by Ann Macela
She rode the resulting sugar and caffeine high to lunch—a deli sub and two candy bars—and into the afternoon when homemade brownies and more coffee carried her through another interminable meeting. Ruthless concentration forced all extraneous subjects out of her head, or so she thought until she caught herself doodling little wizard and witch hats, complete with moons, stars, and lightning bolts, in the margin of her notes. By five o’clock, feeling at the same time exhausted and raring to go, she was surprised to discover how many tasks she had actually accomplished. Just the game to go now, and then she could crash.
The contest against their main rival was a fierce one, with both teams playing at the top of their form. Her team won by a single basket—hers.
Nothing could have stopped her tonight, Francie thought, as she accepted the congratulations of her friends. Not the opposing center, a woman even taller than she and rumored to have been scouted by several WNBA teams. Not their smaller guards with their quick hands and fast breaks. Tonight she could have taken on Michael Jordan and won.
“Way to go, Francie!” one of her friends said as they gathered their towels at courtside.
“You were pumped, girl!” exclaimed another. “Where are we going to celebrate? I could use a nice cold beer.”
Several women called out the names of nearby restaurants.
“Where do you want to go?” a third asked Francie directly.
“Count me out on dinner tonight, y’all,” she said. When everyone tried to convince her to go with them, she responded, “I’ve been eating all day, mostly junk food and chocolate, and I’m still jazzed. I have to work off some of this energy or I’ll never get to sleep tonight.”
She remained adamant in the face of their attempts at persuasion, and before long, her friends left to shower. She picked up her towel and one of the balls and headed toward a court in the back of the sports complex usually free at this time of night. She hadn’t been lying to her friends about her energy levels, but she also couldn’t put on a falsely happy face over dinner. She simply wasn’t that good of an actress. Besides, she did need some free throw practice and her longer shots could use fine-tuning.
She threw her towel on the bench and dribbled the ball to the free throw line. She had the court to herself, thank goodness, and the configuration of the walls muted the noise from the other matches still underway. She couldn’t have wished for more privacy. The thunk, thunk, thunk of the bouncing ball soothed her frazzled nerves, and she sighed in contentment as she took hold of it. She centered herself, lofted the ball, and grinned at the result. Nothing but net.
How could she look so good, Clay asked himself. He watched her from the edge of a neighboring court as she retrieved the ball and bounced it back to the line. Those long legs, that blond ponytail, those gorgeous breasts, that delectable butt. Then he focused on her face and smiled in bitter satisfaction. The circles under her eyes told him she hadn’t survived the past couple of days in any better shape than he had.
He had caught the last minutes of her game. She had been all over the court, acting more like a guard than a center. She hadn’t hogged the ball, however, but always found the open woman who had the sure shot. The game had come right down to the buzzer, and he had cheered when she sank the winning basket. How she still had the strength to practice was beyond him.
He saw her rub her breastbone, and an idea began to form in his head. If she were as exhausted as she looked, it might work to his advantage. His game had been easy, and he was relatively fresh. There might be a way to force her to talk to him.
He sauntered over to her, coming up from her rear. “Good game, Francie,” he said when he was about five feet from her. She must not have heard him coming because she jumped and whirled around in a defensive stance, elbows out, ball protected.
“Oh. Clay.” She didn’t sound happy to see him. She relaxed slightly, but she didn’t meet his eyes. “Thanks.” She turned back around and bounced the ball as if she were going to shoot again.
“Francie, we do need to talk. I really need to explain, and you need to understand what’s happening here to both of us.”
She shook her ponytail at him and dribbled the ball some more.
“I’m not crazy, I promise. I’ll go to any computer you can think of to prove my point. I really am a magic practitioner and a computer wizard, and we really are soul mates.” Hell, he sounded pitiful, almost like he was begging. He could hear the exasperation in his voice when he said, “Will you please look at me?”
She turned back around, her chin raised and her face composed. “Go away,” she said with a level tone. “There is no such thing as magic. I do not believe in it. We have nothing to discuss.” She faced the basket again.
He walked around in front of her and put his hands on the ball she held at waist level. Good. That forced her to raise her eyes, and he locked his gaze to hers. Damn. He didn’t know her smoky brown eyes could be so icy, so frozen. Double damn. He was close enough to smell her, an overheated scent of pure woman, pure Francie, that would be the same, he knew, when they came together as soul mates. But later. Concentrate on your objective, Morgan.
He kept his voice low and even. Reasonable. As persuasive as he could make it. “Francie, you know we have plenty to talk about. And we need to settle some things. The soul-mate imperative is working on both of us. The pain in your chest?” He pointed to hers, then rubbed his own. “I’ve got one, too. That’s the imperative telling us we belong together.”
She snatched the ball from his hands and took a step back. “I don’t want to talk to you, and I don’t want to see you. There’s nothing between us, not this so-called imperative, not make-believe magic, not anything. Now, go away. I have to practice.”
What was the flicker in her eyes? The brown had almost melted for a second. Fear? Anger? Embarrassment? No matter. Ignoring her comments, he pressed ahead with his plan. “I have a proposition for you.”
She shot him a squinty, suspicious glance. “What kind of proposition?”
“Play a game of one-on-one.”
“Whoever gets to eleven points first wins? Each basket worth one point?” Her gaze grew more squinty, more suspicious, but she looked intrigued.
“Yep. Whoever wins the point, the other gets the ball. The ball handler starts from center court after each basket, the opponent from the foul line.”
“What’s the bet?” Her eyebrows went up and he thought he had her.
“I win, you talk to me and let me show you what I can do with a computer. You win, and I leave you alone. You win, and you’ll have to come to me if you want to see me.”
She scrutinized him carefully, clearly trying to find any loopholes in his offer. “You have height and reach on me. How many points will you spot me?”
“Not a one. I’ve seen how fast and accurate you are. What’s the matter? Don’t you believe in women’s equality?” He couldn’t help the jeer. Even though he knew he could beat her, probably easily, he couldn’t help wanting to rub her nose in it just a little. He knew exactly where he wanted that nose, and those hands, and . . . Don’t get distracted, he told himself. “I will, however, give you the ball first.”
“How magnanimous.” She dribbled the ball for a moment, then held it and met his eyes. “You won’t bother me anymore?”
“Well, I can’t promise completely,” he said with a smile. “But if I do, it won’t be from something I’ve done. It will all be in your head. I won’t call or come by or e-mail.”
She studied him for a few seconds. “All right, you’re on.” She shot the ball over his head. It swished through the basket. “One point for me. Your ball.”
Grinning at her audacity, he threw his towel over to the sideline and retrieved the ball.
This was not going to be the cakewalk he had envisioned, Clay acknowledged several minutes later. The score was five to five. She was even quicker than he anticipated, and she had a sweet, surprising shot from three-point range. By not pressing her closely, not g
etting in her face, he was letting her play her game, not his. Time to change tactics. He had to force her to come in under the basket where his greater height would be more to his advantage. Make her work to win the point instead of sit back and lob those bombs of hers. Maybe a little intimidation was in order.
She brought the ball in from center court, dribbling easily. He met her at the top of the foul line circle with arms spread high and wide. He came close, looming over her, blocking her way, windmilling his arms to deflect any shot. He set himself to take her charge, not that it would matter if she did run into him. Nobody was calling fouls.
Instead of continuing straight at him, she went to her left and he followed, but her move turned out to be a fake, and she reversed, darting right, ducking under his arm. Three steps and two dribbles took her to the net, where she jumped up and laid the ball in, just caressing the backboard.
Her six, his five.
He walked across the half-court line, bouncing the ball slowly as he worked out his next approach. Francie looked ready for anything. She also looked gorgeous, with her blond hair beginning to come down and her smoky brown eyes flashing with determination. She was veering sideways to his left. He should have an easy path to the right. Just as he decided to move, she suddenly launched herself at him, grabbed the ball on its upward bounce right out from under his hand, pivoted into a jump, and nailed the shot. He stood there flat-footed, feeling like a fool.
Her seven, his five.
He growled to himself. He had to admire—grudgingly—her speed and daring, and he swore at himself for his lapse. Two could play at the fast game, but he preferred power. This time he drove straight for the basket, shouldered her aside, leaped up, stuffed it. As he threw the ball back to her, he thought he heard some cheers in the background, but paid them no attention. He blocked everything extraneous from his mind: the noise from other games, the sound of the bouncing ball, the squeak of his shoes on the court. Hunching over slightly, he concentrated totally on his blond nemesis.
Her seven, his six.
She evidently decided to try his tactic, because she took off from the center circle straight for the key. He took two steps right into her body. They crashed into each other, momentarily plastered together from chest to knee.
“Holy hell!” He staggered back two steps. He felt like he had just run into a lightning storm. A huge bolt had smacked him right on the top of his head, blazed down his body, bounced off the rubber in his shoes, and departed the same way it came in. A double whammy. His nerve endings sizzled. He was certain that his hair stood on end. He inhaled deeply to see if he could still breathe.
He blinked to focus his muddled eyesight. Francie was just standing there, evidently as stunned as he was. The ball was bouncing toward the sideline. He shook himself, ran down the ball, loped to the basket, and scored.
Seven to seven.
He watched Francie recover enough to retrieve the ball and walk back to the center line. She looked like she was back in control, although her game face gave him no clue as to what she was thinking. Well, he’d see about her control. That zap had to be from the soul-mate imperative, a reminder they hadn’t been together for a while. Maybe he could put it to good use.
She dribbled forward, turned, and backed toward him, keeping the ball in front of her, working her way to his left. He crowded her closely, very closely, extremely closely, until he was leaning over her, practically draped across her. Touching her from butt to shoulder. The contact made his blood bubble hotly, but he forced himself to maintain control.
He felt her shiver, falter, miss a bounce. He took over the dribble, grabbed the ball, whirled, shot.
Her seven. His eight.
Only three more points to go, he congratulated himself as he moved to the foul line. This was the answer. The soul-mate imperative reduced her to putty. All he had to do was let the old SMI work for him. He smiled in anticipation.
What had just happened? Francie asked herself. She stood in the center circle bouncing the ball, using the ball-change time to calm down. Think, woman, she ordered. Forget about the noise, the movement on the sidelines. Concentrate.
She’d been proud of the way she had reacted when he walked up behind her, and feeling as unconquerable as she had, she couldn’t resist his challenge. She’d been doing fine, leading in points—until they’d run into each other. Then, wham! A thunderbolt struck, and a wave of longing crashed through her, stole her breath, blackened her sight, and left her too weak to move. She’d stood there like a post while he scored.
And double wham with that sneaky, underhanded tactic, laying his body, his scorching, outrageously sexy body, right on top of hers, forcing her to feel him against every inch of her back, forcing her to breathe in his overheated, thoroughly alluring scent. No wonder she had lost the ball.
Two things were clear. First, touching him had the same effect it always did, shutting down her mind and turning her body to goo. And second, he knew it. Just look at him standing on the foul line with a smirk on his handsome face, a twinkle in those silver eyes, a light sheen of sweat glistening on his muscular body. He thought he had her beat.
Well, not this time, buster.
She started forward, sidling around to the right, her left side toward him. Sure enough, he moved to block, just like last time, intentionally bringing his body into contact with hers. She felt the zing spread to her fingertips.
He must have, too, because he breathed into her ear, his voice an insidious purr that vibrated her diaphragm, “What’s the matter, sweetheart? Can’t you take it?”
She turned her back completely to him and bent over, keeping the ball bouncing as far away from him as she could. He repeated his previous maneuver, enveloping her body with his. When his crotch hit her butt, she wiggled. Once. Twice, for good measure.
He froze and she heard his sharp intake of air.
She slid out from under him, drove to the basket, and laid in a goal.
Eight even.
His ball, his turn at center court. He was scowling as he rolled his shoulders. She could see him gathering his control about him like protective armor. She had to act fast, not let him regroup.
He stood holding the ball between his right hip and his right elbow, clearly contemplating his next move. She stormed him, flattened her body against him, pressed herself right into him, rubbed her front across his. Pumped her hips once, straight into his groin.
He stiffened, turned to stone.
She seized the ball, ran right up the key, and tipped in the point.
Her nine, his eight.
She threw the ball back to him, standing on the free throw line, and she couldn’t resist the smug grin, the taunt. “I can take it, sweetheart. Can you?”
He caught the ball, lowered his head like a bull, and used his weight to blast by her and slam-dunk the ball. The hoop and backboard rattled.
Nine all.
Looking, in her view, entirely too confident, he tossed the ball to her. The wolfish smile on his face made her insides flutter and she frowned. She had to concentrate harder. This was no time to be distracted, not by his effect on her or by all the noise reverberating around the gym. Another team’s game didn’t matter. Her contest did.
She tried her reverse assault again, but this time, he ran his hands from her shoulders, down her back, and around to and over her breasts. At his touch on her nipples, she jerked back into him and lost the ball. He recovered it before it bounced out of bounds, and drove the basket, pushing her out of the way when she tried to block.
Her nine, his ten.
Her ball. He rushed her at the center circle, wrenched the ball away from her, and held it in one hand high above her. Arrogantly, insolently, he grinned down at her. Until she ran her hands down his chest and then lower. And lower still. His face lost its grin, and his arms fell to his sides.
Hah! She snatched the ball and took off for the basket.
Ten all.
They stared at each other for a long mome
nt, he at center court, she on the foul line. Last point. Winner take all. She knew what she had to do.
She charged. He crouched slightly, held the ball in his right hand high and to the rear. His left arm was stretched out toward her to fend her off. She grabbed that arm, pushed it to the side, slid under it, and plastered herself against him. Her free hand in his hair, she hauled his head down and planted her mouth on his.
Think, Francie, she ordered herself. Don’t let him take over.
It was hard going.
She heard him groan, an agonized, tortured sound that her own throat repeated. He dropped the ball, clamped her in his arms, and plundered her mouth. He tasted better than Cherry Garcia, and his arms felt like heaven. Her heart almost burst with longing. Her body rejoiced, threatened to melt around his.
No! She couldn’t let him come to his senses first; she had to keep her brain working. Overruling her traitorous heart, her spineless body, she broke the kiss and pushed back away from him.
With a dazed, unfocused look in his eyes, he let her go.
The ball was at her feet. She scooped it up, sprinted to the basket, leaped high, higher, higher still, and—hot damn!—stuffed it in the net. Her first ever slam dunk. Eleven points. She’d won!
When she landed, she spun around to face him. A desolate look on his face, a dejected slump to his body, he stood where she had left him. They stared at each other for what felt like eons.
Finally he moved, walked slowly to her, stopped three feet away, and spoke with a raspy voice, “You win, Francie. I won’t bother you anymore.”
She’d won, but what had she won? The question reverberated in her head.
The answer almost buckled her knees. She abruptly felt terribly, completely alone, and her mood plummeted from exhilaration to despair as the idea, the reality, of losing him washed over her.
Before she could say anything, before she could begin to comprehend the horrible hollow emptiness that suddenly opened in the middle of her chest, they were engulfed by a laughing, yelling crowd.
