Long Shot (Hoops 1)

“Yeah, since you’re taking every shot, you’re the only one in rhythm,” Jagger says, the calm demeanor he’s famous for unruffled. “You start missing, no one else is ready. We all know you’re a gifted athlete, August. Don’t just show off. Show us you can lead.”

He taps his clipboard for emphasis, nailing me with a look from behind his glasses.

“You’re the point guard. The floor general. Involve your teammates more,” he says. “Slow the game down so they can catch up. Open the floor. What happened to the passing we’ve been working on all season? You’ve reverted to hoarding the ball. Where’s your head, man?”

Only Jag would hone in on these issues when, from the outside, it looks like things couldn’t be better and I’m having a stellar game.

Everything he’s said is spot on. I’m playing well, but I’m the only one playing well. That’s not the kind of team we want to be, and that’s not the kind of player I want to be. I promised myself I wouldn’t let Caleb take me out of my game, and even though I look good, it’s selfish play that’s doing it. And that’s his game, not mine.

“Good looking out.” I fist-pound him and nod. “Thanks, Jag.”

“No problem.” He pushes the glasses up his nose, looks back to his clipboard and starts marking up our next play.

I’m headed toward the floor to start the second half, when I happen to look up at the jumbotron. Some cameraman has a great eye because out of all the people in this arena, he found the two most beautiful.

Iris doesn’t seem to realize the camera is on her. “Shot Caller” is emblazoned on the front of her red T-shirt, and she bounces Sarai on her knees, making animated faces to coax her into laughing. Sarai’s little hands flap, and her fingers close around her mother’s nose. I can’t hear Iris’s laugh, but even the memory of it is like warm honey pouring over me. Her laugh is husky and full-bodied and genuine—something her soul cooks up and her heart serves.

When she finally realizes the camera is on her, and she and her daughter are on the big screen, she looks embarrassed for a second but recovers. Like the perfect baller’s chick, she looks into the camera and waves Sarai’s hand. The most angelic smile lights up the little girl’s face, sparks in those violet–blue eyes.

Even with my team up, and my highest-scoring game already on the books by halftime, disappointment singes my insides. I’m about to turn away and walk on court when Iris looks right at me. Only a few rows behind the bench, she’s close enough for me to see her eyes widen, and that gorgeous, fuckable mouth falls open the littlest bit.

If I’m off my game, so is Iris. She should have looked away by now to hide this. The camera is still on her, and in seconds, someone will connect the dots between me staring up at her and her staring back at me, but neither one of us looks away. On lonely nights, drowning in pussy instead of booze, I’ve lain awake and tried to convince myself I imagined this pull between us. But this thing that connects us may as well be a neon thread, lit up for everyone to see. It’s so tangible you could pluck it. I’m tangled up in it and can’t seem to work myself free.

“West!” Kenan calls, finally jerking my attention away. “You playing or what?”

Shit.

Our starting line-up is already on the floor, and so is the Stingers’. I’m the only one not out there. I take one last look at Iris, who is now looking at her daughter and not me, before going on the court.

When I take my spot, Caleb’s eyes are slitted. He looks from me to the stands, and there is no question he noticed the long look I shared with his baby’s mama.

What-the-hell-ever.

I put the incident behind me and grab hold of Jag’s advice. Getting my team involved, spreading the floor, and slowing down the game helps me to shake off the moment with Iris that rattled my insides.

One of our players is at the free-throw line, and Caleb and I are standing beside each other, waiting for him to take his two shots.

“You see something you like up in the stands, West?” he asks, watching the ball circle the rim before falling through the net.

I don’t respond. I think that’s best. He knows what he saw, and I don’t feel like lying to him.

“I fucked her in the ass before the game,” he says, so low only I’ll hear. “No one’s ever had her like that before. I get all her firsts. Did you know I was her first, West? I’ll be her only and her last.”

Outrage and disgust rise like bile in my throat. I glance at him, my eyes burning with hate. I squelch my fury and reach for the coldhearted, ruthless competitor who always finds a way to ruin this man’s night.

“You talk that way about the mother of your child?” I tsk and shake my head like it’s a shame. “I was gonna ease up on you, show some mercy, but now I’m gonna wipe the floor with your bitch ass.”

And I do.

For the next twenty minutes, I take Maverick’s advice to a degree, but I shake Caleb, deny him the ball, do everything in my power to pick him apart.

With only a few minutes left, this home crowd is stunned that we’re up by ten points. Caleb attempts a dunk. Not on my watch. I leap to trap the ball against the backboard, and the ref calls it a clean block shot. None of Caleb’s shouting and whining gets the call overturned. The building is as quiet as it’s been all night, and some fans are even starting to leave.

Next time down the floor, Caleb tries to return the favor, but my shot goes in, even though I fall on my back in the act of shooting. I’m about to get up, when he comes to stand over me, legs spread and groin above my face, a not-so-subtle “suck my dick” message—a blatant disrespect among ballers.

I’m on my feet and in his face before my brain can catch up to the rest of my body. We’re head to sweaty head, chest to chest, nose to nose, growl for growl. Teeth bared and tension unleashed in the tight space between us. A leanly muscled arm shoves m

e back.