Page 11 of On Merit Alone

I took a shot to distract myself from her growing silence. The ball swished through the net at the same time she spoke, almost making me miss.

“That’s fine,” she said.

I smiled, knowing she couldn’t see me. “Oh, it’s fine now? Cause I distinctly remember you telling me to fuck off.”

“I didn’t?—”

“In so many words,” I clarified.

A sigh. Silence. And then, “Well, it’s only okay because it worked.”

“Ah,” I chuckled. Taking another shot, I nodded as it went in. I was in a groove lately, which was good to know heading into the finals. “And the truth comes out. ”

“I told you I wasn’t obsessed with you,” she grumbled.

Another shot.

“And let me guess. You have those pictures of me so you can throw darts at them,” I said. “Don’t tell me, I’m like your greatest rival now? That’s why you keep staring at me from shadowed corners?”

“No,” she said seriously. Did she ever laugh? It was a joke . But no, she didn’t even smile. I knew because I was peeking over my shoulder at her now. She just stood there, facing me again but looking at her hands. “They were kinda cool, okay?”

I coughed, turning away quickly. I wasn’t expecting that.

I’d been called “ cool ” many times before. Mainly by twelve-year-old boys, but the sentiment still stood. So why did Merit Jones using the words sound so damn cute?

Jesus.

The easy attraction I had to the way she said that took me so off guard, I had to actually hide my reaction. She didn’t seem to notice, instead just saying, “So, thanks for the advice.”

“Anytime.”

“Do you—” she paused, hesitation taking over her voice again. But quickly, determination persevered and she pushed on in true Merit fashion, I was learning. “Do you have any more?”

The three-pointer I went up for shanked off the side of the rim.

Did I hear her wrong?

I turned my shoulders, looking at her. “Sorry, what?”

She fidgeted, shifting on her feet. “Advice. Do you have any more?”

“What exactly do you mean?” I asked. Because she couldn’t seriously be asking what I thought she was asking.

She fidgeted some more, her expression turning down in a glower. “What do you mean, what do I mean? I’m asking you for advice.”

“Yeah,” I started, narrowing my eyes. “But why ? ”

Exasperated, she pushed her arms out at her sides. “Obviously, because you’re good at it. Why else?”

“Didn’t it take you three games to take my first advice?” I questioned.

She sputtered, her mouth gaping like a fish.

She probably didn’t think I watched her games, but I did.

I watched a lot of basketball. And what I’d seen of her in the last couple of matchups compared to before I made a know-it-all ass of myself was that she looked a little better in the middle.

Focusing more on her control and pacing herself whenever possible. She looked good.

And like she pointed out before, she was the same as me. We were both professional athletes. Both professionals in our fields. Both one of the industry-proclaimed “greats” of our time. I was no better than her. No wiser. So why was she standing here asking me for advice?

“Sure, I was a little slow to adapt, but what did you expect?” she huffed. “You came out of nowhere and started critiquing me.”

I gave her a look.

“Why do I get the feeling you just don’t take advice well, period?” I countered. She didn’t even deny it, only shrugging as if it was a simple fact. I trained an assessing eye on her. “Yet now you want more? From me?”

“I’m not saying your delivery couldn’t use a little bit of work,” she said, shrugging a shoulder that was probably meant to look more casual than it did. Truthfully, she looked about two seconds away from bolting again, though she pretended otherwise. “But the advice was still good enough.”

I watched her, not sure of what to say or how to proceed. She watched me back like she was hanging on my response.

I didn’t give one. And two seconds later, she was making her escape.

I don’t know what kind of torture I was subjecting myself to, but I went after her again .

“Hold up!” I called. She, in fact, did not stop.

I think the little pain in the ass actually picked up speed.

I was taller, though, so I caught up to her with a quick jog.

I didn’t touch her this time, not liking how she curled into herself last time I tried.

But I did slip in front of her to block her path.

She wasn’t looking at me, though. She was just charging forward, eyes on her shoes as she tried her best to literally disappear.

This time, if I didn’t catch her by the shoulders, she would run straight into me.

So I did, and she didn’t jump again, but I tried to lower my voice anyway.

She seemed sort of shaken. “Merit, stop .”

She listened, but probably only because I was holding her still. She wasn’t looking up at me. Bending my knees, I ducked and tried to find her eyes. “Why do you want advice, huh?”

Fully expecting her to say something dismissive like ‘it’s stupid’ or ‘never mind’ or ‘no reason’ , I was taken off guard when she peeked up at me and mumbled, “I have a game tonight.”

“You have a game tonight.” I nodded, keeping up. I ducked down further, having lost her gaze. “Alright, and what? Are you nervous or something?”

“No, not really,” she said to her feet, her face almost vertical to the ground. My hands itched to pick her head back up, but I didn’t. Damn, I didn’t mean to make her feel this self-conscious. Not even a little bit. “I, uh—we just. Um…”

My mouth screwed to the side. I had officially broken her.

Or at least thrown her off too much to speak.

I felt bad for teasing her so much, at least about this.

It obviously took her quite a bit of courage to ask me for advice, no matter what the reason.

I shouldn’t be giving her shit about it.

Now I had to figure out how to fix it. And given that she was as serious as a fucking heart attack, I think I knew how to get her attention. At least I knew how to try.

Quick and sharp, I demanded, “Spit it out, Jones.”

She didn’t flinch or even balk. She just lifted her gaze up to mine, her teeth still sunken into that full bottom lip of hers. When she lingered a moment, I just raised my eyebrows, coaxing.

She sighed, her shoulder sinking. “You came back from the same injury as me.”

“Uh-huh,” I listened.

“And you had nowhere near as hard a time,” she said. “I looked. I’ve been looking through all your footage, interviews, and games since back then, and you were perfect. A perfect comeback! And I just want—I was just wondering… if you could help me.”

“Easy there, Six. Your stalker is showing,” I said, but I made sure to smile so she knew I was only kidding.

She still didn't smile back. Just stared up at me with big, expectant eyes. And funny enough, I felt a little uneasy under her proficient gaze. Like she was looking under my skin and finding things not privy to my own eyes. So I cleared my throat and decided to be serious. “I-uh. I’m sorry, Merit, but I don’t really have any more advice like that.

I don’t even know what I was saying, to be honest.”

“You said that I start to bend weird and lose my rhythm when?—”

“No—I mean, yes, I said that; but no, I don’t know why. I’m not a coach or anything. I just play,” I tried to explain.

She didn’t respond right away. Just continued looking at me with those eyes that seemed to look through me with their intensity. Then she blinked away, visibly dejected. And damn did that not bother me a little.

“Oh,” she said. She looked up at me again, her face becoming a mix of disappointment and confusion. But she only lingered for a moment longer before coming up to her full height once more. Leaving, I realized as she stepped away. “Alright then. I just thought I’d ask.”

Size fourteen feet moved on their own, and I stepped in front of her again. “Wait Mer—Merit.”

“Yeah?” she asked .

Yeah, Ira? Now would be a good time to know what you were planning to say to the girl.

“You were about to practice?” I asked lamely. Of course she was, she was in practice clothes. Despite the obviousness of the question, she simply nodded. I nodded too. “Shoot around with me a little. Maybe I’ll spot something.”

She still held her emotions close, her face unchanging, but her eyes revealed a glimmer of interest as she looked up at me. That little spark of something was all I needed.

I wouldn’t call myself extraverted by any means, but I wasn’t the extreme opposite either. I had no problem being a little pushy, especially if it was to get this strangely unsettling feeling I had for disappointing her off my chest.

“C’mon, Six. Maybe if you shoot with me, some of this ‘ cool ’ will rub off on you,” I teased. I knew she wouldn’t laugh by this point, but it didn’t hurt to try.

And I could’ve sworn that as she moved her shoulders and redirected herself toward the basket, I caught the smallest glimpse of a smile on her face.

Thirty minutes and lord only knows how many shots later, I was huffing and puffing while Merit was totally composed.

The girl was a machine.

Shot after shot, set after set, she was strong.

She did everything hard with game-like effort and with blinder-like focus.

She was quick, she was accurate, and she was fucking good.

I mean, I knew she was good, she was a top scorer in the WNBA for crying out loud.

Which begged the question, why was she asking me for advice?

I was just wondering… if you could help me, she’d said. And damn if, after hearing her admit my advice helped her, did I want to. But I wasn’t a coach. I couldn’t tell her what to do with her game any more than I could tell myself.

I could at least play with her, though, and apparently have a good time doing it too.

“Damn, Six,” I wheezed. “Take it easy on an old guy.”

She narrowed her eyes. “How old?”