Page 9 of On Merit Alone
Trying to ignore him, I ran quickly through my ritual and took a shot.
Miss.
“What does it matter?” I growled, more annoyed with the bad shot than this guy, although he was pretty damn annoying too. “Who even are you? This is my court time. Nobody else is supposed to be out here.”
“This is nobody’s court time since the gym is closed,” he corrected. “And before you ask why it matters again… it doesn’t. At least not to me, anyway. But it should to you.”
The entire time he talked, I shot. And you know what? I missed every single one. I barely refrained from a growl as I jogged to pick up more balls.
“And why is that?” I asked, taking two more shots and missing both. Turning toward him, I placed a hand on my hip and huffed an exasperated breath. “Since you think you know everything, that is.”
With those same fluid movements, he leaned down and picked up a stray ball at his feet. Then he passed it to me.
Definitely a player, I thought as I caught the pass. If his heightand build alone hadn’t given it away, the strength and form behind that pass solidified it. Instead of torturing myself by trying to find out who again, I turned back to the basket and attempted another shot.
Miss.
I grunted my frustration quietly, suddenly feeling embarrassed with a bystander watching my sudden bad streak.
“Because you’re not doing yourself any favors by overworking yourself.” His voice had such a sure, nonchalant quality about it. Like he was certain I was doing the wrong thing while what he had to say was surely right. It irked me.
“I’m a professional athlete. My job is to practice these shots.”
“But you have a game tomorrow,” he repeated.
“Oh my god, I know my own schedule. I’m aware I have a game tomorrow. What I’m not aware of is your point.” And there I went, going zero toMerit’s-annoyed-againin minutes.
Great. Record timing.
“And you had a game today,” he repeated in that tone that made me sound like I was the idiot here. Even though he was just repeating the same things over and over. The look I gave him must have said what I was thinking because he raised two hands up in surrender. “I’m just saying. Maybe you’re overdoing it.”
An incredulous sound fell from my mouth as I glared. He had a lot of nerve. “Did you happen toseeany of today’s game?”
Rolling my eyes away from him, I scoffed out a sarcastic laugh. “Never mind.Of courseyou didn’t. Well, let me tune you in. All of the shots I’m supposed to make in my sleep, I missed. All of the shots I’m supposed to make with my eyes closed, I missed those too. I even missed the ones a beginner can make. So yes, I’m out here after a game and before another one because Ineedto be. And I know you Defenders don’t know anything about this, but I’m paid to make baskets. I don’t make those baskets, I’m out of a job. I’m out of a career, I’m out of alife. Okay? So pleasego try to Coach Carter someone else and get the hell out of my face.”
Silence. Long beats of it passed between us as my awkward, oversharing blowup hung in the air between us.
It’s important to note that this was not my M.O. I didn’t usually go around blowing up on shadowed figures or taking malicious shots at mostly innocent reporters. I didn’t usually go around doing much of anything other than my job. Only, my job had been stressful lately. The transition back into playing after my injury was not going as smoothly as I would have hoped, and basketball was my everything. I felt like I was losing myself with every new game we lost. If I lost this, what more did I have left?
I couldn’t believe I’d blown up like that. That I kept doing so. The only thing saving me from complete embarrassment was that this guy didn’t seem like he was going to step any closer. Not knowing who it was somehow made my confession less embarrassing. That and the fact that I refused to look his way again. Instead, I jogged to balls, took shots, and dodged balls the mysterious shadow player tried to pass me.
Yeah, no. We weren’t playing that game. It was annoying enough that he was here in the first place. We weren’t roleplaying player and coach while we were at it.
Successfully tuning out his stares, I was finally able to get a groove going again. Nine shots made, one more to get. That’s when he spoke again.
“I’ve seen your games, Six,” he started. The smooth murmur of his voice caused me to miss automatically, but I was determined to ignore him. “You start to miss toward the end of each half, probably because you’re tired since they’re playing the hell out of you. Your knee looks pretty strong until then. After, you start to bend weird. You wobble, and you favor one side. It’s throwing off your whole rhythm.”
I can’t describe how hot my body felt at that moment. Angerand annoyance bubbling so fast to the surface it left me speechless. I could only turn slowly in his direction.
Being a professional athlete meant you opened yourself up to public criticism almost as a staple of the industry. It was one of the only careers I knew where people made it their absolute business to tell you how to do the job you’d been doing for years. Nothing was more irritating than being told what I should and shouldn’t be doing on the court by anyone other than my coaches.
Which is probably why my voice sounded so throaty and raw when I finally spoke to him again. “Excuse me?”
Holding those stupid big hands up again, he had the nerve to laugh. “I didn’t mean to offend.”
“Well, youdid,” I said.
“Alright, alright,” he breathed. His easy voice didn’t sound any different backing down than it did when he had the audacity to criticize me a second ago. It grated in its casualty. He took a big step away. “Don’t worry, I’m leaving now.”
