Page 1 of On Merit Alone

Chapter One

Merit

A lot can happen over the span of an hour.

Great people have accomplished great things within minutes, hell, seconds. Sometimes with much more time to spare. So if they can do that, just think what us normal people could do with an entire hour.

I wasn't normally one to waste my hours. I knew they could be compounded. Knew they could be useful, broken apart and added together to make up the ever ticking clock that was our time here on earth. I knew they were valuable because that time here was never truly guaranteed.

I valued my hours. And right now, I was squandering them.

Biting my tongue, I only tipped my head back slightly to suppress my mounting groan.

The sound of the recorded video started up again. The slap of a newspaper hitting the table snapped through the room; Roberto Manzinni, the deliverer of such an assault.

Was this necessary? It wasn't even that bad … was it?

Chelsea Cherry’s voice was a familiar one as it filled the room from the other side of the recording, debating that fact.

As the designated home interviewer for the Denver Dynamite, she was the sports reporter we trusted implicitly.

There at every game and covering every hour at the Mountaineer Stadium.

We sometimes even passed her on non-game days after practice… or extra practice or workouts.

She knew how hard we worked for this. How hard I always worked. Maybe that’s why her question made me so mad.

“Ms. Jones!” the digital version of Cherry said. “Do you think this is the last season for you with your knee not being what it used to be?”

No, that’s exactly why her question made me so mad. Because what kind of bullshit setup question was that?

She knew firsthand how tough it was for us women to shine in this industry. She knew how “on” we had to be at all times. She had to be the same herself, yet she’d gone and asked it anyway.

So why the hell was I getting in trouble for answering with the same energy?

I watched as digital me turned Cherry’s way, a murderous look in her eyes. Oh, I hated this part . Did we really have to watch it again?

“Do you think this is your last interview with your due date coming up soon?” I asked.

Now I winced. The video paused. It was all very dramatic.

Poor Chelsea. That wasn't fair. She’d always been cutthroat when it came to her questioning, and I used to go toe-to-toe with her. Lately, however, my resolve had gotten weaker, along with my knee. But it was hypocritical of me to be coming at her about her candor when I used to admire her for it.

Fine, I shouldn’t have lashed out. Especially not on camera and not for someone who worked in the same organization as the rest of us—a woman fighting for a spot to exist in this male-dominated field.

But being called to Rob Manzinni, the general manager of the Dynamite’s office, seemed a little overboard .

“Crass!” Rob’s palm slapped the table next, apparently out of newspapers to throw. Rounding the side of his desk, he started to pace the length of his carpeted office again . We’d been on the same loop for a while now.

Look, I got it, okay? It was only the third game of the season, and I had been a colossal bitch, but we had been in this room for an hour .

I had physical therapy sessions that lasted as long. Practices and workouts, film meetings and strength training all lasted an hour. But you know what all those things had in common? They were useful.

This was not.

“Crass and unprofessional and bad, bad, bad for business, Jones. What has gotten into you?” Rob went on, and I barely found it in me not to groan as I leaned deeper into my seat.

I flicked a gaze upward, my team coming into view behind me.

I mean, technically, Rob was a part of that team too, but truthfully, he was sort of like an overlord.

Under the owner's instruction, he paid the bills, and the rest of us danced like puppets to appease him.

When he was mad, we groveled to make it better. When he was happy, we slept easy.

He wasn’t overly terrible, especially compared to other GMs in the game. But the Dynamite was having a bad couple of years with my injury and our losing streak. He was simply too stressed to have a winning personality.

Or so I told myself so as not to pop off on him.

Truth was, Rob had the capacity of being an asshole with or without the stress. I’d never been on the immediate receiving end of it, but he just had that slimy look about him, you know?

I wasn’t doing myself any favors with my attitude.

Something the pointed stare of my agent, Ryan, told me as he leaned a hip against the black leather office sofa behind me, his arms crossed and his face that block of ice-cold attitude I was so used to by now.

Around the rest of the office were the makings of a real disciplinary nightmare, with my head coach, assistant coach, position coach, and the team PR manager all present for this impromptu meeting.

All because of me and my mouth. I winced away from Ry’s gaze and turned my attention back to the fuming man in front of us. Catching me watching him, he paused, head cocking as he took me in.

It was Sunday morning, the day after the third game to start the Denver Dynamite professional basketball season.

I was off today, or at least I was supposed to be, but my foot was tapping in anticipation of getting the hell out of this office so I could get my intended practice in before it was too late.

I’d come dressed for working out but not for work in regular athletic shorts and a spacious T-shirt rather than my usual team-issued gear.

Upon entrance to the office, I had pushed my prescription sunglasses up over my braids, which meant I may have been squinting marginally at Rob as I leaned back in my seat with my arms and legs crossed.

I don’t think he appreciated the body language all that much.

Was that his lip curling?

“Look at you,” Rob tutted as he took me in. “Do you even care that your little post-game temper tantrum already has everyone talking about Denver? And not in a good way, mind you.”

I shrugged, but I had enough sense not to answer.

I knew I must have looked like I didn’t care, what with me clearly not wanting to be here and all.

But the truth was, I did. I cared about my team and definitely cared about my career.

That’s why I’d immediately felt bad when I was called into this little meeting about the possibility that I screwed something up with my smart ass.

I cared…

Or at least I had cared until this meeting started eating into my practice time. That’s when I started to get irritated. I wish he would just get to the point already.

Ryan Carmen, my agent and certified mind reader, had the same idea. “Are we going somewhere with this, Manzinni? Because if not, I have other places to?—”

“I need an explanation for this!” my general manager pitched in a childish temper.

I guess there was more he could slam onto the table as his other palm slapped over the glass desk, making the whole thing rattle with his weight.

I shifted in my seat uncomfortably, wanting nothing more than to materialize on the other side of the glass doors I was staring at.

I didn’t want to be here. I wanted to be back on the court. To do last night over again. In a perfect world, I could get back the last three games and fix this mess I’d landed myself in.

Because this is not how things were supposed to be going.

This was supposed to be my comeback. My time . Instead, it was already shaking out to be the worst time I’d had in my professional career since, well, ever.

Memories flashed of me on the ground, me in the hospital, me in recovery, and all the pain that came with missing an entire season.

The sure reality of them and the mute distance, making me nauseous.

Fear of never wanting to do that again had me ripping myself from the horrible thoughts and bringing my gaze head-on with Rob’s.

“It was a mistake, Rob. I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m out of practice with interviews. I’ll get better.”

One flashback and my tune had changed quickly, but I didn’t mind sucking up to the boss if it kept me off his trouble radar.

He glared at me. “Yeah, well, I’m starting to think bringing you back so early was the real mistake.”

I wrinkled my nose, my only defense not to glare at him.

Coach Curr found this to be a good time to finally cut in. “Now, Manzinni, we don’t step into your lane when it comes to managing this team, so please don’t step into ours when it comes to coaching it. She’s ready. It’s just a slow start. ”

He huffed. “A slow start after a slow season just means you’re slow. And I can’t have the worst team in this arena right now causing trouble.”

I felt myself prickle. “Causing trouble?”

“Yes, Jones. You’re causing trouble ,” he hissed. “I don’t care how high and mighty you think you might be. When I’ve got sponsors calling in with something to say about that sassy forward, I’ve got a fucking problem.”

What ?

“Oh, bullshit,” I huffed. “The Defenders talk out of their asses during those interviews constantly. I slip up once, and what? You’re gonna fine me, Rob?”

I guess I could only suck up so much.

Rob glowered, his lips puckering and his chin rising in challenge.

My eye twitched, but my bluster faltered as the next worst possibility lighted in my brain. I hated my voice for growing smaller as I asked, “Are you suspending me?”

Something dominant in Rob’s gaze picked up on the near edge of panic that slipped into my voice.

The corner of his mouth ticked slightly, and he let the silence ring out long enough that I ran another gaze behind me, desperate to lock on whoever could help me.

I didn’t care who. Because I couldn’t get suspended.

I had never been suspended before. Truth be told, I had never been up to Rob’s office for disciplinary action before, either. At first, I even thought this was a joke.