“Hey, West. You got a second?”
I turn to face Deck. In addition to being the San Diego Waves’ president of basketball operations, he’ll also be first-round Hall of Fame. When he calls, you answer.
I hang my coat up in the locker and meet his eyes over my shoulder. A few guys mill around the Baltimore Stingers’ guest team locker room, but for the most part, we have this corner to ourselves.
“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.
