Team Player: A Sports Romance Anthology

by Adriana Locke

  “Oh, yes,” I deadpan, warming to a subject I’m comfortable discussing. “Shocking that we’re at odds.”

  “I know, right?” He leans forward to rest his elbows on the table and turns his body toward me, effectively blocking out the rest of the table. “We both have the Wolves and the Sabers going to the NCAA Championship, but I have the Wolves winning. You picked the Sabers.”

  “Yeah, because Caleb Bradley and the Sabers took it last year,” I remind him. “What makes you think they won’t do it again?”

  “August West makes me think they won’t do it again. If West hadn’t sprained his ankle last year, he could have taken it then. He’s got that killer instinct.”

  “If we’re both right and they both advance, it’ll be one helluva final no matter who comes out on top.”

  “It’ll be West. Mark my words. I recognize a champ in the making when I see one. Caleb Bradley may be the All-American Golden Boy, but August is the one to watch.”

  His smile is smug, but I can’t help smiling in return. It’s basketball. I know my shit, but he’s lived it and has two championships to show for the years he put into the League.

  “Who am I to disagree? You are the future Hall of Famer.” My sarcasm delivers the compliment backhanded.

  “Don’t you forget it,” he replies with a chuckle.

  “Did you always know you wanted to play ball?” I shock myself by asking. I don’t do lengthy conversations with this man. Or at least I haven’t over the last week. This martini must be dirtier than I thought it was. It’s going to my head. As long as it doesn’t start heading south, we should be okay.

  “Always.” He shrugs. “Honestly it could have gone either way. Basketball or football. I had looks for both.”

  “You were scouted for both sports? College?”

  “Yeah, I played both even through high school, but it came to the point I had to choose.”

  “What position did you play? Football, I mean, obviously.” Everyone knows he’s one of the greatest point guards to ever play basketball.

  “What do you think I played?” He props his chin in his hand, the bourbon-flavored eyes brimming with curiosity. About me.

  “Hmmm.” I tip my head and squint one eye, assessing. “Your leadership skills are off the chart.”

  “Well thank you.” He dips his head and smiles to acknowledge the compliment.

  “You don’t follow others well.”

  His smile falters, and he glares at me, even though there’s still humor in his eyes.

  “You always think you know best,” I continue, enjoying this more by the second. “And you love ordering people around.”

  “Okay, maybe I should just tell you before you really hurt my feelings.”

  “Like I could,” I scoff.

  He doesn’t answer, but looks down at the table, a smile curling the corners of his wide, sensual mouth.

  “Quarterback,” I say triumphantly. “Am I right?”

  His laugh is richer than the chocolate ganache I ordered, but shouldn’t eat.

  “God, I wish I could say you’re wrong,” he admits with a grin. “Yeah, quarterback.”

  “I knew it.” I brush my shoulders off.

  “Uh huh,” he teases. “Now who’s the know it all?”

  “Oh, I don’t deny it.” I take a sip of my neglected drink. “I always assume I have the right answer.”

  “I have observed that over the last week.” He shoots me a speculative glance before continuing. “There’s a lot I haven’t learned, though.”

  The vodka seems to pause midway down my throat. I cough a little and wait for him to start the questions I’ve seen in his eyes for days.

  “Like did you play any sports yourself?” he asks.

  I breathe a little easier. This is comfortable territory.

  “Track and field,” I answer without hesitation.

  “Ahhh.” He nods as if answering himself. “That explains it.”

  “Explains what?” I ask, taking another sip.

  His eyes burn a trail over my neck and breasts until the table interrupts his view.

  “Your body.”

  I cough again, reaching for a napkin to wipe my mouth.

  “My-my body?” I hate how breathy I sound all of a sudden. With a few well-placed words and a look, he has me sputtering and simmering.

  “I’m sure you know women who run track and field often develop a certain body type,” he says, leaning forward until I can’t see much of anything beyond the width of his shoulders. “Lean arms.”

  Even though my arms are hidden beneath my blouse, my skin heats up when he runs his eyes over them.

  “Muscular legs,” he continues, locking his eyes with mine. “A tight, round—”

  “I’m aware,” I cut in, “of what my body looks like. I see it every day.”

  “Wish I could say the same.”

  My face heats up. I know a blush doesn’t show through my complexion, but judging by the way his grin goes wider and wickeder, it doesn’t take color in my cheeks to tell him I’m heating up.

  “So, you chose basketball.” I shift the conversation back to safer ground that won’t burn under my feet like hot coals.

  “Yes.” His grin lingers, but he indulges my redirection. “All through college.”

  “And then the NBA,” I add.

  “Yeah, if you work hard as hell and sacrifice just about everything else in your life, dreams really do come true.” He grimaces. “At least some of them do.”

  I heard about his divorce, but don’t want to assume that’s what he means. He glances up, a wry twist to his lips.

  “You wear your questions all over your face, Avery.”

  I huff a short laugh. “Do I?”

  “I did have a dream other than basketball, if you’re curious.” His shoulders lift and fall, but they seem to be lifting more weight than he lets on. “I wanted a wife, kids, the whole package.”

  “And you got them, right?” I ask softly.

  I want to ask what went wrong. I wonder if that question is on my face, too, because he answers without me voicing it.

  “Tara, my ex, and I didn’t as much grow apart,” he says. “As we never should have been together.”

  I’ve thought that of Will and me many times. Wondered if things would have ended differently if he’d never met me. Sometimes it keeps me up at night. Sometimes it’s the first thing I think about when I wake up.

  “Statistically, half of all married couples would say the same thing.” I smile my sympathy. “And kids? I heard you had a daughter.”

  “Yeah, my little girl Kiera.” The rugged lines of his face noticeably soften. “You wanna see?”

  I nod, surprisingly eager to see how his DNA played out on a little female face.

  “Oh, she’s so pretty, Deck,” I whisper, my eyes glued to his phone screen. She’s blonde and looks uncannily like the woman I saw Decker with at a Sports Illustrated party a couple of years ago. Her eyes, though, are golden brown, just like her father’s. I glance up from the phone.

  “She has your eyes.”

  “That’s about it.” He chuckles, accepting his phone and glancing affectionately at the picture before setting it on the table. “I can’t take much credit for how beautiful she is.”

  I look away, afraid my eyes would betray my thoughts as clearly as he said he could see them. Afraid he’ll see that I think he’s the most beautiful specimen I’ve ever encountered. That sometimes during the show, I almost lose my train of thought wondering how his tawny hair would feel wrapped around my fingers. That in just a week, I’ve memorized the curve of his mouth and how he smells. Not his cologne, but that rawer scent made from nothing but skin and bone and him that rests just below the veneer of civilization we all wear.

  “Tara just moved to LA,” Decker continues, a rueful set to his lips. “And took Kiera with her.”

  “I’m sorry.” I frown. “It must be harder to see her now with you still on the East Coast, I gue
ss?”

  “Yeah. Takes a little more work, but she’s worth it. I’ve accomplished a lot, but she’s the best thing I’ve ever done.” He shrugs and then turns an inquisitive look on me. “What about you?”

  “What about me?” My fingers tighten around the fragile stem of my martini glass. My heart tightens in my chest, braced for questions I’ll have to evade.

  “Well, I know you were engaged,” he says with a careful look at my bare ring finger. “And I don’t think you are anymore.”

  He doesn’t know.

  I savor that tiny slice of time while I can where he doesn’t know. For the last year of my life, everyone has known what happened. And I often feel smothered under the weight of their speculation, their awkward sympathy, their damn good intentions because they know everything. Well, they think they know everything. I have my secrets; secrets kept alive only by me because only Will knew.

  And now Will is gone.

  “He died.” I clear my throat, my lips trembling in the most vexing way. I steady them like I’ve learned to steady my emotions. “Will, my fiancé, died last year around this time actually.”

  When I say everyone knows, it’s not like when “everyone” knows Deck got a divorce or the details of a multimillion-dollar contract he inked. When “everyone” knows what’s going on in his life, it’s the world. His fame is much broader than mine. I’m a sportscaster, and I’m on television, but my life isn’t national news, much less international. With Deck, the whole world could know his business. The whole world doesn’t know my fiancé died last December. Only everyone who knows me and everyone who knew Will. Everyone in my life knows. And now so does Decker.

  For the last few minutes, it was easy to forget that just beyond the barrier of Deck’s torso and shoulders, our colleagues are drinking and talking. Laughing and blowing off steam after a long day. I didn’t realize how completely Deck had managed to isolate us; to monopolize me until it gets so quiet in our little corner.

  “Avery, I’m so sorry.” His voice is a soft rumble of compassion. “God, I had no idea. I hadn’t heard.”

  I nod, panicking as a familiar knot ignites inside my throat, threatening to choke me. Out of habit and necessity, I start blinking rapidly against ill-timed tears.

  “Yeah, it wasn’t . . . something we broadcast.” Dark humor taunts the corner of my mouth. “Will would have hated that; to be a part of some media circus. He wasn’t . . . he was the last one to draw attention to himself.”

  A door cracks open that I keep closed and locked; that I try to forget exists. The one with all my memories of Will. His smile, which had become so rare at the end. It was the first thing I liked about him; that his smile was kind and genuine. I can’t do this. Not here. Not now. Not with Decker watching my face for signs of distress. If he keeps looking, he’ll find it. It’s not as deeply buried as I manage to convince most people. Decker isn’t most people, and I instinctively know he won’t be fooled.

  “It’s getting late.” My smile is a cold, waxy curve trying its best to look alive. “I think I’ll go.”

  “Avery,” he says softly. Just that. Just my name, but there’s so much more there, and I can’t do this shit right now.

  I ignore him and reach down to grab my purse, using those few seconds to compose myself and swipe at the corners of my eyes. When I stand, so does he. Our eyes clash for a moment, mine watery and his concerned. I step around him, snapping the thread strung taut between us, and address my coworkers.

  “Okay, guys.” I spread a bright smile around to everyone. “I’m heading out. Have a good weekend.”

  Blindly, I make my way to the door, longing for the fresh air, at least as fresh as New York City has to offer.

  “Hey, Ave,” Sadie calls from behind me when I’m just a few feet away from the exit. “Wait up.”

  I stop and turn, smoothing my expression into patient inquiry, hoping the churning waves in my gut aren’t washing up on my face.

  “You okay?” Sadie sees more than most. She knows more than most, too, but even she doesn’t know everything.

  “I’m fine.” I roll my eyes when she gives me the look that says it’s me you’re talking to. “Okay. I’m not exactly fine, but I will be.”

  “Do you need—”

  “I just need to go home, Sade.” There’s a pleading note in my voice that I can’t suppress much longer. “Please. Just let me get out of here.”

  Sadie nods, hooks her arm around my neck and whispers into my ear.

  “It’s gonna get better, babe.”

  Some things don’t. Some things never get better because they can never be undone. I had to learn that for myself the hardest way. I won’t try to teach Sadie at the hostess stand of this nice restaurant.

  “Night,” I settle for saying before walking swiftly to the door.

  I draw in great lungfuls of the cold night air and start walking. With every step, my heart decelerates and my breath evens and my tears dry up. That’s all I needed. Some time to myself.

  “Avery!” a deep voice calls from behind me.

  So much for time to myself.

  I turn to find Decker almost caught up to me, his long legs making quick work of the few feet separating us. I wanted to be alone, and he’s ruining that. Yet my heart lifts a little at the sight of hm. I knew it! If my vagina and my heart ever get on the same page, they’ll be my downfall.

  “Can you not take a hint?” My voice lacks the irritation it should hold.

  “Only the ones I want to take,” he replies easily, hunching into his dark coat and squinting against the cold. “You walking?”

  “Obviously since you’re walking to catch me.”

  “Ahhh.” He grins, slanting me an amused look. “The smartass is back.”

  My answering smile dims as I remember what chased me out of the restaurant in the first place.

  “I meant are you walking all the way home?” he asks.

  “It’s not far.” I glance up at him. “And I don’t need an escort.”

  “Well you got one, lady.”

  I roll my eyes, which only makes him laugh. We’re silent for the next few steps, and I focus on the bustling anonymity of the city. You can get lost in this hectic, harried press of humanity. I have over the last year. I’ve hidden myself in its crevices and I’ve hurt in my solitude. I thought it was what I deserved—to hurt alone. With Decker here, the sounds of the city swallowing up the yawning silence inside of me, I wonder if maybe I’ve been wrong. It feels good to have someone . . . here. Just here. Not demanding answers, or hovering for fear I’ll self-destruct. But someone who just wants my company, and wants to offer theirs. It dents my loneliness.

  “Here I am.” I stop in front of my apartment building and turn to Deck, prepared to say good-bye.

  Of course, he walks ahead to the entrance. My doorman recognizes him instantly, rushing over to hold the glass doors wider for him.

  “Deck, we sure miss seeing you on the court,” he says, an eager grin splitting his face.

  “Can’t say I miss being out there as much as I thought I would,” Decker replies, signing the slip of whatever paper the doorman found for his autograph. “I like not aching and creaking half the year. Eighty-two games for twelve years will kick your ass.”

  “Not to mention playoffs in the post-season,” the doorman reminds him with an admiring grin.

  “Yeah, there were a few of those, too, huh?” Decker laughs and turns when the elevator arrives. “Nice meeting you.”

  “Great meeting you, too. Thanks for the autograph. My son’ll love this. Good night, Ms. Hughes,” the doorman adds, finally acknowledging me. I return his smile, not minding being ignored. It’s not every day you see a living sports legend. I remember feeling that way the first night I met Decker, even though I still had to ask him tough questions. He’d won rookie of the year the season before and was already one of the brightest stars in the League. Remembering the towel incident makes me smile as we get off the elevator.
/>   “What are you grinning about?” Deck asks, narrowing his eyes in false suspicion. “I don’t trust you when you grin like that.”

  Feeling a little lighter, I turn to face him, walking backward toward my door.

  “I was thinking about the first night we met.”

  “Ugh.” He shakes his head and closes his eyes briefly. “I was such an immature asshole.”

  “I think I told you that then.” I laugh when he glowers at me. “You just admitted it. I’m agreeing with you. Be happy.”

  “You know it’s funny. That was ten years ago.” His smile as we keep walking borders on wistful, if such firm lips could be described that way. “So it feels like I’ve known you forever, but before I started the show last week, we’d never had a real conversation. I mean, unless you count the one at my locker.”

  “I don’t.” I lean against the door to my apartment. “You were wearing a towel, and not even that at one point.”

  “Nice.” He stops in front of me. “I’ll never live that down with you, will I?”

  “Do you really want to?”

  “Nope,” he admits with a shameless, cocksure grin. “At least I knew you would never forget me.”

  As if I could.

  I don’t say the words, but something on my face must confess that I never forgot him. That sometimes in quiet moments alone, he was always an unanswered question. Or maybe I was afraid to ask. His humor evaporates, and his eyes take on that fierce focus I’d always noted when I watched him play. The camera would catch this exact look on his face; like the prize is in sight, and it was only a matter of four quarters before his opponent would yield. I wonder which quarter we’re in.

  “So, like I was saying.” He picks up where he left off, that intense stare like steam hovering over my skin. “I feel like I’ve learned a lot about you since I started with the show.”

  “Is that right?” I press my shoulders into the door for support because that look is melting my bones, and I need to stand my ground.

  “I know that as soon as you walk into a room, you charge the air,” he says softly. “Everything comes to attention around you.”