Team Player: A Sports Romance Anthology

by Adriana Locke

  “Thanks a lot, asshole,” she mutters, jerkily adjusting the bag on her shoulder.

  “Yeah,” I agree, shaking my head. “He’s a piece of work.”

  “I meant you,” she says, exasperation evident in her tone “You’re the asshole.”

  “Me?” I thrust my thumb into my naked chest. “What’d I do?”

  “Could you just . . .” she sputters, and gestures in the general area of my groin. “Hold onto your little towel? Those are my colleagues. Do you have any idea how hard it is for a woman in this field? To earn their respect as an equal?”

  My mouth opens to commiserate, but I never get the chance.

  “The answer is no,” she barrels over my would-be response. “You have no idea because you’ve been catered to and coddled since you made your first triple-double in high school. Those other reporters don’t have to worry about being pinched or grabbed on the sly. It doesn’t bother them conducting interviews with half-naked men, which I don’t mind either until one of them pulls me into a corner and asks for a drink ‘or something.’”

  I let those words sink into the quiet that collects around us after her diatribe. By any reasonable measure, this would be considered a rough start, but I’ve never met a woman who could resist my charm, my smile, my good humor. My tanned half-naked body. If I’m a betting man, I don’t think Avery can either.

  “Soooooo . . . you’ve been following me since high school?” I break out my fail-proof grin. “That’s really flattering. I didn’t realize you were a fan.”

  “I’m not a fan,” she snaps. “And if I were I’d be pretty disappointed with your sorry performance on the floor tonight.”

  “Hey now.” My grin slips. “You don’t have to get personal. That’s my career we’re talking about.”

  She turns to leave, tossing the last words over her shoulder. “And this is mine.”

  I stand there like an idiot, thinking of all the ways I could arrange to meet her. I’m sure I’ll see her on the regular from now on if she’s assigned to this beat. I dry the last of the water from my aching body and pull on my T-shirt and sweats before I head to the hotel alone. I’m not worried that it didn’t happen for Avery and me tonight.

  Maybe I’m being cocky, but I’m sure it won’t take long.

  It never does.

  2

  Avery- Ten. Years. Later

  “I’m convinced the fundamental problem of society is technology evolves much faster than the male brain.”

  I aim the words at my producer and best friend Sadie, meeting her eyes over my iPad.

  “How else do you explain dick pic scandals? Something as simple as not sending pictures of your dick because it could cost you an election, a career, a marriage—men just cannot grasp. It’s like this ancient urge to prove to a pride of lions you have a bigger dick. Only instead of pissing on things, they send images of their penis out into the ether.”

  I point to yet another post about my co-host’s Junk Gate. “I thought Gary was smarter than this.”

  Sadie walks to the desk and peers over my shoulder at the screen.

  “I thought Gary was bigger than this,” she says.

  Our inelegant snorts meet in the quiet of my office.

  “I had my suspicions.” I set the iPad down and whirl my seat around a few times. “He’s got that look small-dick men always have.”

  “What look do men with small dicks have?”

  “Girl, if you’ve never seen it,” I say, stopping my spinning chair long enough to offer a wry grin. “Count yourself lucky.”

  “As much as I’m enjoying all this girl talk at Gary’s expense,” Sadie says, dark eyes sobering in her pretty face. “We need to discuss what this means for Twofer.”

  “They’re not firing him from the show, are they?” I stop grinning and grip the edge of my desk. “I mean, yeah. It’s bad and indiscrete and embarrassing, but surely not a fire-able offense.”

  “No, not firing, but it does violate the conduct clause in his contract, and it’s not his first time.” Sadie leans back in the seat across from me, linking her hands over her stomach. “And it’s definitely a distraction the show doesn’t need, so they’re suspending him for three weeks.”

  “I figured as much. I hope, for his sake, it was worth it.” A rueful grin pulls one corner of my mouth back into humor briefly before uncertainty drags it back down. “So how will we handle his absence? Rotating guest hosts? Me solo?”

  “Not solo. Twofer’s popularity is built on the back and forth of opposing perspectives. We need a guest host, just while Gary’s gone.” Sadie shakes her head and leans forward to grab and munch some of the salted seaweed I was snacking on before she arrived. “This stuff tastes like literal shit. You’re aware?”

  “Focus. You can’t just say I’m getting some guest host and not tell me who, like right away. Who is it?”

  “Someone the audience will love tuning in to see.”

  “Who?”

  “Someone credible.”

  “Who, Sadie?”

  “Someone handsome.”

  “What’s handsome got to do with journalism?”

  Sadie slants me a knowing look. It’s not just journalism. It’s television, and looks mean a lot too often even in sports. I have enough firsthand experience with producers’ requests and standards to understand the look she’s giving me. When we first started the show two years ago, SportsCo executives asked me to “consider” pressing my hair for a more “polished” look and said they “loved my weight” just where it was. I doubt very seriously they had those conversations with my male co-host.

  “Okay. You’re right. Looks count,” I concede. “So he’s handsome. Who?”

  “Retired. He’s a future Hall of Famer,” Sadie mumbles around a mouthful of the seaweed she insists is vile.

  “Which sport?” I ask cautiously. Some retired athlete coming on my show who doesn’t know jack shit about not just playing sports, but analyzing them, debating them, covering them is not what I need on my set.

  “We’re playing ba-sket-baaaaaall,” Sadie sings the famous Kurtis Blow refrain

  and seesaws her shoulders.

  Hmmm. Credible. Handsome. Basketball. Retired. Future Hall of Famer.

  “No!” The word cannons from my mouth with fire power. “Not—”

  “Mack Decker,” Sadie finishes, her smile satisfied. “We got Mack Decker.”

  “Then un-get Mack Decker.” I stand and pace, my go-to when something bothers me intensely, as the worn path in front of my desk attests. “He’s arrogant, conceited, self-important—”

  “Is this about that towel incident?” Sadie’s evil grin hopes it is.

  “That was ten years ago. Of course not.”

  Sadie’s steady stare bores holes into my face.

  “Okay, maybe a very little,” I admit, rushing on over her laughter. “What professional athlete wearing a towel hits on a journalist in the locker room? Like, who does that?”

  “You said yourself it was ten years ago.”

  “It was humiliating, and the guys on the beat teased me about it mercilessly. It took a long time for me to live that down.” I stop pacing to face Sadie, digging in my heels literally and figuratively. “Besides, he may have been a professional athlete, but he’s a novice commentator. No damn way I’m working with him.”

  “Okay, for real, mami?” Sadie tips her head, setting a shiny dark curtain of hair in motion. “You are all caps right now and I need you lower case.”

  “Isn’t there someone else?” I perch on the end of the desk and kick my foot out to tap her knee. “Work with me here.”

  “No, there isn’t.” Sadie glares at the seaweed like it’s compelling her to pop another strand of it in her mouth. “And I couldn’t do anything to change this if I wanted to, which I don’t.”

  “You’re the producer. Of course, you have a say.”

  “Not in this one. Came from the very top.” Sadie catches the heel of the shoe I’m banging a
gainst my desk. “Hey. It’s a coup to have Deck co-hosting. He’s been doing guest spots all season, and killing it. In addition to being a basketball genius, he’s articulate and willing to learn. He may be new to commentating, but he’s a natural.”

  “I know,” I admit grudgingly. “I’ve seen him.”

  “So what’s the problem? I never heard much about the towel thing after the initial hoopla.”

  “No, they ended up reassigning me, and after the initial round of teasing, it died down.” I extract my shoe from her grip and walk over to the window, no less impressed by the New York City view today than when I first landed this job and this office.

  “Then I don’t see the problem,” Sadie says from behind me.

  I don’t face her and maybe I don’t want to face myself.

  There’s always been a huge question mark over MacKenzie Decker. What would have happened if I had gone against my better judgment and taken him up on his offer of “or something”? What if I hadn’t been reassigned from his team’s beat? All I know of him has been through the news and by reputation over the years, but every time I hear his name . . . I don’t know. Something stirs in me, and I’m not sure I’m quite ready for stirring. So much has happened for us both, I know that encounter at his locker should be water long under the bridge. Deck won an MVP, two championships, and every award that counts. He got married. Divorced. Injured. Retired. I’m helming my own show on SportsCo, one of the biggest sports networks around. I was engaged. My brain short circuits before I go any further because I can’t deal with all the feelings today. Not about my fiancé.

  “You seem on edge. Is it . . .” Sadie’s voice is careful in the way I’ve come to hate.

  “Is it Will?”

  She can be irritatingly clairvoyant at times.

  “I’m fine.” My mouth autopilots the words, a knee-jerk response to the question people have asked me a thousand times in a thousand different ways over the last year.

  “If you need to—”

  “I said I’m fine, Sade.” I swivel a look over my shoulder that tells her not to push. For once she listens.

  “Okay. Just saying I’m here. I know things have been—” Her mother’s ring tone, Ricky Martin’s “Living La Vida Loca,” interrupts. “Hold on.”

  Thank God for Mama and Ricky Martin. This is the last thing I want to discuss.

  “What, Ma?” Sadie asks, phone pressed to her ear.

  That’s the last English word from her mouth for the next five minutes since Sadie unleashes a torrent of Spanish to the woman on the other line. The only words I understand are “burrito” and “Atlanta Housewives.”

  I’m grateful for this brief reprieve from our conversation. Bad enough I have to work with Mack Decker. Now the feelings and memories that come with Will rise up and try to steal any peace, any confidence I’ve found.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Sadie says, easing back into English. “I’ll tell her.”

  “Tell me what?” I demand, leaning my back against the cool glass of my window.

  “How do you know she meant you?” Sadie lifts one perfectly threaded brow.

  “She always means me. She loves me.” I shrug. “What’d Ma say?”

  “She wants you to meet my cousin Geraldo.”

  I chortle. That’s the best way to describe the amused sound I make. I cover my mouth when Sadie glares at me.

  “Sorry, Sade.”

  “Don’t hate on my cousin, Avery.”

  “I’m sorry.” A helpless laugh belies my apology. “As a journalist, how do you expect me to take a man named Geraldo seriously? Besides, you know I have no desire to date anyone.”

  “I know it’s hard, and maybe it’s too soon for an actual relationship,” Sadie says, sympathy and determination all over her face. “But just meeting someone? That’s not so bad. I just . . . you have to move on. And you never talk about it.”

  I swallow past the guilt clogging my throat and nod quickly, dismissively. I only talk about Will to my therapist. If you aren’t charging me two hundred dollars an hour, these lips are sealed.

  “You know I’m here if you need me,” Sadie finally speaks softly and stands, nodding when my only response is a quick auto-smile. “Wanna grab something to eat?”

  “Nah.” I gesture to the open laptop planted in the spill of papers on my desk. “I got another couple hours of prep for tomorrow’s show.”

  “Speaking of which, can you come in a little early to go over things with Decker?”

  “He’s starting tomorrow?” My mouth falls open and my heart starts running like a motor. “I can go one day without a co-host. Give me a day at least to get ready.”

  “You’ve had day-of host changes before,” Sadie reminds me while she sways her hips to the door. “You’re a professional. What’s there to get ready for?”

  Even after a decade, I still recall with perfect clarity the golden-brown hair, darkened and damp from his shower, curling at the nape of his strong neck. The chiseled landscape of chest and abs. The long legs, sculpted and bronzed extending beyond the small protective square of white terry cloth. I’ve only seen Mack Decker a handful of times over the years at awards shows, events, and the like. Usually he was with his wife and I was with Will. We were always cordial and polite, but somewhere deep in the secret corners of my heart, I allowed myself the tiniest bit of disappointment that he remained a question all these years. Sure, for a few weeks after the towel incident I was humiliated and offended and pissed off.

  And flattered.

  And intrigued.

  And . . . turned on.

  Three things I don’t have time or space in my life for right now.

  “It was ten years ago, Avery,” I mumble, sitting in my chair to examine analytics for tomorrow’s show.

  Decker has always been an unanswered question. Bottom line under all my excuses, now that the opportunity may re-present itself, maybe I’m not ready for the answer.

  3

  Avery

  MacKenzie Decker’s arrogance is tailor-made, draped over him like one of his Armani suits. Fitted to his shoulders by years of fawning fans. Tapered to the broad, muscular back through myriad accolades, trophies, titles and championship rings. Perfectly fit to slide along the muscled length of his legs when he strides into SportsCo like he owns the place.

  He could own the place. His net worth is no secret thanks to year after year on Forbes Highest Paid Athletes list. Most of his money comes from endorsements, not the lucrative NBA contracts he netted for twelve seasons. That smile. Those eyes. That body. His charm. Fifth Avenue served him up and Main Street feasted, making him a household name practically from the moment he was drafted.

  He definitely doesn’t need this job. Maybe that’s what bothers me most.

  He doesn’t need this job. I do.

  He didn’t have to work to get here. I did.

  Graduating at the top of my journalism class from Howard University, paying my dues on crowded sidelines, discarding modesty in locker rooms of naked men—I did whatever it took to get my own show. He just walks right in fresh from retirement like the party should start now that he’s here. My show is just a pit stop between his storied career and the Hall of Fame. It grinds my teeth that he sits in the seat across from me like it’s a throne. Like this is all his due and his kingdom. Like I’m his subject.

  Yeah. That’s what bothers me.

  It better not be the way his presence sizzles in the air like hot oil tossed into a frying pan. It better not be his scent, clean and male with an undercurrent of lust. Or his amber-colored eyes surrounded by a wedge of thick lashes. It better not be any of those things because I had a talk with my body this morning, and we decided by mutual agreement that I would not respond physically to this man.

  “Decker, welcome!” Sadie says, her smile unusually bright and her eyes slightly dazzled. “We’re so glad to have you.”

  That slow-building smile starts behind his eyes, quirks his sinfully full lips and creases at t
he corners. We’re roughly the same age, so he must be thirty-four, thirty-five by now, and the years have been oh so kind. If it hadn’t been for a career-ending injury last year, he’d still be balling.

  “I’m glad to be here.” The voice, modulated and slightly southern, is that graveled rasp typically only earned by a few packs a day, except Decker is famously fastidious about what goes into his body, temple that it is. Nature just granted him that voice. I remind myself not to inspect all the other things nature awarded this man.

  “You know Avery of course.” The look Sadie turns on me holds a subtle threat in case I’m feeling froggy this morning. Lucky for her I had my cold brew coffee. That stuff keeps me out of jail. I’d hate to meet me without it.

  I extend my hand, which he immediately enfolds in his. It’s warm and huge. You forget how big these guys are when you watch them on television, but standing here in the well-toned flesh, Decker towers over me by at least a foot. He makes me feel small and delicate. I love feeling small and delicate . . . said no self-respecting sports reporter ever. Add that to the ever-growing list of things he makes me feel that I don’t like.

  “Good to see you again, Avery.” He looks down at our hands still clasped.

  “Yeah, you, too.” I wiggle my fingers for him to let go, and for a moment mischief breaks through his neutral expression, before he releases me and sits at the conference room table.

  “Thanks for stepping in, Deck,” Sadie says. “How’s the penthouse suite?”

  SportsCo has a great relationship with the luxury hotel across the street, often holding events and putting up guests there. I’m assuming Deck is staying in the penthouse while he’s with the show.