I last saw her about two years ago at a Sports Illustrated party. I’d been injured that season, and was pretty sure my NBA career was over. Even though my wife Tara stood at my side, glittering and clinging possessively, we both knew our marriage was over, too. It had been on life support for a while. We were scheduled to present a check from my charitable foundation that night, so we had to attend together, but we’d already filed the papers. Still, when I spotted Avery across the room with her fiancé, guilt chewed through my gut because I wanted to walk away from my soon-to-be-ex, snatch Avery from that dude and take her to some corner; pick up where we’d left off in that locker room.
It feels like I’ve lived a dozen lives since then. Seasons in the NBA should be measured like dog years. Not just the wear and tear on your body, but the wear and tear on your soul. Greedy people, shattered hopes, broken marriages.
Missed chances.
Avery feels like the biggest missed chance of all. Maybe she retained that mystery because I never got to know her. Never got to taste her. That night at the SI party, when our glances collided across eight years and a crowded room, I had to accept that I never would. I had only seen her a handful of times and from a distance since our first meeting, but in a moment, before she had time to disguise it, her unguarded expression told me she hadn’t forgotten. That I was still . . . something, even if it was just an annoying, awkward memory. Avery, being the consummate professional, contorted her lips into a plastic smile and turned back to the man at her side.
Only that man hasn’t been at her side the last few months. Lately, the few times I watched her show, the ring she wore that night was gone. I’m not sure what’s happened, but the ring’s not there now, and I’m assuming . . . okay, hoping . . . the man is gone, too.
When SportsCo called about subbing as Avery’s co-host on Twofer, I cancelled whatever my team had lined up to make it happen. This could get interesting . . . if Avery would let it.
If she would let me.
We’re a week in, and on camera, Avery and I have a natural connection that viewers are loving, but she’s kept me at a polite distance otherwise. When the lights go down, her guard goes up, and she presents that phony, careful neutrality she thinks will keep me out. But every day, I see a new crack in that wall she hides behind, and it only stokes my curiosity to see what’s in there. It’s time to chip away at the wall. Time to be the hammer.
I study her during our production meeting. She’s making a point to the team about a camera angle. An image of her pinned against the conference room door highjacks my imagination; my tongue plunged so deeply down her throat she’d have to beg for breath. Of me sliding to my knees and pushing that skirt past her thighs, pulling her legs onto my shoulders and roughly shoving her panties aside. Of my mouth open and worshiping between her legs. Of my face wet from her passion gushing onto me.
Puppies. Ice cream. Old people fucking.
I mentally run through the list that usually keeps a hard-on at bay, but it’s not working this time, and my dick is a pipe in my pants. I would handle this woman. I would pick her up when I kiss her. Literally sweep her off her feet and hold her by the ass. Show her what it feels like to be kissed suspended in the air. I’d press her against me so she felt how much I wanted her. Until she felt my erection and had to deal with it. Until she had to deal with me. I scoot my chair another inch under the table, struggling to rein in this fantasy.
Puppies. Ice cream. Old people fucking.
If this woman is indifferent to me, I’ll eat both my championship rings. I made my living reading plays and picking apart defenses. From my experience, people and relationships aren’t much different, and there’s no way I misread the attraction between us that badly. She’s not a woman you can rush, but I only have two weeks left on my guest stint before good ol’ dick pic returns. With so little time left on the clock, I think this calls for the full-court press. End-to-end coverage. Man-to-man defense . . . or in this case, man-to-woman. No letting up until the opponent is worn down. I live for this shit. No one can beat me at this game.
“Does that sound good?” Avery interrupts my inner pep talk, long-lashed eyes blinking at me over the cup of cold brew I’ve been bringing her every day.
What the hell are we talking about?
I glance around the conference room, packed with the crew for the production meeting. Everyone’s watching me expectantly.
“Deck?” Avery asks with a tiny frown. “I said does that sound good?”
“Hmmmm . . .” I scrunch my face like I’m pondering the subject really hard, hoping she’ll elaborate.
“I mean, if you want to do the Holiday predictions last instead,” she continues. “We totally can.”
“Nah.” Ah! The Holiday predictions. Right. “We can leave it at the top.”
She tilts her head and narrows her eyes. “You mean in the middle?”
“Middle, yeah.” I nod sagely. “Perfect place for it.”
“Well if we’re all agreed,” Sadie says, closing her laptop. “That’s a wrap.”
Everyone starts dispersing. I’ll find some reason to linger until Avery finishes the discussion she’s having with one of the show’s writers.
“Don’t worry,” Sadie whispers to me while she finishes packing her things. “She’s coming, too.”
If I take my eyes off Avery for even a second, she might dart off. That woman has become really good at avoiding me. I spare Sadie a quick glance to figure out what she’s even talking about.
“Coming where?” I ask. “Who?”
“You really were checked out.” She laughs, shaking her head and shoving her phone into her purse. “Sorry if we bore you with the details of planning the show.”
“It’s not personal.” I do an Avery check—still chatting—before looking back to Sadie. “I hate meetings. Always have, and my mind tends to drift. So, who’s going where and what’s up?”
“We’re all going to grab drinks and dinner.”
No, thanks.
“I don’t think I’ll—”
“And Avery’s coming with us,” Sadie cuts in with a knowing look.
Oh, well in that case.
“Man’s gotta eat.” She and I share a conspiratorial grin. “What gave me away?”
“Um, what didn’t?” Sadie leans against the conference room table. “Bringing her coffee every day. Not leaving any room until she does. The way you—”
“All right, all right.” I glance around self-consciously to see if anyone heard her spouting how whipped I’ve been behaving. “So, what do I do about it, since you know so much?”
“Do about it?” Her smile is just relishing the novel positon I’m in having to chase a woman.
“I didn’t think I’d ever have a shot. She was wearing some other guy’s ring the last time I saw her. I don’t want to waste my chance this time.”
The humor on Sadie’s face fades, her eyes go sober.
“Oh, Deck. You don’t know.”
“Don’t know what?”
Before she can enlighten me, Avery walks up and Sadie’s mouth snaps shut and her eyes stretch with some silent warning I’m clueless about.
“What’s with all the lollygagging?” Avery asks, playfully bumping Sadie’s shoulder, her mouth stretched into a wide grin. “We eating or what?”
I wish she’d be that easygoing with me. Despite our chemistry onscreen, I can barely get her alone long enough to have a decent conversation.
“I was just telling our friend here he should come with us.” Sadie smiles up at me. “Right, Deck?”
Avery’s grin slips, but she recovers quickly enough to offer me a polite, if stiff, smile.
“You should,” she tells me. “This place does a great dirty martini, and I love their steak.”
I rarely drink and gave up red meat years ago.
“Two of my favorite things,” I lie. “What are we waiting for?”
The prospect of a few extra hours to crack her tough outer shell has
my blood humming through my veins like it’s pre-game and I’m facing an especially challenging opponent.
We’re all crowded in the elevator on our way down, and I meet the guarded interest in Avery’s eyes I’ve become accustomed to over the last week. Not an opponent. I think we’re on the same team. I think we want the same thing. She just doesn’t know it yet.
5
Avery
Two of his favorite things, my ass.
Decker ignored the steaks, went straight for the pan roasted sea bass, and has been drinking water all night.
I take a long, grateful sip of my second martini, thanking God for whomever had the foresight to invent them. It’s a massage, a hot bath and an orgasm all shaken and stirred into one delightfully numbing concoction. And the closer we get to Christmas, the more numb I need to be.
“You look like you’re enjoying that,” Decker says, pushing his plate away.
“And it looks like you didn’t enjoy that.” I nod toward his half-eaten fish.
“No, it was delicious. I just wasn’t as hungry as I thought I was.”
“And you decided to forego the alcohol, too? Even though martinis and steak are your faves?” I shouldn’t toy with him, but it’s kind of fun watching a man so notoriously pursued by women making excuses to spend time with me, even though I’m not exactly sure what he wants.
Scratch that.
The barely concealed lust steaming in his eyes tells me what he wants. Problem is, I think I might want it, too, but I can’t. If my vagina was the only thing I had to worry about, this would be a no-brainer. Six feet and seven inches of tanned, beautiful man. What’s there to think about? But even just in our first week working together, I’ve seen a depth to him I didn’t expect. The same determination and commitment to excellence that has him Hall of Fame-bound, he’s applied to guest hosting. TV’s a steep learning curve, and I gotta give it to him. He’s doing a great job. He’s funny, sharp, thinks on his feet, and can talk any other sport almost as easily as he can basketball. For most women that wouldn’t be a turn on, but for me? Yeah, very much so. With a man like Decker, the vajayjay isn’t the only body part to consider. He could endanger my heart, and that troubled organ still hasn’t recovered from Will.
“So, seems like we have pretty much opposite picks for every prediction,” Decker says, leaning back in his seat.
“Prediction?” I snap out of my own thoughts and tune into our conversation. “What do you mean?”
“For the Holiday Picks segment.” Decker lifts his brows, waiting for me to catch up. “For next week’s show.”
“Oh, yes,” I deadpan, warming to a subject I’m comfortable discussing. “Shocking that we’re at odds.”
“I know, right?” He leans forward to rest his elbows on the table and turns his body toward me, effectively blocking out the rest of the table. “We both have the Wolves and the Sabers going to the NCAA Championship, but I have the Wolves winning. You picked the Sabers.”
“Yeah, because Caleb Bradley and the Sabers took it last year,” I remind him. “What makes you think they won’t do it again?”
“August West makes me think they won’t do it again. If West hadn’t sprained his ankle last year, he could have taken it then. He’s got that killer instinct.”
“If we’re both right and they both advance, it’ll be one helluva final no matter who comes out on top.”
“It’ll be West. Mark my words. I recognize a champ in the making when I see one. Caleb Bradley may be the All-American Golden Boy, but August is the one to watch.”
His smile is smug, but I can’t help smiling in return. It’s basketball. I know my shit, but he’s lived it and has two championships to show for the years he put into the League.
“Who am I to disagree? You are the future Hall of Famer.” My sarcasm delivers the compliment backhanded.
“Don’t you forget it,” he replies with a chuckle.
“Did you always know you wanted to play ball?” I shock myself by asking. I don’t do lengthy conversations with this man. Or at least I haven’t over the last week. This martini must be dirtier than I thought. It’s going to my head. As long as it doesn’t start heading south, we should be okay.
“Always.” He shrugs. “Honestly it could have gone either way. Basketball or football. I had looks for both.”
“You were scouted for both sports? College?”
“Yeah, I played both even through high school, but it came to the point I had to choose.”
“What position did you play? Football, I mean, obviously.” Everyone knows he’s one of the greatest point guards to ever play basketball.
“What do you think I played?” He props his chin in his hand, the bourbon-flavored eyes brimming with curiosity. About me.
“Hmmm.” I tip my head and squint one eye, assessing. “Your leadership skills are off the chart.”
“Well thank you.” He dips his head and smiles to acknowledge the compliment.
“You don’t follow others well.”
His smile falters, and he glares at me, even though there’s still humor in his eyes.
“You always think you know best,” I continue, enjoying this more by the second. “And you love ordering people around.”
“Okay, maybe I should just tell you before you really hurt my feelings.”
“Like I could,” I scoff.
He doesn’t answer, but looks down at the table, a smile curling the corners of his wide, sensual mouth.
“Quarterback,” I say triumphantly. “Am I right?”
His laugh is richer than the chocolate ganache I ordered, but shouldn’t eat.
“God, I wish I could say you’re wrong,” he admits with a grin. “Yeah, quarterback.”
“I knew it.” I brush my shoulders off.
“Uh huh. Now who’s the know it all?”
“Oh, I don’t deny it.” I take a sip of my neglected drink. “I always assume I have the right answer.”
“I have observed that over the last week.” He shoots me a speculative glance before continuing. “There’s a lot I haven’t learned, though.”
The vodka seems to pause midway down my throat. I cough a little and wait for him to start the questions I’ve seen in his eyes for days.
“Like did you play any sports yourself?” he asks.
I breathe a little easier. This is comfortable territory.
“Track and field.”
“Ahhh.” He nods as if answering himself. “That explains it.”
“Explains what?” I ask, taking another sip.
His eyes burn a trail over my neck and breasts until the table interrupts his view.
“Your body.”
I cough again, reaching for a napkin to wipe my mouth.
“My-my body?” I hate how breathy I sound all of a sudden. With a few well-placed words and a look, he has me sputtering and simmering.
“I’m sure you know women who run track and field often develop a certain body type,” he says, leaning forward until I can’t see much of anything beyond the width of his shoulders. “Lean arms.”
Even though my arms are hidden beneath my blouse, my skin heats up when he runs his eyes over them.
“Muscular legs,” he continues, locking his eyes with mine. “A tight, round—”
“I’m aware,” I cut in, “of what my body looks like. I see it every day.”
“Wish I could say the same.”
My face heats up. I know a blush doesn’t show through my complexion, but judging by the way his grin goes wider and wickeder, it doesn’t take color in my cheeks to tell him I’m heating up.
“So, you chose basketball.” I shift the conversation back to safer ground that won’t burn under my feet like hot coals.
“Yes.” His grin lingers, but he indulges my redirection. “All through college.”
“And then the NBA,” I add.
“Yeah, if you work hard as hell and sacrifice just about everything else in your life, dreams really do come tr
ue.” He grimaces. “At least some of them do.”
I heard about his divorce, but don’t want to assume that’s what he means. He glances up, a wry twist to his lips.
“You wear your questions all over your face, Avery.”
I huff a short laugh. “Do I?”
“I did have a dream other than basketball, if you’re curious.” His shoulders lift and fall, but they seem to be lifting more weight than he lets on. “I wanted a wife, kids, the whole package.”
“And you got them, right?” I ask softly.
I want to ask what went wrong. I wonder if that question is on my face, too, because he answers without me voicing it.
“Tara, my ex, and I didn’t as much grow apart, as we never should have been together.”
I’ve thought that of Will and me many times. Wondered if things would have ended differently if he’d never met me. Sometimes it keeps me up at night. Sometimes it’s the first thing I think about when I wake up.
“Statistically, half of all married couples would say the same thing.” I smile my sympathy. “And kids? I heard you had a daughter.”
“Yeah, my little girl Kiera.” The rugged lines of his face noticeably soften. “You wanna see?”
I nod, surprisingly eager to see how his DNA played out on a little female face.
“Oh, she’s so pretty, Deck,” I whisper, my eyes glued to his phone screen. She’s blonde and looks uncannily like the woman I saw Decker with at a Sports Illustrated party a couple of years ago. Her eyes, though, are golden brown, just like her father’s. I glance up from the phone.
“She has your eyes.”
“That’s about it.” He chuckles, accepting his phone and glancing affectionately at the picture before setting it on the table. “I can’t take much credit for how beautiful she is.”
I look away, afraid my eyes would betray my thoughts as clearly as he said he could see them. Afraid he’ll see that I think he’s the most beautiful specimen I’ve ever encountered. That sometimes during the show, I almost lose my train of thought wondering how his tawny hair would feel wrapped around my fingers. That in just a week, I’ve memorized the curve of his mouth and how he smells. Not his cologne, but that rawer scent made from nothing but skin and bone and him that rests just below the veneer of civilization we all wear.
Hoops Holiday Page 3