Team Player

by Adriana Locke

  “It’s great,” Deck says. “Glad I don’t have to commute from Connecticut every day.”

  “Well we wanted to make it easy for you. Let us know if you need anything.” Sadie hands us both folders. “Now did you guys get my email with the rundown of today’s show?”

  When we both nod, Sadie dives into the details. I was prepared to be unimpressed. So many athletes assume because they played their sport, they know all sports and can just hop in front of a camera and it’ll be fine. Deck obviously didn’t make that assumption. He’s prepared. And I’ve seen him commentate since he retired. He’s good.

  There’s a studied ease to him, a carefully cloaked intensity. People can’t always handle the passion it takes to do great things. I’m allergic to average and abhor mediocrity. That leaks into every aspect of my life. Type A. Driven. I’m not sure what you’d call it, but it’s all over Mack Decker, too. He was renowned for it on the court, the alpha dog leading his pack to victory by any means necessary. As we review the elements of today’s show, I look up more than once to find all of that intensity fixed on me. The dark gold stare pins me to my ergonomic leather seat. I make sure not to squirm, though it feels like, with nothing more than sex appeal and quiet tenacity, he’s holding me hostage.

  “All good?” Sadie looks between the two of us once we’re done, but her query targets me. I know this because I know Sadie. I didn’t want Decker stepping in, but even I can’t deny his professionalism and competence. And obviously he’ll be catnip for our viewers. Every excuse to not want him here keeps melting away. Eventually I’ll have to deal with the real reason I’ve resisted him as a guest host.

  But not yet.

  “Yeah.” I scribble nonsense on the pad in front of me, one of the many ways I exert my abundant nervous energy. “All sounds good to me.”

  Decker glances at the papers in front of him. “I’ll try not to lose my shit in the last segment when Magic Johnson comes on set.”

  “What?” The word rides a laugh past my lips. “Are you serious?”

  “I’m not allowed to lose my shit over the greatest point guard to ever lace up?” He leans back, lips twitching and arms crossed over the expanse of chest hidden beneath his crisp shirt.

  “I’m glad you qualified point guard, not shooting guard, because we’d have a problem if you don’t acknowledge Jordan as Almighty Guard.”

  Decker’s deep-timbered chuckle moves the muscles of his throat and slides over me like a lasso, roping me in and tugging me closer.

  “I’m not having the Greatest of All Time debate with you, Avery.”

  “Good because there’s no debate about who the GOAT is.” I toss my pen on the table like a gauntlet. “You tell me anyone other than Jordan, we got a problem.”

  He expels a disdainful puff of air.

  “Then we got a problem.” He holds up three fingers. “I got this many ahead of him.”

  “Heresy.” I lean forward, salivating for a good debate with a worthy opponent. “Who you got?”

  “Wilt, Kareem and Russell.”

  “Three!” Outrage propels the word from me. “You got three dudes ahead of Jordan? Him at number four is just . . . I . . . I . . . just . . .”

  “While she tries to gather her thoughts,” Sadie interjects with a grin and a glance at her phone. “I gotta take this. Thanks again, Decker. Let’s have a great first show.”

  When Sadie leaves, there’s no buffer between me and the wall of fine ass-ness that is MacKenzie Decker. It’s the first time we’ve been alone since he faced me naked in a roomful of laughing men a decade ago. I clear my throat needlessly since I have nothing to say. I felt safe with Sadie as our chaperone. Now that it’s just the two of us, I can’t remember what we were talking about with so much ease.

  “You were saying?” Decker watches me expectantly.

  “Huh?” I stall and blank-face him. “What was I saying?”

  “Greatest of all time?” he prompts, anticipation brewing in his eyes.

  “I’ll have to school you later.” I force a smile, gathering the papers in front of me, tucking them into a neat stack and pressing them to my chest. “I need to review some tape from last night’s games before the show. See you on set.”

  I walk to the door and wave over my shoulder.

  “I never got to apologize properly for the towel.”

  His words, injected seamlessly into our conversation, stunt my steps. We were doing just fine until he had to go there.

  “What?” I turn to consider him warily, half-hoping he’ll let it go, but there’s no going back now. The polite façade has fallen away, baring his curiosity, his determined frankness.

  “I said,” he pauses deliberately to make sure I’m hearing him clearly this time, “I never got to apologize properly for the towel. I know there was some teasing on the circuit afterwards.”

  “It was a long time ago,” I reply stiffly. “It’s fine.”

  “I reached out, but I wasn’t sure if—”

  “I got the messages you left at the station.” I keep my tone neutral and project confidence. “Thank you.”

  “But you never . . .” There’s a trail of silence after his incomplete thought.

  “I was reassigned.” I shift my feet and glance into the hall beyond the conference room, signaling that I’m ready to be done with this conversation. “I knew we wouldn’t see each other much, so . . .”

  I leave a trail of my own, shrugging and hoping we can conclude this.

  “Your hair used to be curly.” A grin accompanies yet another abrupt shifting of gears. “We haven’t had a one-on-one conversation in a long time, but the last time we talked your hair was curly.”

  “Yes, well—”

  “I liked it,” he cuts in, stuttering my heartbeat and drifting a glance over my hair. “It’s still beautiful this way.”

  He locks his whisky-tinted eyes with mine.

  “You’re still beautiful.”

  “Um, well, I—”

  “We should grab a drink,” he says, further disconcerting me. “Or something.”

  He drops his words from that night on me, when he wore nothing but a tiny towel and super-size bravado.

  Humor and irritation war inside me at the shared memory before I get them both under control.

  “Look, Deck . . .” I shake my head and trap my bottom lip in my teeth before going on. “It’s still a no.”

  He opens his mouth as if he has more to say, but my rigid expression must convince him he really shouldn’t.

  “Well, glad that’s all behind us.” The sorcerer smile, the one he must use to put people at ease, reappears. “I’ll let you go prepare. See you on set.”

  I nod and turn on my heel, making sure to keep my steps steady and measured, even though I want to run back to my office before he decides to press the advantage I don’t want him to know he has.

  4

  Decker

  There’s something about Avery Hughes that rubs me the right way.

  She gets me worked up. It starts, as with most men, in my pants, but in no time it reaches my other head, the one with the brain, and it’s her wit and sharp intelligence, her drive that keeps me wanting more. Even if there hadn’t been all the ribbing after the towel incident, I still would have thought about her for days after we met. She’s the kind of woman who makes an impression and lingers in your memory.

  I last saw her two years ago at a Sports Illustrated party. I’d been injured that season, and was pretty sure my NBA career was over. Even though my wife Tara stood at my side, glittering and clinging possessively, we both knew our marriage was over, too. It had been on life support for a while. We were scheduled to present a check from my charitable foundation that night, so we had to attend together, but we’d already filed the papers. Still, when I spotted Avery across the room with her fiancé, guilt chewed through my gut because I wanted to walk away from my soon-to-be-ex, snatch Avery from that dude and take her to some corner; pick up where we’d left o
ff in that locker room.

  It feels like I’ve lived a dozen lives since then. Seasons in the NBA should be measured like dog years. Not just the wear and tear on your body, but the wear and tear on your soul. Greedy people, shattered hopes, broken marriages.

  Missed chances.

  Avery feels like the biggest missed chance of all. Maybe she retained that mystery because I never got to know her. Never got to taste her. That night at the SI party, when our glances collided across eight years and a crowded room, I had to accept that I never would. I had only seen her a handful of times and from a distance since our first meeting, but in a moment, before she had time to disguise it, her unguarded expression told me she hadn’t forgotten. That I was still . . . something, even if it was just an annoying, awkward memory. Avery, being the consummate professional, contorted her lips into a plastic smile and turned back to the man at her side.

  Only that man hasn’t been at her side the last few months. Lately, the few times I watched her show, the ring she wore that night was gone. I’m not sure what’s happened, but the ring’s not there now, and I’m assuming . . . okay, hoping . . . the man is gone, too.

  When SportsCo called about subbing as Avery’s co-host on Twofer, I cancelled whatever my team had lined up to make it happen. This could get interesting . . . if Avery would let it.

  If she would let me.

  We’re a week in, and on camera, Avery and I have a natural connection that viewers are loving, but she’s kept me at a polite distance otherwise. When the lights go down, her guard goes up, and she presents that phony, careful neutrality she thinks will keep me out. But every day, I see a new crack in that wall she hides behind, and it only stokes my curiosity to see what’s in there. It’s time to chip away at the wall. Time to be the hammer.

  I study her during our production meeting. She’s making a point to the team about a camera angle. An image of her pinned against the conference room door highjacks my imagination; my tongue plunged so deeply down her throat she’d have to beg for breath. Of me sliding to my knees and pushing that skirt past her thighs, pulling her legs onto my shoulders and roughly shoving her panties aside. Of my mouth open and worshiping between her legs. Of my face wet from her passion gushing onto me.

  Puppies. Ice cream. Old people fucking.

  I mentally run through the list that usually keeps a hard-on at bay, but it’s not working this time, and my dick is a pipe in my pants. I would handle this woman. I would pick her up when I kiss her. Literally sweep her off her feet and hold her by the ass. Show her what it feels like to be kissed suspended in the air. I’d press her against me so she felt how much I wanted her. Until she felt my erection and had to deal with it. Until she had to deal with me. I scoot my chair another inch under the table, struggling to rein in this fantasy.

  Puppies. Ice cream. Old people fucking.

  If this woman is indifferent to me, I’ll eat both my championship rings. I made my living reading plays and picking apart defenses. From my experience, people and relationships aren’t much different, and there’s no way I misread the attraction between us that badly. She’s not a woman you can rush, but I only have two weeks left on my guest stint before good ol’ dick pic returns. With so little time left on the clock, I think this calls for the full-court press. End-to-end coverage. Man-to-man defense . . . or in this case, man-to-woman. No letting up until the opponent is worn down. I live for this shit. No one can beat me at this game.

  “Does that sound good?” Avery interrupts my inner pep talk, long-lashed eyes blinking at me over the cup of cold brew I’ve been bringing her every day.

  What the hell are we talking about?

  I glance around the conference room, packed with the crew for the production meeting. Everyone’s watching me expectantly.

  “Deck?” Avery asks with a tiny frown. “I said does that sound good?”

  “Hmmmm . . .” I scrunch my face like I’m pondering the subject really hard, hoping she’ll elaborate.

  “I mean, if you want to do the Holiday predictions last instead,” she continues. “We totally can.”

  “Nah.” Ah! The Holiday predictions. Right. “We can leave it at the top.”

  She tilts her head and narrows her eyes. “You mean in the middle?”

  “Middle, yeah.” I nod sagely. “Perfect place for it.”

  “Well if we’re all agreed,” Sadie says, closing her laptop. “That’s a wrap.”

  Everyone starts dispersing. I’ll find some reason to linger until Avery finishes the discussion she’s having with one of the show’s writers.

  “Don’t worry,” Sadie whispers to me while she finishes packing her things. “She’s coming, too.”

  If I take my eyes off Avery for even a second, she might dart off. That woman has become really good at avoiding me. I spare Sadie a quick glance to figure out what she’s even talking about.

  “Coming where?” I ask. “Who?”

  “You really were checked out.” She laughs, shaking her head and shoving her phone into her purse. “Sorry if we bore you with the details of planning the show.”

  “It’s not personal.” I do an Avery check—still chatting—before looking back to Sadie. “I hate meetings. Always have, and my mind tends to drift. So, who’s going where and what’s up?”

  “We’re all going to grab drinks and dinner.”

  No thanks.

  “I don’t think I’ll—”

  “And Avery’s coming with us,” Sadie cuts in with a knowing look.

  Oh, well in that case.

  “Man’s gotta eat.” She and I share a conspiratorial grin. “What gave me away?”

  “Um, what didn’t?” Sadie leans against the conference room table. “Bringing her coffee every day. Not leaving any room until she does. The way you—”

  “All right, all right.” I glance around self-consciously to see if anyone heard her spouting how whipped I’ve been behaving. “So, what do I do about it, since you know so much?”

  “Do about it?” Her smile is just relishing the novel positon I’m in having to chase a woman.

  “I didn’t think I’d ever have a shot. She was wearing some other guy’s ring the last time I saw her. I don’t want to waste my chance this time.”

  The humor on Sadie’s face fades, her eyes go sober.

  “Oh, Deck. You don’t know.”

  “Don’t know what?”

  Before she can enlighten me, Avery walks up and Sadie’s mouth snaps shut and her eyes stretch with some silent warning I’m clueless about.

  “What’s with all the lollygagging?” Avery asks, playfully bumping Sadie’s shoulder, her mouth stretched into a wide grin. “We eating or what?”

  I wish she’d be that easygoing with me. Despite our chemistry onscreen, I can barely get her alone long enough to have a decent conversation.

  “I was just telling our friend here he should come with us.” Sadie smiles up at me. “Right, Deck?”

  Avery’s grin slips, but she recovers quickly enough to offer me a polite, if stiff, smile.

  “You should,” she tells me. “This place does a great dirty martini, and I love their steak.”

  I rarely drink and gave up red meat years ago.

  “Two of my favorite things,” I lie. “What are we waiting for?”

  The prospect of a few extra hours to crack her tough outer shell has my blood humming through my veins like it’s pre-game and I’m facing an especially challenging opponent.

  We’re all crowded in the elevator on our way down, and I meet the guarded interest in Avery’s eyes I’ve become accustomed to over the last week. Not an opponent. I think we’re on the same team. I think we want the same thing. She just doesn’t know it yet.

  5

  Avery

  Two of his favorite things, my ass.

  Decker ignored the steaks, went straight for the pan roasted sea bass, and has been drinking water all night.

  I take a long, grateful sip of my second martini, thankin
g God for whomever had the foresight to invent them. It’s a massage, a hot bath and an orgasm all shaken and stirred into one delightfully numbing concoction. And the closer we get to Christmas, the more numb I need to be.

  “You look like you’re enjoying that,” Decker says, pushing his plate away.

  “And it looks like you didn’t enjoy that.” I nod toward his half-eaten fish.

  “No, it was delicious. I just wasn’t as hungry as I thought I was.”

  “And you decided to forego the alcohol, too? Even though martinis and steak are your faves?” I shouldn’t toy with him, but it’s kind of fun watching a man so notoriously pursued by women making excuses to spend time with me, even though I’m not exactly sure what he wants.

  Scratch that.

  The barely concealed lust steaming in his eyes tells me what he wants. Problem is, I think I might want it, too, but I can’t. If my vagina was the only thing I had to worry about, this would be a no-brainer. Six feet and seven inches of tanned, beautiful man. What’s there to think about? But even just in our first week working together, I’ve seen a depth to him I didn’t expect. The same determination and commitment to excellence that has him Hall of Fame-bound, he’s applied to guest hosting. TV’s a steep learning curve, and I gotta give it to him. He’s doing a great job. He’s funny, sharp, thinks on his feet, and can talk any other sport almost as easily as he can basketball. For most women that wouldn’t be a turn on, but for me? Yeah, very much so. With a man like Decker, the vajayjay isn’t the only body part to consider. He could endanger my heart, and that troubled organ still hasn’t recovered from Will.

  “So, seems like we have pretty much opposite picks for every prediction,” Decker says, leaning back in his seat.

  “Prediction?” I snap out of my own thoughts and tune into our conversation. “What do you mean?”

  “For the Holiday Picks segment.” Decker lifts his brows, waiting for me to catch up. “For next week’s show.”