Iris
Oh. My. God.
Dirty play.
The two words start as a whisper of speculation and disbelief, but grow louder and more certain around me until it seems everyone is saying what Caleb just did was a dirty play. Shaken, I watch them carry August off the floor on a stretcher. Once he’s been swallowed up by the darkness of the guest team tunnel, I shift my eyes back to the court. Caleb is staring at me, and the anger, the malevolence he’s hidden is on full display in his eyes. It takes my breath hostage. I don’t even recognize him for a moment, and I know what he just did was about me. About me and August.
August put on an amazing performance, recording a personal best in points, but at what cost? His injury is obviously serious, but how serious? Will he miss the rest of the season? Could it end his career?
Is it my fault?
“I’m ready to go,” I tell Ramone.
His frown is quick and stern and not scaring me even a little bit. “But Mr. Bradley wanted us to meet him at the—”
“I’ll see Mr. Bradley when he gets home.” I stand with Sarai asleep on my shoulder. “You can walk me to the car, or I can go on my own. Those are the only options.”
He hesitates, glancing down at the court. I follow his eyes to Caleb still watching me. I start down the row, not looking back to make sure Ramone is following. The quick thud of his steps behind me confirms he’s coming.
“Ms. DuPree.” He grabs my elbow, looking down at me. “I’m escorting you to your car and will drive you home.”
“Look, I don’t need—”
“I insist.” His fingers tighten around my bones to a point just short of pain.
“Let me go.” I snap a look from my elbow to his implacable expression. “Or I’ll scream for the cops.”
His fingers drop immediately, but his bulk still crowds me, and I clutch Sarai closer. What was supposed to be protection now feels like capture. He points toward the exit, to the private garage where my car is parked.
Without him asking, I let him take the wheel of the G-Class Mercedes SUV Caleb gave me, and I climb in the back, buckling Sarai into her car seat. I don’t say a word to Ramone, and he doesn’t say a word to me, but something has shifted, not just between Ramone and me, but between Caleb and me. That dirty play was an act of war, a shot he fired at August, but it struck me, too. It passed right through my heart, and I’m aching for all that August may have lost tonight.
I pull out my phone and Google him to check for an update on his injury. Nothing much more than I already know, except that they’ve taken him to the hospital for tests. There are only a few games left in his rookie season, and this has happened.
Because of me?
I choke on guilt, and the bright lights of the skyline blur through my tears while we travel the city’s streets. As soon as we pull into the garage, I unsnap Sarai and scoot to the door. Ramone is already there, holding it open for me. I don’t even look at him, but rush inside and up to the nursery, laying her down in her crib and making sure her monitor is on.
I turn on the huge television in our bedroom built into the wall over the fireplace. Avery Hughes, one of SportsCo’s most popular anchors, shares a split screen with a reporter in the field.
“What can you tell us, John?” Avery asks. “Any news on August West?”
“He’s inside.” John points a thumb over his shoulder to the hospital behind him. “All we’ve heard is that they’re doing tests to gauge the extent of the injury. It looked pretty bad, but we won’t know until the results are in.”
A small commotion off-camera distracts John for a second, and then he jerks his attention back to Avery.
“We may have something.” He gestures for the cameraman to follow him. “It’s MacKenzie Decker, San Diego Waves president of basketball operations.”
The reporters gathered at the hospital entrance slow Decker’s progress, clustering around him with boom mics and recorders and curiosity.
“What can you tell us, Deck?” one reporter yells. “Is August out for the rest of the season?”
“How bad is the injury?” another asks before he has time to answer.
“Is the leg broken?” The question is hurled at Decker, prompting a quick frown on the handsome face.
“I played basketball, not baseball, guys,” Deck says, stopping to answer their questions, a strained smile canting one side of his mouth. “You keep zinging these fast balls at me. Gimme a chance to answer one.”
A few of the reporters chuckle, but no one moves, waiting for answers to their questions.