Ryder

“Do you want to grab the sage?”

Robert takes a wobbly step across the concrete. He doesn’t actually know what sage is. At least, I don’t think so. But he follows my pointing finger and swipes at the herb with his chubby hand. He misses.

I help my one-year-old son and grab some from the plant.

“Now, what about some thyme? Mommy likes that in her pasta, doesn’t she?”

“Doggie.”

That’s Robert’s answer for nearly everything these days. He can say mommy, daddy, and doggie. Oh, he can say Ruby, too. But Romeo? No way. That name vexes him.

“Where’s the doggie?” I ask.

My blond-haired, blue-eyed son points to my white and brown collie mix. Romeo lounges in the August sun that shines brightly here in the communal rooftop gardens of our apartment building.

“Yes, that’s right. That’s our doggie. Can you say Romeo?”

“Doggie.”

I laugh, then snip some thyme from a miniature potted wheelbarrow where we grow herbs. The mini wheelbarrow was a gift from my wife for my last birthday. We’d tried the Wheelbarrow, and I’m loathe to admit this, but she was right. It didn’t work for far too many reasons. Mostly because she hated being upside down in what she called a ridiculously awkward and uncomfortable position. She rode me like a Crouching Cowgirl instead, and that was fine with me.

The next day, she gave me this ceramic mini wheelbarrow, and we planted some herbs in it.

Win some, lose some.

But honestly, I’m winning at pretty much everything.

I’m still working at Hanky Panky Love with my wife, but I’m there as a freelancer now, and so is she. She cut back her hours and started working from home more, and somehow we make it all fit, taking turns caring for our son. We still do our shows, and she writes her columns, too. I’ve cut back on those since my consulting business picked up. After Aaron, I nabbed a few more guys, and word spread. Now the Consummate Wingman has found a specialty niche in helping divorced guys get back out there.

It makes me feel damn good to give these men strategies that help them build confidence to put their hearts on the line again, especially since I can walk the walk and talk the talk. I’m writing a book on the topic. I don’t have a title yet, but my publisher wants to call it Got Your Back Again. Maybe it’ll stick. The bio, though, was easy to write.

Ryder Lockhart and his lovely wife Nicole have a son, two dogs, and a very happy ever after.

It’s the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

I also have a date with my wife tonight, so after the little man and I head inside and I mix up a pasta dish for my wife, I answer the door. Her friends are here, since both Penny and Delaney said they’d babysit tonight.

Penny scoops my son into her arms and coos at him. She loves kids and Delaney does, too. Nicole and I have a running bet on who will be the first among her friends to follow in her footsteps. I say Penny, but Nicole says Delaney.

“You are the cutest little guy in the entire universe,” Penny says, then plants a huge kiss on his forehead.

Robert squeals with laughter. “Doggie!”

Penny cracks up. Ruby races over to greet Penny, and my son mixes in another word. “Ruby!”

Delaney leans in to kiss him, too. “Are you ready to go shopping with your aunts?”

I groan. “You’re taking him shopping?”

“We need to train him early to be a good boy when the ladies shop,” Penny says. “Besides, Delaney needs shoes.”

“It’s true,” Delaney says with a straight face. “I do need shoes.”

After they leave, I take my wife for a round of mini golf, since we still try to find interesting dates. After she wins, she suggests we grab a drink at the bar at Grand Central.

But she doesn’t order champagne. She orders lemonade. After she finishes it, I learn why. She takes me to the Whispering Arch, and when she’s on the other side, I hear some of my favorite words from her.

“I’m pregnant.”

And I’m the happiest man on the face of the earth.

Nine months later, we have a girl, and we name her Rosemary.

She is an absolute angel.

---

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Prologue

---

Always a bridesmaid.

Clipboard holder.

Ball cap boy.

Mr. Clean.

Best Butt in the NFL.

Those are just some of the nicknames I’ve been given in the last few years. Lest anyone think they bug me, they don’t. Not one bit. They’ve all been true, especially the last one. You should see my ass. You can bounce a quarter off my cheeks if you want.

Here’s the thing — when you spend the first three years of your career warming the bench for the best player in the league, you can’t let a chip on your shoulder develop. You’ve got to stay sharp, and be ready for that moment when your pants finally get dirty, and you swap out a ball cap for a helmet.

My time has finally come this season, and we’re winning so far.

But tonight isn’t about what happens between the opening kickoff and the end of the fourth quarter.

Tonight is about the one game I’ve dominated.

For the last few years, I’ve cleaned up in the players’ annual charity auction, and maybe that’s because the one nickname I’ve relished most doesn’t even belong to me. The guy I’ve backed up has been called a lot of things — a legend, the greatest ever, a titan of the game — but the one I particularly enjoy is the “second-best-looking quarterback on the Renegades.”

Hey, I didn’t give him that name. The media did, deciding the dude who played second string had a prettier face — that’s me. Before this season, I hadn’t seen a grand total of 120 minutes of playing time in those first three years, but I’ve taken home the top honors in the charity auction where some of the loveliest ladies come to bid on the players they want to take out for a night on the town.

Ah, the memories of those dates have warmed my heart, and other parts, on the sidelines when the games were dull. Evenings in limos testing the strength of the leather backseat, nights in hotels that lasted way past dawn, the rule of no physical contact between the winner and the woman blissfully ignored by all parties involved.

Yeah, I’ve enjoyed the fuck out of being paraded on stage in front of hundreds of women, with slender arms raised in the air, and winning bids going my way over all the other guys. It’s been my one chance to shine, even to stand out.

Those days are behind me though, now that I’m finally leading the team down the field every single Sunday.

This time, I won’t be living it up and letting loose after hours since I’ve got a reputation to protect, and a season on the line.

The trouble is, the woman who has her eyes on me at the Most Valuable Playboy charity auction wants my full enchilada, and it’s not on the menu anymore.

Guess that means it’s time for me to use that brain and call an audible on the line of scrimmage.

---

Chapter One

---

My hair is sticking up.

In my defense, it’s always sticking up.

I have what’s known as permanent bedhead. Which can be awesome, if it means I look like I just strolled out of a most excellent roll in the hay, complete with hands having been run through my dark brown strands.

It’s not so awesome if I’m trying to look the part of a classy athlete dressed to the nines. I’m decked out in a charcoal gray tailored suit and parked in a swank leather chair in a suite at the Whitney Hotel in the heart of San Francisco with a bunch of guys from the team.

Violet’s trying to curb my bedhead. Her long fingers thread through my hair, aiming for a reverse roll-in-the-hay effect. “I swear, Cooper, you’ve had the most stubborn hair your entire life.”

I wiggle my eyebrows. “It takes after me. I can’t be tamed, either.”

She rolls her amber eyes, glancing down at me, her long chestnut hair spilling over her chest. “That’s right. You’re a wild mustang. Impossible to domesticate.”

I neigh.

She stops, sets her hands on my shoulders and gives me a sharp stare. “Can you count with your hooves too?”

I drag a wing-tipped foot along the carpeted floor one, two, three times. “I can go all the way to ten.”

“You let me know when you make it to twenty, Mister Ed. That’s when I’ll be thoroughly impressed,” she says, with a smile I’ve seen for the last twenty years. I’ve been friends with Violet since we were kids and I moved to her hometown a few blocks away from her house.

I rub my palms together. “Excellent. I have a goal to shoot for. You know I love goals.”

She laughs. “I do know that.”

Give me a task, and I’m nose-to-the-grindstone focused. I’ve been that way my whole life. My ability to execute is top notch. Run a mile in under six minutes? Sure thing. Throw a ball downfield twenty-five yards? Let’s do it. Win a scholarship to a top-tier school? Consider it done, and done with a smile.

Violet stretches her arm behind her, silver bracelets jingling, as she grabs some hair gel in a black tube from the chrome coffee table. “We need to domesticate your lovely locks, Cooper. I don’t have a riding crop with me, but I think this gel will do.”

I give the tube a skeptical stare. “You’re not going to put a ton of goop in my hair, are you?”

She adopts a serious expression. “Absolutely. It’s a brand new product I’ve been testing at my salon. It’s called Goop for Guys. It’s so perfect for you.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “But I won’t tell anyone you have to use . . . product to look so pretty.”

“More like pretty ugly.” The insult, naturally, comes from the king of put downs, one of my closest friends on the team, as Jones’ deep voice booms across the suite. He’s scrolling through his phone, lounging in a chair, wearing a custom-fitted dark navy suit.

The team publicist, Jillian, chose the tailored suit theme for this year’s auction, our annual holiday fundraiser for the San Francisco Children’s Hospital. Her exact words were: “Suits are like catnip to women, and to men too, and I want my team of pretty kitties to raise even more money this year.”

That’s a tall order, but most of the dough comes from donations simply to walk in the door. We’ve already circulated amongst the crowd, chatting with fans in the ballroom, finishing the mingling session while the tune It’s Raining Men played. That song presaged the final event of the night — the auction itself. Also known affectionately as the annual parade of Renegade Man Meat when the single men on the team strut their stuff.

I glance over at Jones, picking up where he left off in the insult volley. I eye his midsection suspiciously. “How’s your girdle fitting you, tonight? Is that why you look so nice and trim?”

He pretends to adjust it. “Yeah, I borrowed yours.”

“It’s a comfort fit. I can see why you’d need it.”

“You can wear it next. A blushing bride always needs one.”

That’s what the guys call me now. Bride. But hey, I’ll take it over Bridesmaid, since it comes with the starting job after three long years on the sidelines.

Violet shakes her head as she flips open the tube. “The two of you . . .”

“ . . .Are clever, brilliant and handsome devils? Why thank you,” I say, straightening my vest. I went three-piece all the way. If Jillian wants us to wear suits to rake it in, I’ll damn well do my job to bring home a four-peat. I’ve been the recipient of the highest bid the last three years, and since I love streaks, I want to keep it up this year too.

For the kids.

I want to win for the kids. The hospital does amazing work and I gladly support it.

Plus, bragging rights do rock.

If I win top honors, I suppose it’s a shame I won’t let myself enjoy the full benefits of the victory, should the opportunity present itself. But I can absolutely live with my decision to stay laser focused on the game. We’re closing in on a wild card spot in the playoffs, and these days my goal is to score only on the field. I spent enough time the last three years staying busy after hours. This season is a whole different beast.

Violet tips her chin at my attire. “I like the vest. You rarely see anyone wearing a vest here.”

We live in casual country, home of the hoodie, land of the jeans. “Is that your way of telling me you’re a vest woman?”

She laughs, then lowers her voice. “I’m an everything woman.” She lets that comment hang between us, and for a moment my head is a fog. Everything. What sort of everything does Violet Pierson like? Everything in bed? And why the hell am I thinking these thoughts about her? Violet’s not only my friend, she’s also my best buddy’s sister. I’m going to need to have a serious talk with my dirty mind and remind it to rein in these ideas. “And you’re going to clean up, my friend, since there’s little that’s hotter than an athlete dressed up in a suit.”

“Yeah?” I ask, meeting her eyes as she squeezes the goop onto her hands, and my mind continues to wander down the everything yellow brick road. Every position, every night, is that her sort of everything?

“Of course. You have great face, a nice body, and that top-notch suit fits like a glove,” she says, listing off these attributes like they’re hardwood floors, a quiet dishwasher and a front-loading washing machine. Violet meets my eyes and her tone is cheery. “Don’t worry. I’m only saying nice body empirically.”

I put on the brakes since clearly her compliments were more suited for appliances.

“Right. Of course.” I nod several times, like I’m wiping clean the everything thoughts from my brain too. After all, front-loading washers are the bomb, and yes, I do my own laundry. My mom would tan my hide if I didn’t. “It’s a completely clinical compliment.”

“Totally clinical.”

I adjust the vest anyway. Just in case it looks better empirically this way. Or clinically, for that matter.

She lifts her hands close to my hair. “Time to tame you.”

The auction is being carried live on local TV, and that’s why Violet is here. To give us a little touch-up before we go on air. She’s a hair stylist, which happens to be one of my favorite professions in the world. I learned the joy of regular haircuts at age sixteen. One afternoon during my sophomore year of high school, my mom pressed a twenty-dollar bill in my palm and told me to get my shaggy locks cut after school or I’d be grounded. I headed for the regular shop in downtown, the one run by the grizzled old dude who plays rockabilly and tells tall tales to the other gruff, gray-haired guys who sit for hours shooting the breeze. He wasn’t working. His twenty-two-year-old granddaughter Joy filled in.

What a joy that day was.

When she cut the front of my hair I experienced a heavenly vision. I witnessed angels. Also known as . . . cleavage.

And, man, do I ever love haircuts now.

The view can be fantastic.

But I’m not checking out Violet like that, even though her breasts are precariously close to my face as she runs her goop-covered fingers through my hair.

I’m absolutely not thinking of the angels I’m seeing.

I can’t think of her that way.

She’s Trent’s sister and he’s my best friend for twenty years, since all the way back in elementary school. That places her firmly in the not-allowed-to-even-consider-whether-she-might-be-hot category. I’ve never ever thought of her as a babe, not once in all the years I’ve known her. That feat is all the more impressive considering she has a rocking body, lush chestnut brown hair, and big amber eyes. Oh, and she has a wicked sense of humor. But I don’t think of her as smoking hot, even tonight, even in those black jeans, the kind that look as if they’ve been painted on, and that silvery tunic thing that clings to her chest.

Nope.

That’s why I talk to her like a buddy. Or an appliance, for that matter.

“Just don’t make me look like a douche,” I say, as she finger combs the goop into my hair.

Jones chimes in from his post on the couch. “Yeah, he can do that just fine on his own.”

Violet glances over at him, then back at me as she finishes. “Yes. Fine being the operative word. I’d say Cooper looks quite fine indeed.” She gives me a wink.

Ha, take that, Jones.

She shifts her gaze to the couch and our kicker Rick. Obviously, we call him Dicker the Kicker. Even though he’s the kicker, he’s a scary mofo, thanks to the thick beard and dark, broody eyes, as well as the best foot in the league. That right toe of his has hurled the pigskin more than forty yards when he’s needed to, and he missed only one field goal so far this season. Harlan’s here too, his suit jacket hanging over the back of his chair. He’s our star running back, and even though I prefer to throw the ball, I’ll hand off to him too. He’s escaped hordes of humongous linemen with his quicksilver feet.

These guys have seen a hell of a lot more action than I have, since they surrounded the Renegades superstar Jeff Grant, who retired last year. Despite the ribbing, they’ve welcomed me as the new quarterback, due in part to the fact that it’s December, we’re sporting a 9-3 record and staring down the chance to clinch a wild card spot in my first season as the starter.

Violet parks her hands on her hips, surveying the guys in the room. “Look at you boys. Such pretty Renegades.” She waves a hand dismissively. “Don’t mind me. I’m just getting into the spirit of objectification tonight.”

“You want to bid on me don’t you, Vi?” Rick calls out.

“It’s all I can think about,” she says, with an over-the-top purr. She leans close the chrome table, rooting around in her purse. She finds her wallet, flips it open, and shows him a few tens. “Will that be enough for you?”

“We’re running a discount on him,” Harlan says, scratching his stubbled jaw. “You can have the Dicker for a ten and a six-pack.”

“Hell, I’ll throw in your favorite bottle of wine if you take him off our hands now,” Jones adds.

Rick rolls his eyes, and flips us the bird, showing his middle finger to everyone. “And watch me clean up tonight, just like I have to clean up all your messes on the field when you fuckers can’t get it in.”

“I always get it in,” I say, because I can’t fucking resist. He went there. I had to go there too. I turn to Harlan. “Think you’ll find a nice guy to bid on you this year?”

He scowls and taps the side of his nose. Two years ago, a prominent local businessman placed the winning bid on our running back. Harlan, not being a homophobe, went on a platonic date with the guy. The next year, Harlan’s bids came from nearly all dudes, so during his time on stage he tapped the side of his nose, and his agent got the message. He whispered to his female assistant to place the winning bid.

“Violet, why don’t you save those bills and bid for me?” Harlan says to her in his Southern drawl. “I don’t even care if I go for less than the others.”

She laughs and glances at me, raising her hands, like scales. “Hmmm. I can’t decide. Cooper, should I bid for Harlan or you? You or Harlan? Are you as cheap as the others?”

I scoff, lifting my chin. “I’m a premium kind of guy. And if you wanted to bid on me, I’d even foot the bill for it,” I say, then I wonder why the hell that just came out of my mouth. I’m not angling for Violet to bid on me. Hell, I’m not fishing for anyone to bid on me. I do just fine on my own. Besides, I like the fun and come-what-may thrill of the auction. I never entered the event expecting to have the kind of luck I’ve enjoyed, with such pretty ladies snagging dates. There are never any guarantees that you’ll be attracted to the person who wins a date with you. But that’s what happened to me, and I’ve gone three-for-three in this category. Last year, the vixen-like black-haired local news anchor Lourdes Mariano won me, and that chick was as unbuttoned in the limo the night of our date as she was buttoned up on air. Thank the lord for soundproof windows in that long black car. That woman had a set of lungs on her. The year before, a venture capitalist in a sexy pinstriped suit secured the winning bid, and we hit it off all night long. My first year here, a pretty blonde socialite nabbed me.

Those trysts are behind me now. I’ve kept my pants zipped all season long. I’ve no plans to sleep around this year, no matter who wins me, since the field deserves all my focus. But I’m a competitive bastard and I do want to emerge victorious.

“If you’re paying, I’ll be sure to bid sky high,” Violet says, then she points at Harlan. “You’re next in the hot seat.”

Harlan taps the arm of the chair. “It is indeed hot.” He doesn’t take his eyes off her when he says that, and my shoulders tense as she moves in front of him.

I try to ignore his flirty comments as she works on his long hair, but out of the corner of my eye, I notice him inch closer to Violet. Closer than he needs to be. A strange burst of something like annoyance spreads in my chest as she combs his hair, smoothing it and neatening it.

“Can you cut my hair sometime too?” he asks, his eyes locked on hers. “What’s the name of your salon?”

I snap my gaze to Harlan and narrow my eyes. “I thought you said you’d never chop it off. Samson and all,” I say, and I could give two fucks about the length of his hair, but I know I don’t want him pulling up a chair in her salon.

“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.”

I laugh. “Good one.”

She shoos me off. “I need to pack up my supplies, and you need to get your butt to the stage.”

A husky voice floats down the hall. A smoky alto, belting out the chorus to It’s raining men and it makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s Maxine,” I hiss.

She’s the owner’s can’t-keep-her-hands-to-herself sister, and she doesn’t just want men to rain down on her. She wants one guy to fall from the sky into her lap.

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