Hoops Holiday

by Ryan, Kennedy

  “God, Will.” I stare up at the ceiling, fresh, hot tears rolling into my ears and soaking my hairline. “Why did you do it? How could you do it?”

  I told Decker last night that Will died, but I didn’t tell him it was at his own hand.

  I’ve been through grief counseling. I see my therapist every week. I’ve read about suicide and depression and know all the statistics. Seventy-five percent of suicides are men. Statistically they follow through on their attempts at higher rates. Those stats spike during the holidays. All the signs were there, but I missed them. Ignored them? Denied them? I don’t know how I lived with this man and wore his ring for two years, but never knew this morbid wish was growing inside of him, a dark bud I didn’t even know had taken root.

  And every morning for the last year, I woke up with one question on my lips.

  Why?

  “The last year,” I repeat, my voice an early morning croak. “Oh, my God.”

  He’s been gone a year today. I can’t believe it, and in many ways, I feel as lost as I did the night he died.

  There’s a call I need to make. One I dread, but know I cannot avoid.

  When it rings and rolls into voice mail, I hesitate. I could call back later, but I’m not sure I can handle it today, hearing the pain in his mother’s voice. I’m ashamed to feel relief that Mrs. Hattfield doesn’t answer. Even more ashamed that I take the coward’s way out and leave a message.

  “Hi, Mrs. H,” I say after the beep. “It’s me, Avery.”

  I pause, the right words eluding me while I squeeze the cell phone like it’s the only thing anchoring me.

  “I . . . um . . . I know today is difficult for you.” I shove the words that feel so trite out of my mouth. “It’s difficult for me, too. I can’t imagine . . . I just . . .”

  My voice evaporates for a moment.

  “I miss him,” I whisper, biting my lips against a sob and pressing my eyes closed to hold onto the last image I have of him. The deathly peace he’d taken for himself.

  And it’s true. I miss the guy I knew before; the one who went down on one knee at dinner and promised me forever. I even miss the sullen man who lived in the shadows the last part of his life. I’d take Will any way I could get him just to look in his eyes, grab his hands and beg him not to do it. For me. For his mother. For himself, to reconsider living.

  “I hope you’re not alone today.” I take a second to compose myself before going on. “I know the next few weeks will be hard, Christmas will be hard without him.”

  I run one hand through my hair, frustrated that I don’t have the right words and have nothing more to say.

  “Okay, well, call me when you get this message,” I say into the mechanical silence. “Talk to you soon.”

  Losing a child, it’s the worst thing. When a child chooses to forfeit the very life you gave him, the pain must weigh even more. I wonder if she stares up at the ceiling some mornings asking why the way I do. Do her pain and grief cohabitate with a stewing rage? Does she want to drag him from the grave and shake him and call him a coward? I hate even thinking these things, but not acknowledging them to myself and at least to my therapist was ruining me. I don’t know if these thoughts make me a bad person, but I know they make me sad. And frustrated. And helpless.

  In my closet, I consider the row of beautiful dresses I could wear tonight. The last thing I want to do is go to a Christmas party, much less one Mack Decker is attending. Those moments at my door two weeks ago have been a source of torture. It wasn’t just a reminder to my body what it’s been missing, but to my emotions. That just beyond my comfort zone there may be solace for, not just my body, but for my soul.

  What was I thinking? Letting him hold me? Letting him see my vulnerability? Those moments of letting go, resting against the solidity of him; being comforted by his heart beating just beyond the wall of his chest, were some of the sweetest I’ve had in a year. It was intoxicating, and I have no intention of getting drunk on him. He’d go straight to my head. Straight to my heart and between my legs, and I’m not ready for any of that.

  I press my thighs together against a tide of want when I recall the moments that simmered between us. Waking up thinking about Will, and getting wet knowing I’ll see Deck in a few hours—it feels so wrong, but at least I’m feeling. I haven’t allowed myself to want a man since Will died. Maybe no one appealed to me the way Decker does, but he’s the first one to punch holes in the fence around me.

  I return to my selections for the party. I’ve worn the black dress to several office functions. It’s flattering and conservative. It’s the classic “little black dress” that goes everywhere and can serve many purposes. I touch the silky material of my other option. It’s a dress made of sunsets, a glorious blend of gold and red, and it still bears the tags. I’ve never worn it. The deep V neckline is outdone by the deeper V that bares my back. The bottom is narrow and tight and will be a testament of all the squats I’ve done, though my ass is mostly genetics and years of track and field. My mother and aunts have never done squats a day in their lives, and you could bounce a quarter off their butts. As good as I know the dress will look, I’m still not sure I’ll wear it. It’s a statement dress, and knowing Decker will be there tonight, I’m not quite sure what I want to say.

  8

  Decker

  “So what’s next?”

  The question catches me a little off guard. With a Jack and Coke halfway to my mouth, I pause to study Mike Dunlov, one of SportsCo’s most popular anchors.

  “I mean now that your co-hosting gig’s up,” he clarifies.

  “Little bit of this,” I answer flatly because I’m giving this guy nothing. “Little bit of that.”

  I toss back a portion of the much-needed drink. Playing pro ball allowed me to indulge many vices. I’ve had more pussy than any man has a right to in one lifetime, for example. I’m practically abstemious, though, when it comes to alcohol and what I eat. Always have been. This body was my lottery ticket, and I took care of it. But tonight, this liquor is a lifeline. It’s been a bitch of a day. Mainly because my ex is being a bitch. Bad enough she moved my daughter across the country. Now she’s making it harder for me to see her this Christmas. Changing my holiday plans because she’s still playing the same bullshit games she did when we were married had me almost skipping this party tonight. Except . . . I watch the main entrance to see if Avery has arrived yet.

  “Guy like you can write your own ticket,” Mike continues. “I mean look at how you scored this hosting gig. How’d you enjoy working with Avery, by the way?”

  His eyebrows waggle suggestively. “She’s something else, huh?”

  I stiffen, not much liking him or the look in his eyes.

  “What do you mean?” I take my time sipping a little more of my drink, watching him over the glass.

  “I mean, did you get any? We’ve all tried.” He offers a careless shrug. “Who wouldn’t try with a rack like that, but she was devoted to her fiancé. With him gone, she’s been shut down. I just thought if anyone could finally tap that, it’d be you.”

  My teeth clench around an expletive. I know for a fact Twofer blows this douche’s ratings out of the water. The respect of her colleagues is so important to Avery. Hearing him demean her this way sets me on edge.

  “You’re an asshole, you know that?” I ask, my tone deceptively calm, though my hand clamps around the glass while I imagine his little windpipe crushing under my fingers.

  “So I’ve been told.” He flashes his very-white veneers in that fake smile unsuspecting viewers fall for. “But there’s no disrespect. It has been a year, and you know what the final stage of grief is, right?”

  “Acceptance?”

  “Nope.” He leers over his scotch. “Horny. Somebody’s gotta offer her a dick to cry on.”

  I’m two seconds from smashing my glass into his skull when his eyes latch onto something over my shoulder and light up.

  “Damn,” he mutters. “I really hope we�
�ve reached the final stage.”

  He’s walking off before I process what he means, but it doesn’t take long to figure out. Across the room, he and several other anchors and network executives are buzzing around Avery like she’s a honeycomb. And I can’t blame them. Her hair is pulled up, tendrils of it licking around her neck and ears. Simple gold earrings dangle and frame the curve of her cheekbones. Her makeup is dramatic, but simple, letting her sharply-drawn features speak for themselves. The slick of gold on her lips glimmers against the light copper of her skin.

  And that dress.

  This dress has to be inspiring erections all over the room. I can only speak for mine with any confidence, but it’s pushing painfully against the flap of my suit pants.

  The color, like saffron sprinkled over her firm curves, sets off her dusky complexion perfectly. Sleeveless, the dress showcases the feminine sculpture of her arms, and the neckline dips almost to her waist, the cut of it serving her breasts up beautifully. The bodice flows into a narrow skirt that paints the dress onto the flare of her hips and the tight line of her thighs. When she turns around and walks to the bar, many eyes zero in on her departure. The dress has no back, displaying a stretch of unblemished skin from neck to waist. The skirt strains across the high arc of her ass, and my fingers itch to squeeze it while I piston in and out, anchoring us together with nothing but my hands and my dick.

  I take another measured sip, checking myself and allowing the smooth liquid to cool me off. I sound as bad as the other lechers in here. Mike may joke about her grief, but I’ve seen it up close. Even while the air sizzled with lust around us at her front door, I couldn’t ignore the sadness in Avery’s eyes. I won’t take advantage of that. If I can help it, none of these horny sons of bitches will either.

  “We do have hors d’oeuvres, you know,” Sadie says from beside me. “You don’t have to eat Avery.”

  I smile to acknowledge Sadie’s comment and her presence, but I don’t take my eyes off the only woman I’m interested in.

  “I’ve seen the food.” I glance down at Avery’s best friend. “Far less appetizing than she is.”

  “You do always look at her like she’s dessert.” Sadie giggles. She’s not usually a giggling kind of woman, so I attribute that tinkly sound to the glass of champagne. Probably not her first.

  “I don’t look at Avery like she’s dessert.” I drop the smile so she knows my intentions aren’t of the short-lived, guilty pleasure variety. “I look at her like she’s the main course.”

  That penetrates her tipsy bubble enough to widen her eyes with surprise.

  “Hmmm.” She takes another sip, brows up. “Tread carefully, if that’s the case. You’d be better off settling for dessert, Deck. Short and sweet.”

  “Do I seem like a man who settles to you?” My laugh is humorless because I’m afraid this time I might have to.

  “Avery’s been through a lot this year.” Sadie’s eyes appear suddenly slightly sober. “And she doesn’t need some player making things more complicated than they already are for her.”

  “Former player,” I say. “In every sense of the word.”

  “Would your ex-wife agree on the former?”

  “What the hell does that mean?” We trade glares over her presumption.

  “Meaning I know they don’t take the trash out of those tunnels every night, and ballers like you scoop it up, take it home, fuck it, and don’t let a wedding ring stop you.”

  “I never cheated on my wife.” I check the anger and frustration her assumptions are burning under my collar. “If you’re asking if I got ass when I was single, then let me assure you, I got ass. If you’re asking if I still get ass, then yeah. I still get ass, but if I’m in a monogamous relationship, I play one-on-one. Not that it’s any of your damn business.”

  “Avery is my damn business.” She mutters under her breath what sounds like “cabron.”

  “If you’re gonna call me a motherfucker, you can do it in English.” Humor relaxes my shoulders a little after the last few tense moments.

  “You speak Spanish?” She doesn’t look chagrined at getting caught.

  “Only enough to realize I’m being insulted from time to time.”

  Her mouth loosens into a slight grin before she looks up at me frankly.

  “Look, Avery may seem like she’s having a great time.” She waves her hand at the dance floor where Avery is dancing her ass off while managing to hold a Cosmopolitan. “But like the song says, blame it on the alcohol. The last thing she needs is some one-night stand holiday cheer.”

  “I know that.” I hate the defensive note in my voice, but I resent her thinking I’m like Mike Dunlov, looking to capitalize on Avery’s vulnerability.

  “But do you know that today is the day?” Sadie asks softly. “That her fiancé died a year ago today?”

  “Shit.” I swipe a hand over my face. “I didn’t know that.”

  I return the assessing look Sadie’s giving me, and then some. Can I trust her? Can she trust me?

  “What can you tell me about him?” I ask. “About his death?”

  “Nothing.” Sadie’s mouth tips in a wry grin. “If you’re serious about Avery being the . . . how’d you put it? Main course? Then that’s a story she needs to tell you herself.”

  “Sadie!” Jerry, a cameraman I’ve seen on set, calls from a few feet away. “Get out here and shake what your mama gave you.”

  “This may take a while.” Sadie laughs and hands me her glass. “’Cause Mama gave me a lot!”

  She shuffles off toward the dance floor. As soon as a server passes by, I set her glass and my barely-touched Jack and Coke on the tray. The party is in full swing, but I’m already thinking about the bed upstairs in my borrowed penthouse suite. Knowing how hard today has to be for Avery, there’s no way I’m leaving her at the mercy of these wolves.

  Some Mariah Carey Christmas song comes on. The one from Love Actually. Everyone starts singing along and dancing even harder. I hate dancing. I was that guy sitting in VIP balancing a girl on each leg since I didn’t really drink and definitely didn’t dance. Just posted up, which is all I plan to do tonight, too. Besides, the wall gives me a great vantage point to keep an eye on Avery. If the final stage of grief is horny, I may have to protect her from herself. With Sadie off shaking what her mama gave her, it’s up to me to keep Avery’s virtue intact. Ironic since I’ve wanted in those pants for a very long time.

  Another Mariah Carey Christmas song comes on.

  What is up with Mariah Carey and the holidays?

  Some other guy steps in to dance with Avery. She’s good, her body moving gracefully, that dress hanging on to her curves by a literal thread. If she pops it one more inch, I think we’ll have a wardrobe malfunction on our hands. Her expression is open and free like I’ve never seen it, but that could be because of the drink in her hand every time she dances by.

  A slower song comes on, and the guy pulls Avery close, his hands slipping to her hips and his palms drifting lower. She laughs up at him and steps back, shaking her empty glass and heading to the bar.

  My turn.

  “Merry Christmas.” I lean against the bar and block Avery’s view of the rest of the room.

  The smile she’s been wearing since she walked through the door wavers. Her lashes drop before she looks back up at me, that fraudulent grin firmly back in place. We’ve seen each other on set and in meetings, but since that kiss, I’ve given her the space she requested.

  “Not quite Christmas.” She sips the drink the bartender just handed her. “Another few days.”

  I glance from the alcohol to her dark, glassy eyes that, up this close, are rimmed with sorrow. “What you drinking?”

  “A lot.” Her laugh comes loud and hollow. “I’m drinking a lot.”

  “I can see that.” I clear my throat and lean a little closer. “You might want to ease up. Some of these guys are on the prowl tonight.”

  “They’re on the prowl?” The hazy eyes tu
rn defiant. “Maybe I’m on the prowl, Deck. Maybe I’m not the prey, but the hunter.”

  “Huntress, I think you mean.”

  “Hunter, huntress, whatever. I just might be prowling, so don’t worry about me.” She straightens from the bar and starts past me back to the dance floor. “Just stay out of my way.”

  I watch the steady sway of her hips as she resumes her place on the dance floor, immediately joined by Mike Dunlov. The asshole.

  “Hey, homey.” I proffer a hundred-dollar bill to the bartender between two fingers. “This is yours if you can water down her drinks when she comes back for more.”

  His eyes widen and then crinkle with a smile while he pockets the cash.

  “Sure thing.” He pours vodka into a cocktail shaker. “I feel for her. I do all SportsCo’s parties, and she and her fiancé were great together. It’s only been a year since he passed. Gotta be hard.”

  “Yeah,” I say without offering more.

  I hate discussing her like this. I’ve found myself in three conversations about how she’s handling her grief, and none of them with her. I know she’s not ready for what I’m ready for. Hell, I’m not even sure I’m ready for what I think things could be with Avery. I don’t have to be in her bed tonight, but I’d love to be in her head; to know what’s behind that hollow laugh and that out-of-body look. Like she’s here, dancing, drinking, flirting; going through all the motions, but she’s somewhere else, alone and miserable. Not really here at all.

  The deejay gears the tempo down again, and Sam Smith’s cover of “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas” comes on. Avery freezes in the middle of the dance floor, but Mike Dunlov keeps rocking, talking incessantly, barely noticing that Avery stands rigid in front of him. He misses the look of absolute devastation that twists her expression and floods her eyes. She walks off, leaving him alone wearing his confusion all over himself. I follow her path past Mike and around the corner. A few feet ahead of me, she grabs a bottle of champagne from one of the servers and steps out of sight onto the balcony.