Page 21 of Rookie Season
I whistle—Mariah Carey—as I go in search of the toaster.
I’m suddenly starving again.
6
CLAY
A guy with two world championships and more all-star appearances than anyone deserves to have should be unmovable. A rock. A fortress.
But when Nova says, “Strip,” I do it faster than I can get off a shot from the elbow.
“How’s the knee?” she asks.
“I’m thirty-five, not seventy,” I grunt.
My wife lifts a brow but otherwise doesn’t acknowledge my protest.
Our room is compact but surprisingly comfortable. There’s a woodstove on one wall, a rug on the floor, and most importantly, a bed big enough for both of us.
Sure, I take up three quarters of it.
I sit on the edge of the bed, the mattress creaking under me, and drag up one pant leg. “I was looking forward to a couple days without the training staff.”
Nova prods my knee with her fingers. She’s not a physio, but she’s learned as much about it and my injury as she can since we’ve been together.
My wife’s an artist, first, last, always. Since we met, I’ve been drawn to the way she sees the world, back when she was running away from her past and finding her future. Her art has always given her a way to look at other people and life.
I hope I’m every bit as supportive of her as she is of me.
“You’re cleared for duty,” she decides, straightening.
At her full height, with me seated, our faces are level.
Convenient.
“Good. I’m ready to give you exactly what you need.” I grab her waist and drag her into my lap.
There’s no time I’m not interested in getting my wife naked. It’s one thing to focus on the court when we have a game to play, but we’re officially off duty until tomorrow. No number of teammates or dinners or planned fun would beat time with Nova.
Preferably naked.
Her pink hair splayed over my tattoos…
“Not that kind of duty! Get your boots.”
My fantasy evaporates. “Thought we were wrapping presents?”
“We are.”
I follow her downstairs, and we dress in our outdoor stuff. I hold the door, and we step outside into the snow.
“It’s so beautiful here!” she calls, clutching the basket she found in the kitchen.
“What’re we looking for?”
“Anything pretty that’s fallen off the trees.” Nova paces toward the edge of the forest, bends, and triumphantly holds up a pinecone.
“You’re the expert in artistic things.”
