Jump Shot

by Sierra Hill

  As I lay in his arms after a particularly hot and dirty round of sex, where he took me from behind, gripping my hair in his hand while my nails dug into the headboard, I’m just relaxed enough to ask.

  “Lance?”

  I can tell his eyes are closed even though my head is on his chest and I’m unable to see his face.

  “Mmm-hmm? What is it, baby? You ready to go again?” he jokes, finding a spot in my ribs to tickle. I squeal, wiggling out of his hold to get away.

  Propping myself up on my elbow, I look down at his relaxed and sated form. His body is a work of art and takes my breath away every time I see him naked. Sculpted and buff, his muscles are maddening. And the tattoo he has covering torso is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.

  My fingers find their way there, tracing around the tribal ink patterns and the deep cut of his bicep.

  “Do you want kids someday?”

  His eyes pop wide as if I’ve just stung him with the snap of a rubber band.

  He scoffs. “Kids? Uh, I’m not sure..”

  Nerves tingle through my blood because now I’m worried we won’t be on the same page. That my hopes and dreams aren’t aligned with his. And then what do we do? How do I suppress my own dreams to ensure his are met? What if we aren’t meant to be together forever?

  My heart plummets to my toes and I can feel the first sting of tears in the crease of my eyes.

  “I mean, do you want a family? Is it something you’ve considered?”

  He rolls to the side, mirroring me by propping himself up on his elbow, scrubbing the other hand down his face.

  “Mica, we come from very different families. Yours is close-knit and tight. Mine was as dysfunctional as one could be. Do I see myself as a father? No. And I really haven’t put any thought into it. You know me, I honestly don’t think more than a day out. It’s true what they say in the program, it is just one day at a time.”

  He winks at me and lays back down on the pillow, his hand behind his head in a relaxed fashion. He’s been through harrowing experiences that have shaped his life and his thought processes. Where I’m the glass half-full kind of girl who’s received all the love I’ve ever needed from my family, Lance has lived in the half-empty existence, trying desperately to fill it up with the love and attention from others.

  Not wanting to take the discussion any further for fear it could lead into an argument, I close my eyes and lay down on my back, staring up at the ceiling.

  “What would you have done if you’d got a girl pregnant?”

  His body visibly stiffens as my question seems to have stolen the air from his lungs.

  When he finally exhales, he laughs. “Fuck, Georgie. Where is this coming from? Are you worried I’m going to have a paternity suit someday? Don’t be. I’ve always been extremely careful, even when I was drunk.”

  Lance bends down and gently kisses at my collarbone, then my neck, moving down to the top of my breast until his mouth covers my nipple and he sucks. My body instinctively arches into him, seeking the pleasure that only he can give.

  When his mouth stops, he looks up at me with a wicked grin. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t have a sexy fantasy about knocking you up. Planting a baby inside you while you scream out my name as you come. Fucking you when you’re round and pregnant, so needy for my cock. Wanting it at all hours of the day and night.”

  His words turn me on, even though I know they’re only describing the sexual act for him. The caveman desire to get me pregnant, not necessarily his desire to start a family with me. But I’m too far gone and turned on now to care. Rolling over on top of him, I straddle his hips and reach for his already lengthening cock.

  “Oh yeah. Just like that, baby. Your belly would be so round and big that the only way we could fuck is if you were riding me just like this,” he growls, his fingers gliding down from my breasts to circle my belly button before landing between the V between my legs.

  His thumb circles my clit as I grind down on him, his arousal prodding at my entrance and sliding through my wet folds.

  We’ve had sex together so many times before, but there’s something intimate and erotic about talking about making babies. Of his virility being the catalyst for the beauty of life.

  He presses down on my swollen nub and just like that, I climax, my body silently wracked with a pleasure so fierce that I fall on his chest in order to stay grounded.

  “Mica…ride me, baby. Put me inside and ride me hard.”

  So, I do.

  I close my eyes and place my hands on his rock-hard chest as he pushes up and inside me and I ride him like there’s no tomorrow. Like this is all there ever will be. The beauty between us and the pleasures we give each other.

  I ride him until I feel myself coming apart at the seams again. Then I let myself fall down that hole that’s so deep I know I’ll never be able to climb back out from.

  And wondering if he’ll throw me a rope if I get too lost in him.

  30

  Lance

  Holy shit that was so hot. I keep thinking about the other night with Mica.

  I don’t know where that fantasy stemmed from, because I’ve never thought about impregnating a girl before, but talking dirty with Mica about knocking her up was the hottest thing we’d ever talked about or done.

  But afterwards, she became extremely quiet. Shut-down and didn’t want to talk anymore. She said she was tired and rolled over and went to sleep. Which was fine, but very unlike her.

  I, on the other hand, stayed awake for hours. Her questions got me to thinking about the future. Where I wanted to go, what I wanted to do. I honestly haven’t put a lot of thought or energy into it, mostly because the talks with my therapist have been about the past and the present. Not too much about where I see myself in a year. Five years. Ten years from now.

  Yet that dream keeps coming back to me. Maybe somewhere in the recesses of my mind I do envision that in the future. Having a family. Having a life with her. She’s the only solid thing I have in my life.

  Well, aside from basketball.

  I’m grateful to the coaching staff and everyone on the team for giving me a second chance. It’s helped me mature in ways that never would have happened had I not gone through rehab. And while I’m mostly sitting on the bench during games, like right now, seeing things from this perspective has given me a helluva lot of insight and direction.

  Tonight is senior night, which is the last regular season game until the brackets are announced before March Madness. I know I’ll get to play at some point in the game, but the second half has already begun and I’m still on the bench.

  In the past, had I been benched, I would have sat here and stewed, becoming more upset by the minute and then drinking away my frustrations at an afterparty.

  Tonight, however, there’s a realization that’s hit me for the first time. One that gives me purpose and drive. I’m alive and healthy, clean and sober, and have love in my heart. It makes the experience so much more fulfilling. And I finally feel worthy of it.

  As does having all my friends up there in the stands supporting me tonight. And I know that my mom and brother are watching me from above. They all have faith in me and it pushes me on and emboldens me to become a better man each and every day.

  Coach Parker sidles up to me and gives me a nudge.

  “You’re up, kid. Go show ‘em how it’s done.”

  Grinning a punk-ass smile at him, I whip off my warm up pants and shirt and trod over to the ref table to check into the game. As soon as there’s a whistle or timeout, I’ll exchange spots with Javin, the other small forward out on the floor.

  The whistle blows, and I charge out onto the court, pointing at J to gain his attention and let him know I’m taking his place. He passes me by with a fist bump and I ready myself in position. Our point guard, Tra’Von, has the ball from the sidelines and calls out our play before inbounding the pass to me.

  Eager excitement lights up my blood as I catch the ball and dribbl
e down the court. There’s this revelatory anticipation that draws me down into the paint, looking to my left and right, and then making a pass to Christian in the center. He turns and fakes, shooting the ball back over to me. I circle, pump, and take a pull up jumper that hits only the net.

  The crowd goes wild and I receive head nods and bumps from my teammates as we rush back down the court, now on the defense. This feels good.

  I post up and block the shot of my opponent, who misses the basket and Tra’Von is there to get the rebound. We head back down the court and Tra calls out the play that I love. It’s a pump fake, alley oop. It’s when he pretends to take a shot from mid-court and I, in the meantime, rush under the basket, lift off into the air, Tra arcs the ball toward the rim and I catch it and slam it home.

  It’s fucking perfection.

  Until I land.

  The defense player, Josh Everson, comes down at the same time as me, and somehow, we get tangled up together. When I land on both feet, I end up stepping on his shoe, and my ankle turns in the opposite direction of my foot.

  Pain sears through my leg as I reach for my ankle and writhe on the floor under the basket, screaming obscenities while holding my leg. When I look at it I think I’m going to pass out. This is not just a sprain. The ankle bone is popped out underneath the skin and looks like a gnarled tree branch.

  Just like that, I know my season is over.

  It’s been a good ride, but I’m irritated it had to end this way. I had so much more play in me.

  Why me? Haven’t I had enough trials this year?

  The coaches and trainer come rushing out and begin fussing over me, but I close my eyes in pain.

  And then another realization hits me square in the gut.

  No matter how painful this is or will be, or whether I have to endure surgery and pins or plates. I will have to deal with it without the aid of pain medication. The only thing I can take to alleviate pain is Tylenol and Advil.

  Fuck, I’m hosed.

  A few hours later, x-rays and MRI having been done and doctors and nurses poking and prodding, they’ve informed me I have a stress fracture in both my metatarsal and fibula bones. Weight-bearing bone fractures like this are extremely common in sport, especially with basketball players, due to the excessive running and jumping.

  The plus side is no surgery is needed, but I’ll be required to remain off the foot for the next six-to-eight weeks in order for it to repair itself. The most important thing now is to ice and elevate to keep the swelling down.

  I’d been able to text Mica before they sent me off to the hospital, so she knew where to find me and could join me here after all the medical exams.

  Lying here in the hospital bed is eerily familiar. I could do without hospitals for a while.

  There’s a soft knock on the door and Mica’s sweet voice fills the room.

  “Lance? Can I come in?”

  The curtain has been drawn around the bed so she’s not visible yet, but when she comes around the corner, I see the concern stitched in her beautiful features.

  “Hey baby, c’mere,” I beckon, holding out my arms to her.

  She cries softly and buries her head in my neck.

  “Shh, it’s okay, Georgie. Nothing that a little rest and time can’t heal.”

  Mica continues to sniffle, and I feel the wetness absorbing in my hospital gown.

  When she finally pulls back, the look on her face is horrifying. It looks like she fears for my life.

  I try to reassure her. “Baby, I promise. It’ll be fine.”

  Wiping away the tears from her face with her hand, she stares at me for a moment before she drops the bomb.

  “It’s not that, Lance…” she hiccups. “I’m late.”

  Late? Late for what? I’m totally stymied and have no idea what she’s talking about.

  As if she can read my confusion, she straightens her spine, clutching the purse she holds to her side for support.

  “I was going to tell you tonight, before all this happened. But I, uh…I think I’m pregnant.”

  Holy Jesus.

  No.

  No.

  No.

  “When? How? No.” I firmly cement my feelings on the subject and notice her flinch.

  We are not having a kid. We’re too young. I’m too messed up. I have nothing to offer. I don’t want it.

  A few minutes ago, my only problem was keeping my hospital gown from exposing my lily-white ass to anyone coming in the room and the pain that radiated up from my toes.

  It wasn’t something of this magnitude. It wasn’t life-altering.

  Taking a long inhale, I let it go and reach for her hand.

  “I’m not father material, Mica. We’ve talked about that. I love you, but I don’t want to have a baby. Not now. There must be other options. We aren’t ready to have a kid.”

  I don’t know what I expect her to do or say, but it isn’t this.

  She gives me a slight nod, kisses my cheek and turns and walks out of the room.

  I’m left utterly speechless and alone.

  And I have no idea if she’ll be back.

  31

  Mica

  Two lines.

  Two home pregnancy tests.

  Two weeks late.

  As a nursing student, I know the HPT’s aren’t always accurate and the only way to be a hundred percent sure is to have a blood and urine test at the doctor’s, but I’m pretty sure it’s right.

  I wouldn’t have told Lance about it if I wasn’t sure.

  At first, I thought it was just the stress of everything lately. I was feeling run down and exhausted. Thought it might be a late winter flu. Or I’d been working myself so hard with the upcoming end of the school year that it was just typical fatigue.

  But I’m never late.

  After taking the two tests, I’m stretched out on the couch staring at the ceiling, my hand unconsciously rubbing my belly.

  How could this happen to us? Everything was just getting on track and going so well. Lance is healthy and sober, and things are great between us. We’re in love and happy together.

  With still a year left in my nursing program, my plans are to get a job in a neo-natal unit in a hospital after I graduate. Having a baby right now is not in my plans. It’s not supposed to work that way.

  I’d always had it in my head that when I told the father of my baby that I was pregnant, he’d whoop and holler with excitement, picking me up and swinging me around in utter joy to celebrate the happy occasion.

  Lance’s response to me being pregnant was definitely not like that.

  I realize my timing couldn’t have been worse, and I could kick myself for how I just blurted it out, after he’d just sustained such a blow with his foot and ankle diagnosis. What was I thinking?

  I wasn’t. My hormones and emotions had got the best of me. And I totally screwed things up. Maybe if I hadn’t approached it quite like that he would’ve been happier or not as adamant about the decision.

  Up until now, I hadn’t really thought of the consequences. It didn’t even dawn on me that he wouldn’t want it with me. Because he said he loved me and I thought that meant something. I thought he would be there for me and we could live happily ever after.

  Apparently, that only happens in fairytales and the tele novelas that my abuelita watches.

  Dios mío. What am I going to tell my family? My very Catholic, strict, old-fashioned family. Just when I thought they’d be okay with me dating Lance, now this happens. Could it get any worse?

  I’ve received a few texts from Lance over the last two days, but I haven’t responded. I just can’t yet. Not until I have a chance to think through this and determine what’s important to me.

  All I can envision is my little boy or girl playing happily alongside Therese’s new baby. How beautiful it will be having the chance to go through this pregnancy at the same time as my sister.

  At least I’d have her and Ainsley at my side. I haven’t mentioned anything
to her yet and don’t even know when I will. She’s so wrapped up in the wedding plans that I don’t want to divert her attention.

  Lance’s texts to me have been apologetic for the way he reacted, but he hasn’t said he’s changed his mind. All he said was he wanted to talk.

  Call me when you’re ready.

  I love you and I want to be there for you.

  I’m sorry I freaked out on you. I wasn’t in a good headspace.

  I didn’t know how to respond to any of those, so I chose not to. And he hasn’t pressed me any further, which I guess I appreciate.

  What did I expect him to do? Ride over here on his white horse and sweep me off my feet? Tell me I’m the love of his life and he wants to marry me right now and have tons of babies with me, starting with this one?

  Fat chance.

  I’m such a romantic dreamer. Full of fairytale ideals and expectations.

  And really, can I hold it against Lance for the way he responded? He’s barely sober four months, is still dealing with the consequences of the past and now the end of his college basketball career. What did I expect?

  Lifting my shirt, I run my fingers gently over my stomach. Of course, I don’t feel anything in there yet. No kicks or headbutts against the flat of my belly. But I feel it in my heart and my soul.

  If the worst-case scenario happens, and Lance honestly doesn’t want anything to do with our baby, then I guess I’ll be a single mom. It’s not unheard of or uncommon. And I know that my family, after getting over the initial shock that their twenty-year old daughter is single and pregnant, will forgive me and support me and my baby. It’s just how our family works.

  I’m crying crocodile tears when the phone rings.

  “Hola?” I answer, trying to hide the raspy sound of my voice.

  “Micaela, is that you?” Ainsley asks.

  “Yeah, it’s me. Hi, what’s going on?”

  “Well, I was checking on you because you’re supposed to be over here with us tonight.”

  I sit up so fast I get dizzy. “Oh crap. I’m sorry, Ains. I completely spaced it. I’m not feeling like myself.”