of them are several feet ahead of me. Harlan’s running in front of them.

Huh.

Truth is, I may have been running slower than usual because my mind drifted back to yesterday and the second photo shoot Jillian set up. The shot she planned was golden, as in . . . everything. The dog was a golden retriever mix, and the photog snapped a sweet image at the edge of Sausalito with the Golden Gate Bridge rising majestically. The pooch put his paw on my leg as we sat on a rock, the gorgeous blue waters of the bay behind us.

Afterward, Jillian and I grabbed lunch at a place on the water and chatted about our top fantasy baseball picks as a Giants game played on the flat-screen in the background. Turns out the chick has a wickedly good eye for fantasy sports, and her baseball team is leading in her league. “Confession: I get very ornery if I lose,” she’d admitted.

“Confession: I get pretty damn annoyed if I lose the Super Bowl.”

She’d laughed. “Yeah, that does seem to be a bit of a bigger deal.”

It’s funny how I’ve had my eye on her for the last few years, but I’m only recently learning all these fascinating details about her, from her family to her fantasy addiction.

But now I’m dragging at laps since my mind is on the woman, and that won’t do.

I pick up the pace. “The only weight I put on in the off-season is all this muscle.” I peel off my T-shirt and throw it straight at Rick. He dodges it, naturally, and I run past Rick and Cooper, flexing my biceps.

As I speed up, I turn around, running backward so I can fully enjoy flipping the double bird to my teammates. “And I will see you fuckers downfield. If you ever wondered who was the fastest on this team, you’re about to be schooled.”

Spinning around, I take off. Sunglasses on, I sprint the final lap as if I’m racing to catch a football, sweeping past Harlan, too. And he’s a fast bastard. But I’m faster.

That’s the point of these feet, this heart, this body that I try to keep finely-tuned every day. You don’t get a job as a wide receiver for one of the best NFL teams in the country if you can’t move your feet like Hermes.

I earned a 4.3 in the forty-yard dash at the combine. That’s the fastest on the team.

When I reach the goalpost, I slap it, then rest my elbow against it and adopt an oh-so-casual Road Runner waiting for Wile E. Coyote pose until the guys catch up with me.

Cooper holds up his hand to high-five. “That’s what I want to see every goddamn Sunday on the field.”

“And that’s what you get.”

“I know it. I love it.”

Rick is the last one, joining us at an easy pace. “Nobody cares how fast I run. I save all my energy for my golden foot.”

“And it is golden indeed,” Cooper says, and we head for the first row in the stands, where I left a water bottle and a little good luck treat for my guys.

After I down half the bottle, since we’ve been working out for two hours this morning, I reach into a red mesh bag—a bag of pomelos. I bought a few more after I worked my way through the gift Jillian gave me. No lie. Jillian was right. Pomelos are delicious and now I have a new favorite fruit.

“Gentlemen, this may become our new good luck ritual for the season. Turns out this fruit is mighty tasty, and a harbinger of all good things to come.”

Harlan grabs one, rips at the thick rind, and asks in his familiar southern drawl. “Does this mean the cherry pie worked?”

I shoot him a quizzical look. “What does one have to do with the other?”

Harlan chuckles. “Oh, right. You thought I wouldn’t notice that you’re suddenly eating pomelos. I am well aware that Jillian has these on her desk. I do pay attention to what goes on around us.”

Rick slaps the seat in front of him. “That’s fantastic. Jillian is giving you special gifts now. What other presents are you giving each other?” Rick wiggles his eyebrows.

I slice a hand through the air, cutting off this direction of conversation since I don’t want them thinking Jillian is doing favors of any sort for me. One, she’s not, and two, there’s her professional rep among the guys to think of. I need to scramble to protect her privacy. Just like I’d do on the field if a cornerback sneaked up on me, I hunt for a way to escape the secondary. “It was a thank you gift for doing the calendar, guys. That’s all. Even if I wanted something more, there’s nothing happening, and I respect her choices.”

Cooper claps me on the back. “Good man, and there are plenty of other fish in the sea. But what I want to know is this.” He stops to scratch his chin as I wait for him to say more. “How the hell is your big ego handling the rejection?”

Harlan smiles faintly in faux sympathy. “It must be a brand-new feeling. Do we need to take you to therapy to process all this?”

I shake my head, amused and impressed at their bottomless appetite for giving me shit. “Yes, please schedule me an appointment right after yours.”

Harlan laughs, chewing on a slice of fruit. “I do have a long-standing appointment with a shrink, since it takes time each week to process how awesome I am.” He finishes the slice. “I’m as awesome as this fruit. Holy shit. This is good.”

And we’re back to safer ground. Grabbing another pomelo from the bag, I hold it over my head. “Not only do pomelos bring good fortune, but they’re full of antioxidants that are so very healthy for you,” I say, adopting a TV-commercial-style tone.

“You can say that again.” My agent’s voice booms.

I snap my gaze to see Ford striding over to us as I peel one. “How’d you get in?”

“Magic,” he says, snapping his fingers. “Or maybe the equipment manager told me all my favorite clients were here, and look at all of you. But especially you,” he says, pointing at me. “You’re already sounding like a spokesman.”

Cooper claps my back and speaks to Ford. “See? I told you we could clean up our wild child.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Ford says, grabbing his shades and removing them with the kind of panache you only see from the coolest dudes on film. Still, I won’t let his slickness sway me. I’ve been burned, and I want to see what the man has to offer. He points two fingers at me. “Can you say Paleo Pet?”

“Uh. Yeah. Paleo Pet.”

He thrusts a fist in the air. “I love it. And I have a delivery of Paleo Pet Food for Small Breeds coming to your house this afternoon to see if your man Cletus likes it.”

I knit my brow. “Someone is sending me dog food? I know my last agent was a thief, but I do have enough dough to buy food for a ten-pound Chihuahua mix.”

Cooper slaps his thigh, laughing at me. “Dude, I think someone’s trying to tell you Paleo Pet is courting you and Cletus.”

And the switch goes on. The light flashes bright. “A dog food company?” I scratch my head. “I guess I didn’t make the connection because you said you were chasing down an organic quick-serve restaurant.”

“And that’s still in play,” Ford says, rubbing his palms together. “Don’t you worry—I have lots of irons in the fire for you. But this one got hot real quick, and Paleo Pet is one of the fastest-growing pet food companies. Big budget, big plans, and now Paleo Pet has big eyes on you, and if your little guy likes his chow, and if you feel good about it—well then, we might have ourselves a sweet new deal.”

I blink, processing the unexpected news as I pull off a section of fruit. “What do you mean they’ve had their eyes on me?”

“They came running to me like a dog with a tennis ball, wanting to play fetch as soon as they saw your pics the last few days. You’re like a politician kissing babies and then endorsing diapers. Apparently, when your feed is full of you kissing dogs and trying to find homes for rescue pups, the dog food makers of the world all want to romance you.” Ford parks his hands on his hips. “Plus, why didn’t you tell me you won an all-county dog agility competition this summer? I had to track that shit down on my own.”

Harlan’s eyes bug out. “No way. That is rich. You didn’t tell us that, either. Do you and Cletus do synchronized handstands in a ring or something?”

I roll my eyes. “No, asshole. He jumps and weaves through poles and climbs ladders like the badass dog he is. I taught him all that this summer, like the badass trainer I am.”

“You have a secret skill, and you kept it from us.” Harlan runs a hand through his long hair. “I cannot wait to have a field day with this.”

I hold up a finger. “If you have a field day with this, then I will steal all your clothes from your locker and leave you with nothing but a little pie-baking apron to wear after a game.”

Harlan seems to consider that. “I would gladly wear an apron and nothing else. I’m not ashamed of my body or my baking skills.”

“And we are now legally required to prank Harlan with an apron,” Rick declares, drumming his hands on the stand in front of us.

“And yes, Cletus won the blue ribbon because he is smart and I am awesome. Case closed. I don’t brag about it because I just do it for fun. For a break from the game and all that stuff. I’m not trying to make a name as a dog agility dude or whatever.”

Cooper holds up his fist for knocking. “And I thought the time you leapt ten feet in the air and nabbed a ball that was en route for interception was quite possibly one of your finest moments. But this might top it.”

Ford clears his throat. “Gentlemen, I know I’ve interrupted a critical moment as the four of you debate important issues while warding off scurvy, but I need to speak to this man.”

“Take him away,” Cooper shouts.

Ford waves for me to join him. “We have business to discuss. And go get your T-shirt. It’s not the equipment manager’s job to pick it up.”

I nod, oddly enjoying Ford’s directive. I like that the guy cares about little things, like not leaving clothes on the field.

I trot to the shirt, grab it, and tug it on, then say goodbye to the guys as I leave the field with Ford. He gives me the down-low on the potential deal. I nod, taking it all in.

“Call me later and let me know if you’re in. I have an idea I need to work on in the meantime to make this deal go swimmingly.”

I raise an eyebrow. “What’s the idea?”

“Don’t you worry about it. Let me take care of the details.”

* * *

Cletus parks his little butt on the tiled floor, waiting as patiently as a dog possibly can. It’s one of those sits where he’s on edge but doing his best to be a good boy.

I scoop some of the Paleo Pet food that’s supposedly made from ingredients Cletus would have captured in the wild ten thousand years ago if, you know, a ten-pound lap dog was capable of stalking deer or elk.

“All right, buddy. Give me your best Top Chef verdict.” I rattle the silver bowl and set it on his blue place mat with a cartoon bone illustration on it.

He chows down, finishing off his dish in less than forty seconds then giving me some serious puppy-dog eyes as he wags his tail.

I scratch his chin. “You might as well just say may I have some more, please, the way you wolfed that down in mere seconds.”

Let me be frank. Cletus doesn’t disdain a lot of food, being a dog and all. But he seems to dig this chow, so that works for me.

I hold up my palm, and he lifts his paw in response. “High five.” Cocking his head to the side, he puts his tiny paw against mine, and I get such a kick out of the size disparity that I snap a shot and post it online, tagging it #helpinghands.

I take him to the small backyard that’s a rarity in the city, and he runs through a few of his favorite obstacles on the mini course I set up. “Good boy,” I tell him as he races up a ramp then down the other side. Afterward, I leash him and we head through the hilly streets of our hood to burn off the rest of his energy.

Along the way, I check my email. A note from Trevor about when he wants to shoot his show again. An email from my mom saying she can’t wait to see me when I visit for dinner soon. I spot a reply from Garrett Snow, the left tackle who tore his ACL.

Recovery is taking longer than they all thought. But that’s just the way the cookie crumbles. Or the knee, I should say! Let’s grab a beer sometime? I’m in town.

I heave a sigh as I write back with a Yes, let’s make a plan, and I’m sorry to hear.

My mind trips back to the game last season when he was hit hard on a pass rush, landing wrong on his left knee. Trouble was, his injury was exacerbated in the worst way possible. I saw it in replays—I was the one who caught that pass. He was the one who went down in a pile, a reminder that the game is here today and gone tomorrow.

That’s why I need to make the most of my opportunities. I dial Ford. “I have a verdict.”

“I can’t wait. Give it to me.”

“The food is Cletus-approved, so I guess that means I have a Paleo dog.”

Ford hoots. “Excellent. That also means we have a sponsorship deal.”

“Yes. We have a deal. I’m in,” I say, since the terms he shared earlier were good.

“Fantastic. I’ll send the papers today, and you and Trevor can review and e-sign them.”

“We’ll do it.”

“Now listen, I told you I had an idea for the deal. Are you ready?”

I nod. “I’m ready. Hit me.”

“You know how Paleo Pet loved that shot of you on social the other day?”

“Yep. That’s what got their attention, and that was Jillian’s idea.”

“It’s like you can read my mind.”

“What do you mean?” I ask as we stop at a light on Fillmore and wait for it to change. A woman with light blue hair walks past me and then snaps her head in my direction, perhaps recognizing me.

She raises her phone, and it’s clear she’s taking a shot. I smile for the candid camera, Cletus waiting at my side.

“What I mean is this: social media is everything these days. They found you on social, you’re doling out bits and pieces of the calendar on social. Your image is on social. And image is so key these days to sponsorships deals. Brands are cautious as hell. They’ve been burned by things athletes say and do. And since we want to keep you on the straight and narrow, I asked a certain someone to help out.”

A strange feeling of dread courses through me when the light changes. I head into the crosswalk. “Who’s the someone?” I ask carefully, hoping he doesn’t say a name that starts with J.

“Jillian.” He says it as if he’s Santa, delivering me a great and wonderful gift.

My feet feel leaden. My shoulders sag. “And her job is what exactly?”

“She said she’d help you with your social media. Make sure we keep you on the right path. The thing is, now that you’re getting on the sponsorship gravy train, we really can’t have you riding the gravy train of women. I know that’s one of the best parts of being a pro athlete, and I’m not asking you to keep your dick in your pants. I’m just asking you to keep it off social media. Can you do that for me? Be good, behave, keep up a wholesome image? Jillian knows PR, and she’s more than happy to help.”

As I walk past a row of pastel-colored Victorian homes, I nod, a little heavily. His directive doesn’t bother me, per se, so I’m not entirely sure why I’m bummed. But I am. “I’ll be a good boy.”

Though it feels a little bit like I’m a dog who doesn't come when called, and the only way to keep me in check is with a leash. Hell, maybe I am. Maybe I’ve been too bad, too naughty. Maybe I’ve been caught on the kitchen counter, eating the people food one too many times. There’s a part of me that’s a little irked, a bit irritated at what my reputation has come to. I never set out to be a party boy. Hell, I don’t even think I’m some sort of poster child for the wild NFL lifestyle. I’ve definitely reined it in over the last year or so. But I understand that perception sometimes dictates reality. A few bad pictures, a couple of inappropriate shots—along with a bad seed of an agent—and I’m tarnished.

Ford is simply trying to untarnish me.

I suppose it can’t hurt to do what he says.

I suppose that also means it would look bad if I kept flirting with the woman who’s supposed to be helping me look like a good boy. Put aside the fact that she’s displayed zero interest in me—even if she were to suddenly, out of nowhere, be awed by my charming-as-a-Chihuahua-meets-a-golden-retriever self, would that be the brightest idea to let something happen?

She’s going to be the behind-the-scenes director for my new image. If I’m trying to be the face of a brand for the first time in more than a year, I need to make sure I’m conducting all my business aboveboard.

Which means I probably shouldn’t try to make Jillian my bedroom business.

That’s why I’m bummed, since this new world order means no more cherry pies for Jillian. Time to turn down the flirting dial with her.

But the next day when Jillian rings the bell, I’m not so sure I want to be a good boy. The way she looks in that pink dress makes me want to be very bad.