King of the Court

by Melanie Munton

  Gross. Seriously, what twenty-two-year-old actually thought she needed lip injections? I blamed all those Kardashian women.

  “Hey, Cam,” she purred as she stopped in front of me, trailing her long claw-like nails down my chest. Also fake. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

  Yeah, I wouldn’t mind turning back time. Back to the night I’d been stupid enough to actually have sex with this vain, insecure girl. It had been one time, and suddenly she thought she could call me her man. Like she had some form of ownership over me.

  Fuck no.

  Girls like Rachel may have had a pretty package on the outside. The flat stomach, tanned skin, and bottle blonde hair. But all it took was one conversation—and an up close and personal look at them—to realize their beauty was only skin deep. There was a reason I called her Shallow Fallow. All she cared about was social status and looking good. There was no way in hell I would ever stick my dick in that again.

  “Is there something I can help you with, Rachel?” I asked curtly.

  The sound of her giggle was annoying as fuck. “Oh, there are several things you could help me with. Come back to the sorority house after practice and I’ll show you.”

  I snatched her wrist and flung her hand off me. “You know that’s not going to happen. We’re not going to happen.”

  Her grin didn’t falter. I think all the makeup had seeped into her pores and was somehow clogging her brain cells.

  “You say that now.” She bit down on her lip, which some guys might have found sexy. I did not. Especially when a speck of her lipstick rubbed off onto her teeth. “But give it a few weeks and you’ll come back to me.”

  Not likely. Clearly, she wasn’t the type to give up easily. And unfortunately for me, she also happened to be a cheerleader. Which meant she’d be at most of the games, trying to hang all over me.

  But today was not the right day for a coming to Jesus talk.

  I sidestepped her. “Chase another dick, Rachel, because you’re not getting your hands on mine again.”

  I heard her indignant huff behind me, but I was already halfway down the hall. I swear, the only girls I met nowadays were all virtual carbon copies of Rachel. Wannabe NBA wives. Relentless gold diggers. Callous, plastic shells. Nobody could blame me for thinking that shit had gotten old, right?

  Not all girls are like that, though.

  True. I now had proof of that. Because Reese wasn’t anything like Rachel or her sorority sisters. Reese, with her natural, beautiful features and goofy T-shirts. Her quick wit and intelligent mind. Her personality in general. Hell, the fact that she actually had a personality. Apparently, those were hard to come by these days.

  So, of course, the one girl like that I’d managed to find in this sea of superficiality was off limits. Figures. But my mind hadn’t yet processed that. Obviously, since I’d dreamed about her last night. Laid out on my bed, moaning my name, screaming as she came. I could practically feel the claw marks on my back that Dream Reese had left there.

  And since my dick hadn’t taken the hint, I knew I had to keep my distance from her today. Every day. Nobody had to know I was fantasizing about her. But I somehow knew that I wouldn’t have enough self-control to not touch her if I continued to be around her like yesterday.

  Thank God she hadn’t been the naked one.

  Or my ass would have been booted off the team by now.

  “Cam, wait up,” a voice called as I was walking down the tunnel to the court after getting dressed.

  Krystupas Andrulis—we all decided the second he’d introduced himself that we weren’t messing with that name and started calling him Krys—jogged toward me, dressed out in his practice jersey and thin shorts. At six foot ten inches, the Lithuanian was the tallest, lankiest tower on the team. He had this Ichabod Crane type of look going for him. In the paint, though, it didn’t matter how much the guy could or couldn’t bench press. He could take on players a lot bulkier than him, simply because he was tough. I respected that.

  “Hey, Krys.”

  “Did you see the latest rankings?” We stepped out onto the court and joined the rest of the team as they stretched.

  “Man, you know I don’t pay attention to that shit,” I replied.

  For good reason. I never looked at pre-season rankings. It didn’t take much for those numbers to get in your head and psyche you out. I preferred that nobody on the team looked at them, but it wasn’t something I could control. All it took was hearing how well your team was predicted to do for everyone to get cocky and start to play overconfidently. Or you heard how poorly your team was predicted to perform and everyone got discouraged, losing all motivation to prove the bastard sportscasters wrong.

  “I know,” Krys said as he bent over and reached for his toes. “Just thought you might be interested to know we’re still ranked number one.”

  Not super surprising. But I had to admit hearing that put a little more pep in my step.

  “And even more interested in who’s in the number two spot,” he added.

  My body tensed, my arm freezing in mid-air.

  I knew I didn’t want to hear the answer. But part of me really did.

  I shot him a look. “Who?”

  He met my solemn expression with one of his own. “BelV.”

  Son of a bitch.

  Belvedere University, also known as BelV. NCU’s biggest rival. Going back to the founding of both schools, the rivalry was the biggest, most advertised in all of college basketball. Hell, in all of sports. What made it even more popular was that our college campuses were literally only about ten miles from each other. Anytime our schools played each other, especially in basketball, it was one of the most highly publicized sporting events of the year.

  Of course, I had a whole other reason for hating that school. Or at least, the basketball team. A more personal reason.

  Trey Warren.

  BelV’s star point guard and probably the best point guard in the NACA. If our colleges’ rivalry was one of the most well-known in all of the sporting world, he and I had one of the most well-known personal rivalries. The history of it went back years, and the public only knew the basic story. Which was that we’d grown up together and had been competing against each other since our middle school days.

  That wasn’t the entire story, though. Not even close.

  And suffice it to say, I couldn’t stand the fucker.

  “That so?” I asked.

  The whole team knew the conflict between Trey and I wasn’t just to give the media and the public a good show. They all knew I seriously couldn’t stand to be around the guy. Not that any of my teammates were friends with him. They all agreed the guy was a prick.

  “And they’re going to stay there,” Krys said, holding up his fist. “Always behind us, riding bitch. Right, man?”

  I smirked and bumped his knuckles with mine. “Damn straight.”

  Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to have constant reminders of who our contenders would be this season. Might give the guys a little extra push. Especially if one of those contenders was BelV.

  A catcall grabbed my attention and my head whipped to the side. The sound came from Vaughn as he watched Reese walk across the court with her medical bag tucked securely to her side. Her T-shirt today was white with black letters that said, “Chubby unicorns need love too.” Below that was a picture of a rhinoceros.

  God. Flannel and Converse sneakers had never looked so good.

  I was instantly sporting a chubby of my own.

  “Those are some nice jeans, Reese,” Vaughn called out. “You think I could get in them?”

  I breathed deeply through my nose, controlling my urge to slam my fist into the preppy bastard’s jaw.

  “Sure thing, Rafferty,” she responded, smiling coyly. “You can borrow my clothes anytime. We wear the same size, right?”

  Every guy in the vicinity snickered. Despite my anger at hearing other guys hit on her, the corner of my mouth twitched. At least she had some steel
in her spine. And she hadn’t been receptive to any of their flirting. That I knew of.

  The anger returned.

  Due to Coach’s warning to stay away from her applying to everyone in this gym, I may not have been able to do much about this attraction coursing through me. Nor did I have a clue about what to even do with it.

  But I knew one thing with utter certainty.

  If I couldn’t break Coach’s rule and go after his daughter, none of these other fuckers were allowed to either.

  None. Of. Them.

  7

  Reese

  That gorgeous bastard.

  It was my second day on the job and already Cam had declared residence inside my head. We hadn’t spoken much today at practice—not like yesterday—but he had still managed to make his presence known since I’d stepped foot inside the building. He could have been on the other side of the damn court, and I could still feel his eyes on me.

  I was kind of surprised he hadn’t said anything. His eyes said he wanted to. Every time he looked at me, letting his gaze unabashedly rake over my body, it seemed like he had a thousand sexually-laden comments ready to burst free. Yesterday, he hadn’t acted the least bit encumbered. Not when he’d been standing before me naked. Not when he’d been needling me.

  So, what made today different? What had changed?

  It doesn’t matter.

  Right. Because nothing was going to happen between us. No matter how many times I’d seen his dick in my dreams last night. I had to keep telling myself that. I didn’t go for his type. The cocky type who felt they were entitled just because they were good at dribbling a basketball. He seemed to think he was God’s gift to women, and that was one of the most unattractive qualities a man could have, in my opinion.

  I’d once been that naïve girl attracted to the big-man-on-campus persona.

  And it would never happen again.

  Which meant that Cam and I were never going to happen, period.

  Like it or not, though, we were about to face each other. I’d met with every other player on the team regarding their physical health except for him.

  “You’re up, Donovan,” I yelled from my position at the end of the bench. “You’re the last one.”

  His shoulders tensed, and he wouldn’t meet my eyes. “I’m busy right now. We’ll do it later.”

  I bit back my immature retort—something about the world not revolving around his schedule—and took a calming breath. “I’d prefer we do it now.”

  My dad caught wind of our conversation, and he gave Cam a sharp look. “Do it now, Donovan, and get it over with.”

  I didn’t want my father fighting my battles for me. But in this case, I would accept the help. Mainly because I was sick of Cam’s back and forth bipolar attitude toward me and was determined to end it.

  He sighed and reluctantly jogged over to where I sat on the bench. He fell onto the chair next to me, but didn’t turn his body around. Just kept facing forward, his shoulders rigid. On principle, I remained quiet and watched him, waiting for him to speak. It wasn’t until several seconds of tense silence had passed did he finally turn in my direction with an expectant look.

  “Well?” he prompted. “You going to start asking me a bunch of questions, or what?”

  Now more pissed off than curious, I scowled and grabbed my clipboard with his worksheet. With that curt question, I decided to just get this over with as quickly as possible. I no longer gave a damn about what was going on inside his head.

  “Any noticeable aches or pains lately?” I asked, staring down at the words on the form.

  He snorted. “You mean other than the one in my ass named Reese? Nope. Can’t say that I have any complaints.”

  “Hilarious,” I muttered. “Have you been having any issues with muscle cramping?”

  “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he crooned sarcastically. “I get plenty of potassium and daily doses of all my vitamins.”

  I dropped the clipboard onto my lap and raised my eyes. He was leaning back in his chair, still staring forward, looking for all the world like he didn’t give a shit. That really irked me.

  “You know,” I hissed, “it would be nice if you could take this seriously for five minutes, so I could at least do my damn job.”

  His eyes darted to me, softening ever so slightly. I glimpsed what could have been regret there, but I ignored it. Whatever.

  “My left hamstring’s been tightening up,” he finally admitted. “But it’s nothing out of the ordinary.”

  I sensed he was initiating a truce. Or at least a temporary one. I’d go with it, but I couldn’t maintain eye contact. Something was lurking behind those blue irises of his, and it was confusing me even more than yesterday’s Naked Gate had.

  I glanced back down at the clipboard. “I see on your chart that you had surgery four years ago to repair a patella tendon rupture.”

  He paused. “Yeah.”

  “Have you experienced any complications with that?”

  Another pause. When I peeked up through my lashes, I saw an odd expression on his face. A contemplative, yet guarded one. Weird. He even stretched his right leg out, as if testing its range of motion, and I frowned.

  “Do you mind if I take a look?” I asked, pointing at his knee.

  He shrugged and waved his hand. “Knock yourself out, sweetheart.”

  I bit the inside of my cheek. Sometimes I liked hearing the endearment slip from his lips. Other times, it sounded like he was just saying it to get a rise out of me. Well, I wouldn’t give in.

  Slowly, I took hold of his leg and guided it to lay across my lap. He gave an involuntary jolt at my touch, though he tried to hide it by acting like he had an itch on his neck. I felt that zing of electricity, too. The instant our skin made contact, the air around us crackled with energy.

  This may have been a bad idea.

  Possibly the worst ever.

  I should have known better than to touch any part of him. Because from what I had seen so far—and I’d already seen plenty—there wasn’t a single inch of his body that I wouldn’t lick like a Popsicle given the opportunity.

  My fingers were light as they grazed over his surgical scar and surrounding tissue. I knew how painful that type of injury could be and I felt for him. It must have sucked. I rubbed over the patella tendon, gently massaging, and noticed when he winced. It was slight, but I’d been watching for it.

  “Does that hurt?” I inquired.

  He watched the movement of my fingers, his gaze intent. “Not really. But the doctor did say the scar tissue would always be tender.”

  That was a yes, then.

  “What about bending it?” I slowly brought his knee up, pulling it closer into his body and watched his face. “How does that feel?”

  He didn’t show any reaction this time. “Fine. I mean, it doesn’t hurt.”

  “Does jumping bother you?” Damn. I could smell his deodorant. That spicy musk was tantalizing. “Or putting any kind of added pressure on it, like squatting?”

  His breathing became labored as I continued slowly bending his knee, then straightening it out. I had to wonder if it was because his knee was actually bothering him, or because of our close proximity. I wasn’t sure which one I preferred it be.

  “It gets sore sometimes, but it’s nothing I can’t handle,” he replied.

  I guided his leg to bend at a different angle, and tested his side-to-side range of motion. “Has it been feeling really stiff after practice?”

  He grinned. “If you want to talk about stiff you should feel my—”

  “And I’m done,” I said, abruptly dropping his leg in disgust.

  He chuckled. “What? I was going to say shoulders. They’re always tense after practice. From shooting, you know. ” Then he winked.

  Yeah, I knew exactly what he meant. Smart ass.

  I made some notes on his worksheet, forcing my face to remain stoic. I would not smile at his so-called jokes.

  “I suggest icing your
knee three to four times a week, and wearing a knee brace during practices and games. Really anytime you exercise you should be wearing it.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not wearing a brace. It restricts my movements too much. Plus, it’s annoying as hell.”

  I rolled my eyes. “The lighter ones don’t get in the way. Or you could wear a sleeve. I’ll go grab a new one from the training room, and you can at least test it out today to see how it feels.”

  “Whatever you say, sweetheart,” he muttered.

  “And before you leave today I’ll give you a list of exercises you can do to help strengthen the joint. I suggest you do them each day you ice your knee.”

  “Fine.” He was back to sulking. “Are we done?”

  Despite my irritation with him, I couldn’t help but worry about the situation. I wasn’t stupid. It was obvious he was deflecting all questions regarding his knee. It was either because he viewed it as a weakness, and he didn’t like admitting that he had any. Or there was something else going on.

  “Are you sure it’s not causing you any problems?” I asked gently. “This type of thing is serious, Cam, and you need to tell me if it is.”

  His gaze flew to mine, noticeably heating. Man, that look was intense. He was known for his competitive facial expressions on the court. ESPN had even put him on a list of Best Game Faces, right next to Michael Phelps’s mean mug at the 2016 Olympics.

  But this was no game face.

  Hell, I couldn’t put a name to what it was. All I knew was that it made my breath lodge in my throat and the muscles in my belly clench.

  “I’m one hundred percent healthy, Reese,” he said, his words clipped. “I don’t need babysitting.”

  “You’re certainly acting like a baby,” I shot back.

  His jaw hardened. “I’m a grown man. And if something is bothering me, I’ll tell someone about it. I don’t need anyone checking up on me.”

  Take the high road, I commanded myself.

  He wasn’t the first jerkface athlete I’d ever dealt with. And if I continued my career in physical therapy, he wouldn’t be the last. I had to learn how to take a deep breath, suck in my pride, and remain professional.