by Kennedy Ryan
“Yeah?” I stopped trying to call him ‘sir’ long ago. “What’s up?”
“I know this is a big game.”
No game is a big game because it’s almost the end of the season, and we’ve got an icicle’s hope in hell of making the playoffs. It feels like the last few games don’t matter since there won’t be a post-season for us. We’re an expansion team, so that’s to be expected in our first year, but it still bites with teeth.
I’ve never been on a losing team in my life. The fierce competitor in me has never allowed that to happen. I’ve always been able to pull any team I was on across every finish line—first. But this is the NBA. Every man out there is the best in his neighborhood, the best in his high school and college. One man can do a lot, but in this league, one man can never do it all.
“What’s so special about this game, Deck?” I close the locker and turn to face him.
“For one, you’re playing in your hometown,” Deck says. “I assume your family will be here to see you.”
I allow a genuine smile, thinking of my mom and stepfather in the stands tonight. “Yeah, they’ll be here. My mom’s invited the team over for dinner after the game since we don’t fly out ’til morning. You’re welcome to come.”
“Nah.” An almost sheepish smile looks out of place on the strong planes of his face. “I’m flying to New York to see my girl, but thank your mother for me.”
Deck and Avery make long-distance love look easy, though I’m sure it has its challenges. “Give Avery my best.” I shoot him a knowing grin.
“I haven’t seen her in three weeks, so I’ll be busy giving her my best and not thinking about your punk ass.” His roguish laugh makes me laugh in response.
“Lucky man.” I lean back on the locker and wait for him to get to the reason he came, which has nothing to do with my hometown, my mama, or his girlfriend, for that matter.
“So the media has been hyping this game because it’s you and Bradley,” Decker says, the humor fading from his expression. “Everyone’s saying it’s a two-man race for Rookie of the Year.” Decker lifts both brows. “Or are you so caught up in your tennis star girlfriend you hadn’t noticed?”
A chuckle rumbles from my chest, and I offer him a slow head shake. “Don’t believe everything you read, Deck. You should know that better than anyone.”
“Oh, so you’re not fucking Pippa Kim?”
I zip a finger across my lips. “A gentleman never fucks and tells.”
Truth is, I did fuck Pippa months ago. It was good, but not something I wanted to repeat. We’re both new to the sports spotlight, me with basketball and her with tennis, so we understand unique challenges most people can’t even imagine. We clicked as friends and have attended various functions together. I never comment when people ask me about Pippa, and she never comments when people ask her about me. Apparently “no comment” is a comment in itself because now everyone assumes we’re together.
Pippa was during my “how many holes can I squeeze my dick into” phase. I probably would have screwed a hole in the wall if I had thought it might help take my mind off Iris.
Which brings us to the actual reason Deck should worry about tonight’s game.
“Me and Caleb are cool.” The lie comes smoothly. “But if the media makes shit up, why should you care? More butts in seats if they think there’s drama, right?”
Deck’s too sharp for my own good. He narrows his eyes and crosses thickly muscled arms across his broad chest. I always think of him like a lion with his tawny hair and eyes. Dude is still cut up even though he’s a few years out of the league. My eating and workout regimen were the first things he adjusted when I joined the team. He may be a front office executive now, but he was a baller first. He’s hands-on with the players, and right now he’s trying to wrap his hands and head around this Caleb situation.
“If you say so, I believe you,” he finally replies after a few seconds. “But I’m trusting you to be the bigger man if he starts shit on the court tonight.”
I will my face into not giving a damn and shrug carelessly, faking nonchalance like a motherfucker. “At least you picked up on the fact that he’s an asshole,” I say. “Most are fooled by the golden boy act.”
“Why do you think I didn’t draft him?” Deck dips his head, a cynical brow raising an inch. “I know a carefully crafted image when I see one, and Caleb’s daddy’s been carefully crafting that boy since he was in diapers. Now he’s used to getting everything he wants. I’d hate to see him when he doesn’t.” He points a warning finger at me. “Thus, this little talk. The two of you always go at each other hard, and you seem to always come out on top.”
“Not always.,”
He got the girl.
And I deeply resent him for that.
I’m gonna hold my shit together with iron will and rubber bands tonight, though, no matter how he provokes me. It’ll require complete focus. I haven’t allowed myself to wonder if Iris will be at tonight’s game. It’ll be packed, and I probably won’t even know if she comes. I assume she attends his home games.
That damn lucky bastard.
To look up in the stands and know that woman is pulling for you must be the best feeling in the world. Maybe one day I’ll find out for myself, even though I know it’s not likely. They’re two shakes from getting married. They’re living together and have a kid. I understand all the odds are stacked against me, but something inside doesn’t give a damn and keeps holding out hope.
“I know you, August,” Deck continues softly. “Whatever it is that has you and Caleb snarling at each other every time you meet, keep it locked down tonight. I don’t want flagrant fouls, ejections, fights—none of that shit. Capisce?”
I swallow the defiant response swelling in my throat, a rebel yell that wants to declare I’m gonna wipe the fucking floor with Caleb. Not in a fight. Not playing dirty. No, I want to humiliate him fair and square. I want to outplay him.
Like I always do.
“Capisce,” I assure Decker before suiting up.
14
Iris
“I’ll be fine on my own,” I tell Ramone, the bodyguard Caleb assigned to Sarai and me for tonight’s game.
It’s not unusual for professional athletes as popular as Caleb to have security for them and their families, but we’ve never used it before tonight. We don’t need it, but Caleb insisted.
“Really, you don’t have to sit with me,” I say, holding onto my patience.
Ramone’s face goes from impassive to obstinate. “Protecting you is my job, Ms. DuPree,” he says, his voice as stiff as the collar of his heavily starched shirt.
“Your job?” I shift Sarai on my hip and juggle the nachos I bought as we make our way to the seats Caleb secured. “You mean just for tonight, right?”
He blinks at me as if I’ve asked him a hard question. He’s saved by the bell when someone calls my name from behind.
“Iris?” the deep voice asks again, prompting me to search the cluster of people around us. “Is that you?”
A huge smile overtakes my face when I spot Jared Foster.
“Oh my God, hi.” I take a few steps in his direction, side-eyeing Ramone, who is with me every step of the way. “So good to see you.”
“I thought that was you but wasn’t sure.” He smiles warmly, looking from me to Sarai. “And who’s this beautiful girl?”
“My daughter, Sarai.” I brush dark curls back from her forehead and drop a kiss there.
“So you’re the reason Mommy wouldn’t come work for me,” Jared says, bending to peer into Sarai’s dark blue eyes.
“Pretty much.” Regret spears through me right alongside the pride I feel when I look at my little girl. “I can’t exactly hustle and grind and travel and do all the things the internship would have required right now.”
“True.” Jared reaches into his pocket and takes out his wallet. “But maybe circumstances will change, or the job will.”
He proffers a business ca
rd to me, which I stare at like it’s Willy Wonka’s Golden Ticket. I don’t have a free hand to take the card, and I’m too shocked to, anyway.
“I’m not with Richter anymore.” He realizes my small dilemma and slides the card into the open front pocket of the baby bag hanging from my shoulder. “My cell’s on the card. When things settle some, call me.”
I glance from the card poking out from the bag to Jared’s handsome face. “I’m with Sarai’s father, Caleb Bradley, and we live here in Baltimore, so I’m not sure when I’ll be able to . . . that is to say . . .” A brittle little laugh breaks over my lips. “There are just a lot of obstacles.”
“Let nothing hold you back or keep you down,” he says, kindling my memory. “Isn’t that what you told me in our interview?”
“Yeah.” I return his smile. “I guess it is.”
He smiles, his eyes curious. “Bradley, huh? Would never have guessed.”
“You know Caleb?” Of course. Everyone knows him. “I mean, personally?”
“No, only by reputation.” Jared grimaces as if that reputation isn’t great, which makes no sense. Everyone loves Caleb. Living with him, I’ve seen the holes in the polished façade he projects to the world, but few do.
“We should get to your seats, Ms. DuPree,” Ramone says firmly, aiming a sharp look at Jared.
“Don’t let me keep you,” Jared says easily, addressing me and ignoring Ramone. “You have a beautiful daughter, Iris. Call me when she’s a little older if you decide to venture back into the workforce.”
“I will.” I hesitate a beat before asking the question that keeps turning in my head “Why? Why would you want me to come work for you? We had one interview, and I—”
“Impressed me,” he cuts in. “It wasn’t just what was on paper. It was you. Your passion for sports. Your love for basketball and your grit. Your intelligence. It all showed in that interview. A lot of people would love having you on their team, and I’m one of them.”
He looks at Ramone, who shifts impatiently from one foot to the other.
“I’d better let you go,” Jared says, amusement in his eyes. “Remember. Call me when you’re ready.”
I try not to glare at Ramone as we take our seats just a few rows behind the Stingers’ bench. He’s just doing his job. I get it, but Caleb and I definitely have to talk about this.
Even Ramone’s overbearing presence can’t dampen my spirits. Jared Foster wants me on his team. I may be closer to independence than I thought.
15
August
From tip-off, I know something is wrong with Caleb. I’ve been facing him since we were bare-faced adolescents whose voices hadn’t changed yet. I’ve studied him and know his every tell and all his triggers. Something’s different. Something’s changed. He’s even more aggressive than usual, but he’s not hiding it in sly side-plays the refs and the cameras miss. He’s more blatant and less controlled than I’ve ever seen him. Almost unhinged. Sloppy. Picking apart his game isn’t even a challenge this time, and his frustration boils to the surface and over the sides quicker than usual.
Me—I’m having the game of my damn life.
Tres. Trois. Triple.
Any way you wanna say it, I’m raining threes. There’s a zone a shooter enters where the hoop feels closer and wider, like a woman spreading herself open and making it easy for you to slip in. You hear swoosh before the ball leaves your hands. It feels like you could close your eyes and make every shot—you’re that in tune with the net. That’s the zone I’m in tonight, and for some reason, the Stingers coach leaves Caleb on me when we all know he couldn’t guard me with a sword and shield. He’s never been able to, but he always insists on trying. His ego is not only his downfall, but his team’s, because remarkably, we’re up at the half. This game does matter for them. They’ll probably make the playoffs, but they’re in the wild card position. They need to win, or other teams need to lose for them to make it. And if I have anything to say about it, they ain’t winning shit tonight.
“You guys are killing ’em,” Coach Kemp says when we huddle after halftime before the third quarter starts, his eyes fixed on me. “Keep it up.”
He’s a good leader, but everyone knows his assistant coach, Ean Jagger, is the brains behind this operation. A college injury ended Jagger’s pro hopes, but he’s a basketball savant. With his dark, closely cropped hair and black-rimmed glasses, he’s got a little bit of a Clark Kent vibe going on. Around Deck’s age, he’s one of the most respected minds in the league. Every team wooed him, and I have no idea how Decker cajoled or bribed him to slum it with an expansion squad, but thank God he did.
When we break, Jagger waves me over. I join him by the bench, tucking my jersey into my shorts.
“’Sup, Jag?” I don’t have to bend because at six foot seven, he’s got an inch on me.
“I know you’re in the zone right now.” His deep timbre rumbles low under the collective hum of the waiting crowd. “And every shot is falling, but if you go cold, we’re fucked.”
“’Scuse me?” I glance at him with a frown.
“Yeah, since you’re taking every shot, you’re the only one in rhythm,” Jagger says, the calm demeanor he’s famous for unruffled. “You start missing, no one else is ready. We all know you’re a gifted athlete, August. Don’t just show off. Show us you can lead.”
He taps his clipboard for emphasis, nailing me with a look from behind his glasses.
“You’re the point guard. The floor general. Involve your teammates more,” he says. “Slow the game down so they can catch up. Open the floor. What happened to the passing we’ve been working on all season? You’ve reverted to hoarding the ball. Where’s your head, man?”
Only Jag would hone in on these issues when, from the outside, it looks like things couldn’t be better and I’m having a stellar game.
Everything he’s said is spot on. I’m playing well, but I’m the only one playing well. That’s not the kind of team we want to be, and that’s not the kind of player I want to be. I promised myself I wouldn’t let Caleb take me out of my game, and even though I look good, it’s selfish play that’s doing it. And that’s his game, not mine.
“Good looking out.” I fist-pound him and nod. “Thanks, Jag.”
“No problem.” He pushes the glasses up his nose, looks back to his clipboard and starts marking up our next play.
I’m headed toward the floor to start the second half, when I happen to look up at the jumbotron. Some cameraman has a great eye because out of all the people in this arena, he found the two most beautiful.
Iris doesn’t seem to realize the camera is on her. “Shot Caller” is emblazoned on the front of her red T-shirt, and she bounces Sarai on her knees, making animated faces to coax her into laughing. Sarai’s little hands flap, and her fingers close around her mother’s nose. I can’t hear Iris’s laugh, but even the memory of it is like warm honey pouring over me. Her laugh is husky and full-bodied and genuine—something her soul cooks up and her heart serves.
When she finally realizes the camera is on her, and she and her daughter are on the big screen, she looks embarrassed for a second but recovers. Like the perfect baller’s chick, she looks into the camera and waves Sarai’s hand. The most angelic smile lights up the little girl’s face, sparks in those violet–blue eyes.
Even with my team up, and my highest-scoring game already on the books by halftime, disappointment singes my insides. I’m about to turn away and walk on court when Iris looks right at me. Only a few rows behind the bench, she’s close enough for me to see her eyes widen, and that gorgeous, fuckable mouth falls open the littlest bit.
If I’m off my game, so is Iris. She should have looked away by now to hide this. The camera is still on her, and in seconds, someone will connect the dots between me staring up at her and her staring back at me, but neither one of us looks away. On lonely nights, drowning in pussy instead of booze, I’ve lain awake and tried to convince myself I imagined this pull betwee
n us. But this thing that connects us may as well be a neon thread, lit up for everyone to see. It’s so tangible you could pluck it. I’m tangled up in it and can’t seem to work myself free.
“West!” Kenan calls, finally jerking my attention away. “You playing or what?”
Shit.
Our starting line-up is already on the floor, and so is the Stingers’. I’m the only one not out there. I take one last look at Iris, who is now looking at her daughter and not me, before going on the court.
When I take my spot, Caleb’s eyes are slitted. He looks from me to the stands, and there is no question he noticed the long look I shared with his baby’s mama.
What-the-hell-ever.
I put the incident behind me and grab hold of Jag’s advice. Getting my team involved, spreading the floor, and slowing down the game helps me to shake off the moment with Iris that rattled my insides.
One of our players is at the free-throw line, and Caleb and I are standing beside each other, waiting for him to take his two shots.
“You see something you like up in the stands, West?” he asks, watching the ball circle the rim before falling through the net.
I don’t respond. I think that’s best. He knows what he saw, and I don’t feel like lying to him.
“I fucked her in the ass before the game,” he says, so low only I’ll hear. “No one’s ever had her like that before. I get all her firsts. Did you know I was her first, West? I’ll be her only and her last.”
Outrage and disgust rise like bile in my throat. I glance at him, my eyes burning with hate. I squelch my fury and reach for the coldhearted, ruthless competitor who always finds a way to ruin this man’s night.
“You talk that way about the mother of your child?” I tsk and shake my head like it’s a shame. “I was gonna ease up on you, show some mercy, but now I’m gonna wipe the floor with your bitch ass.”