Hoops Holiday (Hoops 2.50)

It better not be the way his presence sizzles in the air like hot oil tossed into a frying pan. It better not be his scent, clean and male with an undercurrent of lust. Or his amber-colored eyes surrounded by a wedge of thick lashes. It better not be any of those things because I had a talk with my body this morning, and we decided by mutual agreement that I would not respond physically to this man.

“Decker, welcome!” Sadie says, her smile unusually bright and her eyes slightly dazzled. “We’re so glad to have you.”

That slow-building smile starts behind his eyes, quirks his sinfully full lips and creases at the corners. We’re roughly the same age. He’s a little older, so he must be thirty-five, thirty-six or so by now, and the years have been oh so kind. If it hadn’t been for a career-ending injury last year, he’d still be balling.

“I’m glad to be here.” The voice, modulated and slightly southern, is that graveled rasp typically only earned by a few packs a day, except Decker is famously fastidious about what goes into his body, temple that it is. Nature just granted him that voice. I remind myself not to inspect all the other things nature awarded this man.

“You know Avery of course.” The look Sadie turns on me holds a subtle threat in case I’m feeling froggy this morning. Lucky for her I had my cold brew coffee. That stuff keeps me out of jail. I’d hate to meet me without it.

I extend my hand, which he immediately enfolds in his. It’s warm and huge. You forget how big these guys are when you watch them on television, but standing here in the well-toned flesh, Decker towers over me by at least a foot. He makes me feel small and delicate. I love feeling small and delicate . . . said no self-respecting sports reporter ever. Add that to the ever-growing list of things he makes me feel that I don’t like.

“Good to see you again, Avery.” He looks down at our hands still clasped.

“Yeah, you, too.” I wiggle my fingers for him to let go, and for a moment mischief breaks through his neutral expression, before he releases me and sits at the conference room table.

“Thanks for stepping in, Deck,” Sadie says. “How’s the penthouse suite?”

SportsCo has a great relationship with the luxury hotel across the street, often holding events and putting up guests there. I’m assuming Deck is staying in the penthouse while he’s with the show.

“It’s great,” Deck says. “Glad I don’t have to commute from Connecticut every day.”

“Well we wanted to make it easy for you. Let us know if you need anything.” Sadie hands us both folders. “Now did you guys get my email with the rundown of today’s show?”

When we both nod, Sadie dives into the details. I was prepared to be unimpressed. So many athletes assume because they played their sport, they know all sports and can just hop in front of a camera and it’ll be fine. Deck obviously didn’t make that assumption. He’s prepared. And I’ve seen him commentate since he retired. He’s good.

There’s a studied ease to him, a carefully cloaked intensity. People can’t always handle the passion it takes to do great things. I’m allergic to average and abhor mediocrity. That leaks into every aspect of my life. Type A. Driven. I’m not sure what you’d call it, but it’s all over Mack Decker, too. He was renowned for it on the court, the alpha dog leading his pack to victory by any means necessary. As we review the elements of today’s show, I look up more than once to find all of that intensity fixed on me. The dark gold stare pins me to my ergonomic leather seat. I make sure not to squirm, though it feels like, with nothing more than sex appeal and quiet tenacity, he’s holding me hostage.

“All good?” Sadie looks between the two of us once we’re done, but her query targets me. I know this because I know Sadie. I didn’t want Decker stepping in, but even I can’t deny his professionalism and competence. And obviously he’ll be catnip for our viewers. Every excuse to not want him here keeps melting away. Eventually I’ll have to deal with the real reason I’ve resisted him as a guest host.

But not yet.

“Yeah.” I scribble nonsense on the pad in front of me, one of the many ways I exert my abundant nervous energy. “All sounds good to me.”

Decker glances at the papers in front of him. “I’ll try to keep it together in the last segment when Magic Johnson comes on set.”

“What?” The word rides a laugh past my lips. “Are you serious?”

“I’m not allowed to lose my shit over the greatest point guard to ever lace up?” He leans back, lips twitching and arms crossed over the expanse of chest hidden beneath his crisp shirt.

“I’m glad you qualified point guard, not shooting guard, because we’d have a problem if you don’t acknowledge Jordan as the Almighty Guard.”

Decker’s deep-timbered chuckle moves the muscles of his throat and slides over me like a lasso, roping me in and tugging me closer.

“I’m not having the Greatest of All Time debate with you, Avery.”

“Good because there’s no debate about who the GOAT is.” I toss my pen on the table like a gauntlet. “You tell me anyone other than Jordan, we got a problem.”

He expels a disdainful puff of air.

“Then we got a problem.”

“Heresy.” I lean forward, salivating for a good debate with a worthy opponent. “Who you got?”

He holds up three fingers. “Wilt, Kareem and Russell.”

“Three!” Outrage drags the word from my mouth. “How can you have three ahead of Jordan? MJ at number four is just . . . I . . . I . . . just . . .”

“While she tries to gather her thoughts,” Sadie interjects with a grin and a glance at her phone. “I gotta take this. Thanks again, Decker. Let’s have a great first show.”