Hoops Holiday

by Ryan, Kennedy

  “Okay, maybe a very little,” I admit, rushing on over her laughter. “What professional athlete wearing a towel hits on a journalist in the locker room? Like, who does that?”

  “You said yourself it was ten years ago.”

  “It was humiliating, and the guys on the beat teased me about it mercilessly. It took a long time for me to live that down.” I stop pacing to face Sadie, digging in my heels literally and figuratively. “Besides, he may have been a professional athlete, but he’s a novice commentator. No damn way I’m working with him.”

  “Okay, for real, mami?” Sadie tips her head, setting a shiny dark curtain of hair in motion. “You are all caps right now and I need you lower case.”

  “Isn’t there someone else?” I perch on the end of the desk and kick my foot out to tap her knee. “Work with me here.”

  “No, there isn’t.” Sadie glares at the seaweed like it’s compelling her to pop another strand of it in her mouth. “And I couldn’t do anything to change this if I wanted to, which I don’t.”

  “You’re the producer. Of course, you have a say.”

  “Not in this one. Came from the very top.” Sadie catches the heel of the shoe I’m banging against my desk. “Hey. It’s a coup to have Deck co-hosting. He’s been doing guest spots all season, and killing it. In addition to being a basketball genius, he’s articulate and willing to learn. He may be new to commentating, but he’s a natural on camera.”

  “I know,” I admit grudgingly. “I’ve seen him.”

  “So what’s the problem? I never heard much about the towel thing after the initial hoopla.”

  “No, they ended up reassigning me, and after the initial round of teasing, it died down.” I extract my shoe from her grip and walk over to the window, no less impressed by the New York City view today than when I first landed this job and this office.

  “Then I don’t see the problem,” Sadie says from behind me.

  I don’t face her and maybe I don’t want to face myself.

  There’s always been a huge question mark over MacKenzie Decker. What would have happened if I had gone against my better judgment and taken him up on his offer of “or something”? What if I hadn’t been reassigned from his team’s beat? All I know of him has been through the news and by reputation over the years, but every time I hear his name . . . I don’t know. Something stirs in me, and I’m not sure I’m quite ready for stirring.

  So much has happened for us both, I know that encounter at his locker should be water long under the bridge. Deck won an MVP, two championships, and every award that counts. He got married. Divorced. Injured. Retired. I’m helming my own show on SportsCo, one of the biggest sports networks around. I was engaged. My brain short circuits before I go any further because I can’t deal with all the feelings today. Not about my fiancé.

  “You seem on edge. Is it . . .” Sadie’s voice is careful in the way I’ve come to hate.

  “Is it Will?”

  She can be irritatingly clairvoyant at times.

  “I’m fine.” My mouth autopilots the words, a knee-jerk response to the question people have asked me a thousand times in a thousand different ways over the last year.

  “If you need to—”

  “I said I’m fine, Sade.” I swivel a look over my shoulder that tells her not to push. For once she listens.

  “Okay. Just saying I’m here. I know things have been—” Her mother’s ring tone, Ricky Martin’s “Livin’ la Vida Loca,” interrupts. “Hold on.”

  Thank God for Mama and Ricky Martin. This is the last thing I want to discuss.

  “What, Ma?” Sadie asks, phone pressed to her ear.

  That’s the last English word from her mouth for the next five minutes since Sadie unleashes a torrent of Spanish to the woman on the other line. The only words I understand are “burrito” and “Atlanta Housewives.”

  I’m grateful for this brief reprieve from our conversation. Bad enough I have to work with Mack Decker. Now the feelings and memories that come with Will rise up and try to steal any peace, any confidence I’ve found.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Sadie says, easing back into English. “I’ll tell her.”

  “Tell me what?” I demand, leaning my back against the cool glass of my window.

  “How do you know she meant you?” Sadie lifts one perfectly threaded brow.

  “She always means me. She loves me.” I shrug. “What’d Ma say?”

  “She wants you to meet my cousin Geraldo.”

  I chortle. That’s the best way to describe the amused sound I make. I cover my mouth when Sadie glares at me.

  “Sorry, Sade.”

  “Don’t hate on my cousin, Avery.”

  “I’m sorry.” A helpless laugh belies my apology. “As a journalist, how do you expect me to take a man named Geraldo seriously? Besides, you know I have no desire to date anyone.”

  “I know it’s hard, and maybe it’s too soon for an actual relationship,” Sadie says, sympathy and determination all over her face. “But just meeting someone? That’s not so bad. I just . . . you have to move on. And you never talk about it.”

  I swallow past the guilt clogging my throat and nod quickly, dismissively. I only talk about Will to my therapist. If you aren’t charging me two hundred dollars an hour, these lips are sealed.

  “You know I’m here if you need me,” Sadie finally speaks softly and stands, nodding when my only response is a quick auto-smile. “Wanna grab something to eat?”

  “Nah.” I gesture to the open laptop planted in the spill of papers on my desk. “I got another couple hours of prep for tomorrow’s show.”

  “Speaking of which, can you come in a little early to go over things with Decker?”

  “He’s starting tomorrow?” My mouth falls open and my heart starts running like a motor. “I can go one day without a co-host. Give me a day at least to get ready.”

  “You’ve had day-of host changes before,” Sadie reminds me while she sways her hips to the door. “You’re a professional. What’s there to get ready for?”

  Even after a decade, I still recall with perfect clarity the golden-brown hair, darkened and damp from his shower, curling at the nape of his strong neck. The chiseled landscape of chest and abs. The long legs, sculpted and bronzed extending beyond the small protective square of white terry cloth. I’ve only seen Mack Decker a handful of times over the years at awards shows, events, and the like. Usually he was with his wife and I was with Will. We were always cordial and polite, but somewhere deep in the secret corners of my heart, I allowed myself the tiniest bit of disappointment that he remained a question all these years. Sure, for a few weeks after the towel incident I was humiliated and offended and pissed off.

  And flattered.

  And intrigued.

  And . . . turned on.

  Three things I don’t have time or space in my life for right now.

  “It was ten years ago, Avery,” I mumble, sitting in my chair to examine analytics for tomorrow’s show.

  Decker has always been an unanswered question. Bottom line under all my excuses, now that the opportunity may re-present itself, maybe I’m not ready for the answer.

  3

  Avery

  MacKenzie Decker’s arrogance is tailor-made, draped over him like one of his Armani suits. Fitted to his shoulders by years of fawning fans. Tapered to the broad, muscular back through a myriad of accolades, trophies, titles and championship rings. Perfectly fit to slide along the muscled length of his legs when he strides into SportsCo like he owns the place.

  He could own the place. His net worth is no secret thanks to year after year on Forbes Highest Paid Athletes list. Most of his money comes from endorsements, not the lucrative NBA contracts he netted for twelve seasons. That smile. Those eyes. That body. His charm. Fifth Avenue served him up and Main Street feasted, making him a household name practically from the moment he was drafted.

  He definitely doesn’t need this job. Maybe that’s what bothers me mo
st.

  He doesn’t need this job. I do.

  He didn’t have to work to get here. I did.

  Graduating at the top of my journalism class from Howard University, paying my dues on crowded sidelines, discarding modesty in locker rooms of naked men—I did whatever it took to get my own show. He just walks right in fresh from retirement like the party should start now that he’s here. My show is just a pit stop between his storied career and the Hall of Fame. It grinds my teeth that he sits in the seat across from me like it’s a throne. Like this is all his due and his kingdom. Like I’m his subject.

  Yeah. That’s what bothers me.

  It better not be the way his presence sizzles in the air like hot oil tossed into a frying pan. It better not be his scent, clean and male with an undercurrent of lust. Or his amber-colored eyes surrounded by a wedge of thick lashes. It better not be any of those things because I had a talk with my body this morning, and we decided by mutual agreement that I would not respond physically to this man.

  “Decker, welcome!” Sadie says, her smile unusually bright and her eyes slightly dazzled. “We’re so glad to have you.”

  That slow-building smile starts behind his eyes, quirks his sinfully full lips and creases at the corners. We’re roughly the same age. He’s a little older, so he must be thirty-five, thirty-six or so by now, and the years have been oh so kind. If it hadn’t been for a career-ending injury last year, he’d still be balling.

  “I’m glad to be here.” The voice, modulated and slightly southern, is that graveled rasp typically only earned by a few packs a day, except Decker is famously fastidious about what goes into his body, temple that it is. Nature just granted him that voice. I remind myself not to inspect all the other things nature awarded this man.

  “You know Avery of course.” The look Sadie turns on me holds a subtle threat in case I’m feeling froggy this morning. Lucky for her I had my cold brew coffee. That stuff keeps me out of jail. I’d hate to meet me without it.

  I extend my hand, which he immediately enfolds in his. It’s warm and huge. You forget how big these guys are when you watch them on television, but standing here in the well-toned flesh, Decker towers over me by at least a foot. He makes me feel small and delicate. I love feeling small and delicate . . . said no self-respecting sports reporter ever. Add that to the ever-growing list of things he makes me feel that I don’t like.

  “Good to see you again, Avery.” He looks down at our hands still clasped.

  “Yeah, you, too.” I wiggle my fingers for him to let go, and for a moment mischief breaks through his neutral expression, before he releases me and sits at the conference room table.

  “Thanks for stepping in, Deck,” Sadie says. “How’s the penthouse suite?”

  SportsCo has a great relationship with the luxury hotel across the street, often holding events and putting up guests there. I’m assuming Deck is staying in the penthouse while he’s with the show.

  “It’s great,” Deck says. “Glad I don’t have to commute from Connecticut every day.”

  “Well we wanted to make it easy for you. Let us know if you need anything.” Sadie hands us both folders. “Now did you guys get my email with the rundown of today’s show?”

  When we both nod, Sadie dives into the details. I was prepared to be unimpressed. So many athletes assume because they played their sport, they know all sports and can just hop in front of a camera and it’ll be fine. Deck obviously didn’t make that assumption. He’s prepared. And I’ve seen him commentate since he retired. He’s good.

  There’s a studied ease to him, a carefully cloaked intensity. People can’t always handle the passion it takes to do great things. I’m allergic to average and abhor mediocrity. That leaks into every aspect of my life. Type A. Driven. I’m not sure what you’d call it, but it’s all over Mack Decker, too. He was renowned for it on the court, the alpha dog leading his pack to victory by any means necessary. As we review the elements of today’s show, I look up more than once to find all of that intensity fixed on me. The dark gold stare pins me to my ergonomic leather seat. I make sure not to squirm, though it feels like, with nothing more than sex appeal and quiet tenacity, he’s holding me hostage.

  “All good?” Sadie looks between the two of us once we’re done, but her query targets me. I know this because I know Sadie. I didn’t want Decker stepping in, but even I can’t deny his professionalism and competence. And obviously he’ll be catnip for our viewers. Every excuse to not want him here keeps melting away. Eventually I’ll have to deal with the real reason I’ve resisted him as a guest host.

  But not yet.

  “Yeah.” I scribble nonsense on the pad in front of me, one of the many ways I exert my abundant nervous energy. “All sounds good to me.”

  Decker glances at the papers in front of him. “I’ll try to keep it together in the last segment when Magic Johnson comes on set.”

  “What?” The word rides a laugh past my lips. “Are you serious?”

  “I’m not allowed to lose my shit over the greatest point guard to ever lace up?” He leans back, lips twitching and arms crossed over the expanse of chest hidden beneath his crisp shirt.

  “I’m glad you qualified point guard, not shooting guard, because we’d have a problem if you don’t acknowledge Jordan as the Almighty Guard.”

  Decker’s deep-timbered chuckle moves the muscles of his throat and slides over me like a lasso, roping me in and tugging me closer.

  “I’m not having the Greatest of All Time debate with you, Avery.”

  “Good because there’s no debate about who the GOAT is.” I toss my pen on the table like a gauntlet. “You tell me anyone other than Jordan, we got a problem.”

  He expels a disdainful puff of air.

  “Then we got a problem.”

  “Heresy.” I lean forward, salivating for a good debate with a worthy opponent. “Who you got?”

  He holds up three fingers. “Wilt, Kareem and Russell.”

  “Three!” Outrage drags the word from my mouth. “How can you have three ahead of Jordan? MJ at number four is just . . . I . . . I . . . just . . .”

  “While she tries to gather her thoughts,” Sadie interjects with a grin and a glance at her phone. “I gotta take this. Thanks again, Decker. Let’s have a great first show.”

  When Sadie leaves, there’s no buffer between me and the wall of fine ass-ness that is MacKenzie Decker. It’s the first time we’ve been alone since he faced me naked in a roomful of laughing men a decade ago. I clear my throat needlessly since I have nothing to say. I felt safe with Sadie as our chaperone. Now that it’s just the two of us, I can’t remember what we were talking about with so much ease.

  “You were saying?” Decker watches me expectantly.

  “Huh?” I stall and blank-face him. “What was I saying?”

  “Greatest of all time?” he prompts, anticipation brewing in his eyes.

  “I’ll have to school you later.” I force a smile, gathering the papers in front of me, tucking them into a neat stack and pressing them to my chest. “I need to review some tape from last night’s games before the show. See you on set.”

  I walk to the door and wave over my shoulder.

  “I never got to apologize properly for the towel.”

  His words, injected seamlessly into our conversation, stunt my steps. We were doing just fine until he had to go there.

  “What?” I turn to consider him warily, half-hoping he’ll let it go, but there’s no going back now. The polite façade has fallen away, baring his curiosity, his determined frankness.

  “I said,” he pauses deliberately to make sure I’m hearing him clearly this time, “I never got to apologize properly for the towel. I know there was some teasing on the circuit afterwards.”

  “It was a long time ago,” I reply stiffly. “It’s fine.”

  “I reached out, but I wasn’t sure if—”

  “I got the messages you left at the station.” I keep my tone neutral and
project confidence. “Thank you.”

  “But you never . . .” There’s a trail of silence after his incomplete thought.

  “I was reassigned.” I shift my feet and glance into the hall beyond the conference room, signaling that I’m ready to be done with this conversation. “I knew we wouldn’t see each other much, so . . .”

  I leave a trail of my own, shrugging and hoping we can conclude this.

  “Your hair used to be curly,” he says, a grin accompanying yet another abrupt shifting of gears.

  “Yes, well—”

  “I liked it,” he cuts in, stuttering my heartbeat and drifting a glance over my hair. “It’s still beautiful this way.”

  He locks his whisky-tinted eyes with mine.

  “You’re still beautiful.”

  “Um, well, I—”

  “We should grab a drink,” he says, further disconcerting me. “Or something.”

  He drops his words from that night on me, when he wore nothing but a tiny towel and super-size bravado.

  Humor and irritation war inside me at the shared memory before I get them both under control.

  “Look, Deck . . .” I shake my head and trap my bottom lip in my teeth before going on. “It’s still a no.”

  He opens his mouth as if he has more to say, but my rigid expression must convince him he really shouldn’t.

  “Well, glad that’s all behind us.” The sorcerer smile, the one he must use to put people at ease, reappears. “I’ll let you go prepare. See you on set.”

  I nod and turn on my heel, making sure to keep my steps steady and measured, even though I want to run back to my office before he decides to press the advantage I don’t want him to know he has.

  4

  Decker

  There’s something about Avery Hughes that rubs me the right way.

  She gets me worked up. It starts, as with most men, in my pants, but in no time it reaches my other head, the one with the brain, and it’s her wit and sharp intelligence, her drive that keeps me wanting more. Even if there hadn’t been all the ribbing after the towel incident, I still would have thought about her for days after we met. She’s the kind of woman who makes an impression and lingers in your memory.