Page 42 of On Merit Alone
Basketball was all I had left in the world. My parents were gone and so were the parents who raised me—my grandma and grandpa. I didn’t have the kind of personality that lent me to having great friends, and there was no time for me to keep up with romantic relationships.
That said, the possibility of not playing basketball was probably the only thing that could scare me enough to lose sleep over. For weeks that remained true as our losing streak grew and my gamecontinued to feel like I would never get it back. Yet, something else was threatening to keep me up at night.
The possibility that I would start depending on Ira King.
It was just as exciting as it was terrifying the other night, feeling so electrified by the momentum of the game that nothing and no one could stop me. Something had gotten into me after the first half—possibly the realization that Ira was right. Whether I played on my knee at one hundred percent or way less, whatever was supposed to happen would. I could either use my time on court to continue making a legacy and playing the way I wanted to be remembered, or I could go out as the player who was always afraid to re-injure themselves.
Something just clicked, and the first thing I wanted to do after feeling all the joy and triumph of getting the winandmy game back was tell Ira.
The thought freaked me out. When had he become so foremost in my mind that I thought of him while I was away? While I was enjoying special moments that were supposed to be just for me? When had he become a part of those? And why?
I couldn’t allow myself to think like that. Ira was not someone I needed to start running to when I got excited. I didn’t even know him that well, and he didn’t know me. I was sure that once he got a little more of me, he would start to see what everybody else did.
A boring, sad girl with a boring, sad life that wasn’t made to have anyone else fit into it. Life had taken my family away twice. It was clear I was meant to live it alone, and I didn’t need these thoughts of Ira King’s presence giving me notions otherwise.
Which is exactly what I told myself. But I wasn’t able to stop myself from texting him and smiling at his messages as we rode the final bus into the city from the airport, coming home from our win. A soft glow of warmth and excitement overtook me when I saw his first message, and I knew immediately without recognizing thenumber who it was. And the glow just kept expanding the longer we talked.
I told myself it wouldn’t hurt to enjoy conversation with him just as long as I didn’t start depending on him to make me feel this happiness all the time. Which was stupid, proven right away by the picture he sent of my dumb apology interview with the reporter at the stadium. I’d already forgotten about the interview Rob made me do—the one where I basically spent an hour groveling to the female sports community. Begging forgiveness for standing up for myself and spouting bullshit rhetoric about how female athletes and professionals in this community should support each other because we’re all we have.
Such bullshit.
Female athletes, sports reporters, strategists, and whatever else shouldn’t have to be our one and only support systems. Why? Because we shouldn’t have to add a chromosome specifier in front of our titles. We were just athletes, reporters, and professionals in the sports industry. The fact that nobody else supported us like we did our own was not some kind of prize; it was a problem.
Still, it was embarrassing to find that no one had forgotten my one little mishap, and now it was making its way back to Ira. Who knew what he must think of me? If he hadn’t already been made aware of what a joy I was, he surely knew now after watching that segment.
Ira was so nice. He was a smartass and sort of pushy, but he was probably one of the nicest men I’d met in this industry, and he deserved to be around nice people. Nice girls.
And nice girls didn’t insult pregnant women. Nice girls also weren’t alone all the time and weren’t given nicknames that could basically be a direct synonym for “bitch”.
Which is why, just as soon as I let myself enjoy the attention of this nice guy—I had to let it go. For his sake and mine.
But since we essentially worked together—in the same building, at least, it was hard to avoid him.
Now, I was sitting on the bleachers of the practice gym, lacing up my shoes for a short shooting practice with my headphones on blast, doing just that. Or attempting to. Sometimes, there was nothing better for blocking out unwanted thoughts than listening to your music way too loud. Unfortunately, it also blocked out the other sounds of the world. Like a grown man sitting right beside me, watching me carefully as I finished tying my shoes.
I saw him right as I began to stand, and he scared the shit out of me.Again.
Sitting next to me was Ira. Big knees spread wide as he leaned forearms on them. Curly head turned toward me as he seemed to be watching me lace up my shoes. I’m not sure if he just started sitting there or if I was just that zoned out, but his sudden presence caused me to jerk. I tried to step away, but my shoe got caught on the underside of the bleacher seat sending me sprawling.
Like lightning, Ira shot hands out to catch me. And since we were both tall giants, he probably had to use considerable effort to keep me upright. He overestimated just how much effort, and suddenly, I was landing in his lap.
Strong muscled thighs connected with my butt as I planted there. My palm went to his large shoulder and gripped tightly as I tried to balance myself. Ira had caught hold of my waist as he broke my fall, and now his hands moved lower, damn near to my hips, as he held me against him.
“Damn, Six,” he smirked. “They usually buy me dinner first.”
My eyes racked up to his in shock and horror. Quickly, I removed my hands from his shoulders and covered my mouth with them, mumbling, “Oh my God.”
Then, because my brain was on some sort of lag, it really hit me that I was sitting in Ira King’s lap.And I wasn’t trying to not be.
“Oh my God!” I repeated, moving immediately to get up.
Strong hands slid to my hips and waist to keep me in place. Only I did not stay in place. I slid down further into him, my butt slipping against his inner thigh and my hip connecting with his perpendicularly.
I squeaked—like, actually squeaked out loud, my hands still covering my mouth. My heart rate kicked up to probably about a million as I became aware of everything wrong with our positioning.
I could literally feel parts of him that I never imagined myself ever being close enough to feel, like his strong chest against my shoulder, the soft skin of his hand as it landed where my shirt had lifted, leaving the pads of his finger free to touch the skin of my waist. I could even feel him breathing against me—calm, steady, and deep—a huge contrast to my shallow, borderline panicky breaths.
What was this?
