4
Decker
There’s something about Avery Hughes that rubs me the right way.
She gets me worked up. It starts, as with most men, in my pants, but in no time it reaches my other head, the one with the brain, and it’s her wit and sharp intelligence, her drive that keeps me wanting more. Even if there hadn’t been all the ribbing after the towel incident, I still would have thought about her for days after we met. She’s the kind of woman who makes an impression and lingers in your memory.
I last saw her about two years ago at a Sports Illustrated party. I’d been injured that season, and was pretty sure my NBA career was over. Even though my wife Tara stood at my side, glittering and clinging possessively, we both knew our marriage was over, too. It had been on life support for a while. We were scheduled to present a check from my charitable foundation that night, so we had to attend together, but we’d already filed the papers. Still, when I spotted Avery across the room with her fiancé, guilt chewed through my gut because I wanted to walk away from my soon-to-be-ex, snatch Avery from that dude and take her to some corner; pick up where we’d left off in that locker room.
It feels like I’ve lived a dozen lives since then. Seasons in the NBA should be measured like dog years. Not just the wear and tear on your body, but the wear and tear on your soul. Greedy people, shattered hopes, broken marriages.
Missed chances.
Avery feels like the biggest missed chance of all. Maybe she retained that mystery because I never got to know her. Never got to taste her. That night at the SI party, when our glances collided across eight years and a crowded room, I had to accept that I never would. I had only seen her a handful of times and from a distance since our first meeting, but in a moment, before she had time to disguise it, her unguarded expression told me she hadn’t forgotten. That I was still . . . something, even if it was just an annoying, awkward memory. Avery, being the consummate professional, contorted her lips into a plastic smile and turned back to the man at her side.
Only that man hasn’t been at her side the last few months. Lately, the few times I watched her show, the ring she wore that night was gone. I’m not sure what’s happened, but the ring’s not there now, and I’m assuming . . . okay, hoping . . . the man is gone, too.
When SportsCo called about subbing as Avery’s co-host on Twofer, I cancelled whatever my team had lined up to make it happen. This could get interesting . . . if Avery would let it.
If she would let me.
We’re a week in, and on camera, Avery and I have a natural connection that viewers are loving, but she’s kept me at a polite distance otherwise. When the lights go down, her guard goes up, and she presents that phony, careful neutrality she thinks will keep me out. But every day, I see a new crack in that wall she hides behind, and it only stokes my curiosity to see what’s in there. It’s time to chip away at the wall. Time to be the hammer.
I study her during our production meeting. She’s making a point to the team about a camera angle. An image of her pinned against the conference room door highjacks my imagination; my tongue plunged so deeply down her throat she’d have to beg for breath. Of me sliding to my knees and pushing that skirt past her thighs, pulling her legs onto my shoulders and roughly shoving her panties aside. Of my mouth open and worshiping between her legs. Of my face wet from her passion gushing onto me.
Puppies. Ice cream. Old people fucking.
I mentally run through the list that usually keeps a hard-on at bay, but it’s not working this time, and my dick is a pipe in my pants. I would handle this woman. I would pick her up when I kiss her. Literally sweep her off her feet and hold her by the ass. Show her what it feels like to be kissed suspended in the air. I’d press her against me so she felt how much I wanted her. Until she felt my erection and had to deal with it. Until she had to deal with me. I scoot my chair another inch under the table, struggling to rein in this fantasy.
Puppies. Ice cream. Old people fucking.
If this woman is indifferent to me, I’ll eat both my championship rings. I made my living reading plays and picking apart defenses. From my experience, people and relationships aren’t much different, and there’s no way I misread the attraction between us that badly. She’s not a woman you can rush, but I only have two weeks left on my guest stint before good ol’ dick pic returns. With so little time left on the clock, I think this calls for the full-court press. End-to-end coverage. Man-to-man defense . . . or in this case, man-to-woman. No letting up until the opponent is worn down. I live for this shit. No one can beat me at this game.
“Does that sound good?” Avery interrupts my inner pep talk, long-lashed eyes blinking at me over the cup of cold brew I’ve been bringing her every day.
What the hell are we talking about?
I glance around the conference room, packed with the crew for the production meeting. Everyone’s watching me expectantly.
“Deck?” Avery asks with a tiny frown. “I said does that sound good?”
“Hmmmm . . .” I scrunch my face like I’m pondering the subject really hard, hoping she’ll elaborate.
“I mean, if you want to do the Holiday predictions last instead,” she continues. “We totally can.”
“Nah.” Ah! The Holiday predictions. Right. “We can leave it at the top.”
She tilts her head and narrows her eyes. “You mean in the middle?”
“Middle, yeah.” I nod sagely. “Perfect place for it.”
“Well if we’re all agreed,” Sadie says, closing her laptop. “That’s a wrap.”
Everyone starts dispersing. I’ll find some reason to linger until Avery finishes the discussion she’s having with one of the show’s writers.
“Don’t worry,” Sadie whispers to me while she finishes packing her things. “She’s coming, too.”
If I take my eyes off Avery for even a second, she might dart off. That woman has become really good at avoiding me. I spare Sadie a quick glance to figure out what she’s even talking about.