Page 50 of On Merit Alone
Now I was thinking I should have just bit the bullet.
But I was already here, and aside from wearing these ridiculous groupie shoes, I was excited to see Ira play again.
Excited to see him again.
I have no idea what kind of chemistry was responsible for the whirling that was happening in my stomach or the tightening that appeared in my chest the more I thought of him—the more I remembered his hands on me, his body under mine, his words to me—but whatever was happening was taking control.
I thought I was sensible. That I knew how to protect myself from the inevitable, which in this case would be the disappointment that this thing with Ira would one day bring when he eventually stopped coming around. But as I sat in my designated seat for the night, nearly level with the man who’d gone out of his way to make me smile and feel better yesterday, I found that I was ready to say screw the consequences now and just deal with them when they came crashing down later.
For now I would just be here in the moment, sailing on whatever wave Ira took me.
“Big basketball fan?” a voice asked from beside me. A guy who looked to be about my age had just sat down. On the floor next to him were two beers and a small bag of popcorn. On his person he wore no team; he had on a wide-necked black polo instead of a jersey. But on his head he wore a red and white Defenders hat that read ‘KING’ with Ira’s number plastered over it.
I wasn’t surprised that this man, basketball fan that he was, had no idea who I was. We were way less popular than the Defenders in almost all categories. I’m pretty sure not many people would know me off the street. But at least when I was standing, people played the‘most likely’game and worked up to asking if I was‘some kind of athlete or something’.But I was sitting now, and this guy actually looked like he might rival me in height, though I’m sure I had him in muscle.
I didn’t blame him for the oversight. Instead I just adjusted myself in my seat and glanced politely at him as I answered, “You can say that, yeah.”
“Yeah?” he echoed, flipping a gaze my way. His first gaze was more cursory as he adjusted himself in his seat, getting situated and organizing his amenities in the way he liked. But as he settled in and saw me more clearly, he looked again. I felt slightly uncomfortable under the weight of his glance as if he was trying to figure me out or something. But I was also used to staring, and if this guy was going to stare, I knew how to tune him out. Surprisingly, he went another route. Leaning a shoulder in, he continued to speak to me. “You know, you look like you could be a ball player too.”
I couldn’t help but glance at him now, amused. Tan skin, dark hair, decently proportional face—he was good looking. And he was making an effort to talk to his seatmate. He was personable. I probably wouldn’t hate being paired up with him for the next two hours of my life.
Shrugging, I simply said, “Think so?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Not just because you seem tall, either. You have this look about you.”
“No kidding?” I asked.
“Seriously,” he said. Suddenly, the lights cut, and the bright fluorescents of the pregame spotlights started up. Clapping, the guy was clearly excited as he turned his attention toward the court once again. Leaning his shoulder over, he added, “Well, let me know if you need me to explain anything.”
“I’ll do that, thanks,” I said. Settling into my own seat, I redirected my attention to the tunnel where the home team was being announced as they started to run out.
Like my mind lately, I seemed to tune in just in time for one guy and one guy only. He was last, because of course he was. And when everyone realized he was about to be announced, the entire housestood up for him, buzzing with excitement for this fourth game of the championships.
I stood too, noting the long look from the occupant of the space beside me. We always looked smaller when we’re sitting, but I imagined when we basketball players stood, it’s like a giant stepping up to a mere mortal. Or at least that’s how people made us feel. I was actually pleasantly surprised that this guy was actually about an inch or so taller than I was, though that didn’t stop him from staring.
I didn’t have time to cast him a glare or an eye roll, though, because they were already announcing Ira with a massive drum roll and applause from the audience as they welcomed him to the stadium. I joined, clapping rhythmically as I watched the tunnel for signs of him.
“It’s time, Denver, to welcome in our star, our MVP, the leading scorer in Mountaineer Stadium history, Denver’s very own, Ira King!” Martin, the home announcer, wailed over the loudspeaker just as the crowd began to go absolutely wild. Some upbeat, popular song played over the cheers as a lone figure came running out of the artificial smoke and onto the court.
Contrary to the Ira I was coming to know, the man stepping out onto the court now was a warrior. White and red were the colors of his armor. A ball and his body his only weapon. And the look on his face—that of the same calm surety he always held but somehow sharper, more intense, more focused—fascinated me.
Ira came running out as he always did—no show, no glitz, just business. But as he ran past his teammates and took up his spot at the end of their line, they all fell away from him as if his very presence knocked them off their feet. This brought a large smile to his face, his golden aura suddenly visible as he couldn’t help but laugh at his teammates.
The boys all huddled in tight, bringing their shoulders together and their heads down as someone—probably Ira, dished out apregame chant. And then they were dispersing, stripping away their sweats and long sleeves and rolling into their warm-up shots.
The crowd began to take a seat, me along with them, but there was suddenly a camera in my face. Martin’s voice sounded excited in that announcer way as he geared up his voice for another message.
“And what a treat we have tonight, folks,” he started. “Not only do we have the first leading scorer but also the second here in the house tonight. Everybody make some noise and show some love to our lady Dynamite herself, Merit Jones!”
Since I’d signed out of Berkley my senior year of college, I’d been with the Dynamite. Over the years, I’d built up a fan base here, so it was safe to say I got some applause, though nowhere near the amount Ira got. Flattered (and put on the spot), I stood up from my half-executed seat and accepted it graciously. Curling the corners of my mouth into a small smile, I gave a short wave to the few different directions I’d heard whistles and chants from.
As I reclaimed my seat a moment later, a brief video of my most highlighted shots began playing. Mercifully, it was over pretty quickly, the guys about ready to get tipoff underway just a few minutes later.
Amongst the crowd settling down and the game beginning, I heard a soft clearing of a throat beside me. Glancing over at the guy beside me, I noticed him wincing.
“Well, now I feel pretty stupid,” he started.
I couldn’t help my chuckle. “Don’t. I’m nothing special. These guys, though…”
