Total pages in book: 40
Estimated words: 37344 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 187(@200wpm)___ 149(@250wpm)___ 124(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 37344 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 187(@200wpm)___ 149(@250wpm)___ 124(@300wpm)
“Don’t put your fucking hands on me again,” I snarl. “You’re right. We’re going to need to show the coaches what they have so they dole out the minutes appropriately.”
“Got something in mind?”
“I do. Let’s shoot. Mid-ranges and triples. Ten of each,” I tell him.
“Let’s do it. Let me show the coaches they fucked up by bringing you here.”
As Eric turns away and calls for two fresh racks of balls, Gabe turns to me.
“You sure you want to do this?” he asks. “If he beats you, he’s going to make your life here a living hell. Worse, he might give the coaches something to think about.”
“He’s not going to beat me.”
“You sure?”
The spark of competitive flames inside me blooms into a full-blown forest fire, and I offer Gabe a wicked grin. “He’s not going to beat me.”
Gabe smiles wide. “Get it then, boy.”
As word of our little impromptu competition spreads around the gym, everybody filters over to watch. Coaches and players are all milling about, waiting for us to start. I glance over and see Bailey standing alone on the sideline, watching with interest. Memories of the string of shots I just bricked while she was looking on float through my mind.
“Fuck,” I mutter to myself.
I push it away and try to focus on the task at hand—putting Eric in his place.
“You want to shoot first?” I ask.
“Might as well,” he replies with a casual shrug. “Get this shit over with quick.”
Stepping back, I stand beside Gabe and watch as Eric starts with the mid-range shots. He moves around smoothly, his shot fluid and clean. He connects on seven of his ten shots then throws a crooked grin at me and winks. After that, he moves back behind the arc. He's got a pretty shot, I'll give him that, but he only connects on half of his three-pointers. As he steps back, he gets a round of applause, which makes him smirk.
“Don’t worry. I’m sure the coaches will give you some minutes in trash time,” he says to me as his boys slap him on the back.
“Do this shit,” Gabe tells me.
I ignore him, take a deep breath, and lock in. My vision narrows as I shut out everything—the crowd all around me, Gabe, the noise in the gym, even Bailey. The energy of competition flows through me, and all I can see are the balls and the basket. Stepping forward, I grab the first ball and uncork that fire inside me.
Moving quickly and efficiently, I dart around the key, firing off shot after shot, sinking nine of my ten mid-range shots. Stepping behind the line, I grab another ball, line up my shot, and start firing with a shot as silky-smooth as I imagine Bailey’s skin to be. That intrusive thought costs me and I clang my final shot off the heel and scowl. Nine of ten is pretty fucking good, but I demand perfection of myself.
The gym floor erupts with applause and cheers as I pull myself out of that tunnel I locked myself in and turn to Eric, my expression stony and serious.
“Don’t worry,” I tell him. “I’m sure you’ll get plenty of minutes in trash time.”
“Fuck you, man,” he spits and stalks away, his lackeys falling into step behind him.
Gabe claps me on the back and laughs. “Hell of a run, bro. Hell of a run.”
I accept congratulations from the rest of the squad and turn to see Bailey still standing on the sideline. She gives me a smile and a thumbs-up. Before I can get over to her and ask her out for a drink, she turns and heads out of the gym, and I find myself hoping she’s not leaving so soon because she’s meeting Eric.
As that thought passes through my mind, I see the image of her smiling and laughing with him again and feel some of the day’s shine start to fade. Something like possessiveness roars through my chest, and I wonder if I’m already in too deep despite just meeting her.
If I am, then fuck, I’m in trouble.
4
BAILEY
“What are you working on tonight?”
Brad is sitting next to me in the press box and looks just as bored as I feel. He’s an older guy who’s been on the beat for a rival paper for like thirty years, but he and I get along well enough and tend to feed each other information. An important part of my job is building relationships. It’s vital to have people who are willing to talk to you and share information.
“Honestly, I don’t know,” I tell him. “I mean, I’ll write a recap of the game, of course—”
“Recaps of preseason games are about as fun as sandpapering your balls.”
I laugh. “I’m going to take your word for that. What do you have in your idea bin?”
He chuffs. “My idea bin is dry as hell at the moment. I’m scrambling to come up with something interesting.”