Hoops Holiday (Hoops 2.50)

“Here I am.” I stop in front of my apartment building and turn to Deck, prepared to say good-bye.

Of course, he walks ahead to the entrance. My doorman recognizes him instantly, rushing over to hold the glass doors wider for him.

“Deck, we sure miss seeing you on the court,” he says, an eager grin splitting his face.

“Can’t say I miss being out there as much as I thought I would,” Decker replies, signing the slip of whatever paper the doorman found for his autograph. “I like not aching and creaking half the year. Eighty-two games for twelve years will kick your ass.”

“Not to mention playoffs in the post-season,” the doorman reminds him with an admiring grin.

“Yeah, there were a few of those, too, huh?” Decker laughs and turns when the elevator arrives. “Nice meeting you.”

“Great meeting you, too. Thanks for the autograph. My son’ll love this. Good night, Ms. Hughes,” the doorman adds, finally acknowledging me.

I return his smile, not minding being ignored. It’s not every day you see a living sports legend. I remember feeling that way the first

night I met Decker, even though I still had to ask him tough questions. He’d won rookie of the year the season before and was already one of the brightest stars in the League. Remembering the towel incident makes me smile as we get off the elevator.

“What are you grinning about?” Deck asks, narrowing his eyes in false suspicion. “I don’t trust you when you grin like that.”

Feeling a little lighter, I turn to face him, walking backward toward my door.

“I was thinking about the first night we met.”

“Ugh.” He shakes his head and closes his eyes briefly. “I was such an immature asshole.”

“I think I told you that then.” I laugh when he glowers at me. “You just admitted it. I’m agreeing with you. Be happy.”

“You know it’s funny. That was ten years ago.” His smile as we keep walking borders on wistful, if such firm lips could be described that way. “So it feels like I’ve known you forever, but before I started the show last week, we’d never had a real conversation. I mean, unless you count the one at my locker.”

“I don’t.” I lean against the door to my apartment. “You were wearing a towel, and not even that at one point.”

“Nice.” He stops in front of me. “I’ll never live that down with you, will I?”

“Do you really want to?”

“Nope,” he admits with a shameless, cocksure grin. “At least I knew you would never forget me.”

As if I could.

I don’t say the words, but something on my face must confess that I never forgot him. That sometimes in quiet moments alone, he was always an unanswered question. Or maybe I was afraid to ask. His humor evaporates, and his eyes take on that fierce focus I’d always noted when I watched him play. The camera would catch this exact look on his face; like the prize is in sight, and it was only a matter of four quarters before his opponent would yield. I wonder which quarter we’re in.

“So, like I was saying.” He picks up where he left off, that intense stare like steam hovering over my skin. “I feel like I’ve learned a lot about you since I started with the show.”

“Is that right?” I press my shoulders into the door for support because that look is melting my bones, and I need to stand my ground.

“I know that as soon as you walk into a room, you charge the air,” he says softly. “Everything comes to attention around you.”

My breath stutters and I lick dry lips.

“I know that people enjoy following you so much they don’t even realize you’re leading them,” he continues, taking a step closer and stealing another ounce of air from my lungs. “And that you’re usually the smartest person in the room, but you know when to let other people think they are.”

I thought butterflies in your stomach were some urban myth from Harlequin romance novels, but sure enough, something is fluttering in my belly at his words.

Aw, crap. I don’t do butter fucking flies.

“And I know that as much as you light up onscreen, there’s something sad in your eyes, and I hate it.” He steps as close as he can, cups my cheek, locking our eyes. “I saw it tonight and I hate it, Avery.”

He flattens his other hand against the door, his arms making an intimate alcove I couldn’t escape if I wanted to.