Page 2 of On Merit Alone

Like I said, our counterpart, the men’s team in the Mountaineer Stadium and Sports Complex, was made up of some of the cockiest, snobbiest, man-child personalities I’d ever witnessed.

If nothing they said in their copious amount of screen time could get Denver in trouble, I doubted my comment (mean and unfair as it was) could either .

Apparently, I thought wrong. Or, more accurately, I didn’t think hard enough.

There were hoops you needed to jump through as a woman, I knew that.

And as a black woman in an organization owned by definitely not black women, I needed to tread even more carefully.

One comment, one bad move, and I could be ostracized as a troublemaker forever.

In all my years, I had never forgotten that.

Until now. Now, I was letting the stress of a few bad games in a row jeopardize my ability to do the one thing I was put on earth to do.

No.

No, no, no, no, he couldn’t do this.

“Rob—” my voice fractured as I rose to my feet.

Ryan cut me off before I could say something damnable. “Jesus Roberto, is she suspended or not?”

Slowly, he moved to set his hands behind his back. His pacing lulled to a stroll as he played this up. Finally, he turned to look at me, hard eyes clashing with my own. “I’m not suspending you.”

I swallowed my sigh of relief. I didn’t want to show weakness in front of this man.

It was the right move since he was still pinning me with an all but threatening glare.

“But listen up, Jones. I don’t care how many playoff games you’ve won or finals you’ve gotten to.

I don’t care if you shit out gold. You don’t bring in enough money to start losing sponsors over.

So if this keeps up, the attitude or the inaptitude, some hard decisions are going to have to be made. ”

I didn’t say anything, my jaw was locked too tight. I also didn’t want to continue this conversation. I just wanted to get out of his office.

Without another word of “attitude”, I dipped my chin in acknowledgment and started toward the door, following close behind Ryan who was steamrolling the way out.

It looked like my coaches were going to have to stay behind, but Coach Mann, my position coach, caught me at the door just before I passed through it .

“Hey, Mer, I didn’t catch you after huddle last night,” she said. When she saw the uneasy look on my face, she didn’t even wait for a reply. “Listen, it wasn’t so bad out there. Few more turnovers, couple more rebounds, and we were in there. Don’t get too down on yourself. You seem stressed.”

The look I gave her alone said that I was indeed stressed. She gave me a tight but sympathetic smile, patting my shoulder. “Maybe take it easy today. Take the day off, yeah?”

I nodded just as mechanically as I did to Rob a second ago just so she’d let me leave. After one last look, she did, finally letting me slip out of the glass doors behind Ryan.

Ry wasn’t lying. He did have other places to be.

He was a popular agent here in Denver. He had multiple clients just in the city alone.

So, busy as he was, he was long gone by the time I all but robot-walked my way out of the main office suite, heading straight for the large dome-like glass doors that led out to the lobby.

Good. I’m glad he was gone. Because almost as soon as I stepped foot out onto the squeaky tile floors of the lobby, I felt my knees wobble. Hard .

The air had to be different out here. Even though it was still indoors, I think the stuffy politics and money-sucking aura of the offices must’ve polluted the air inside or something.

I knew not to take true stock in much of what was said in there. Tensions were high, emotions were all over the place, and worst of all, we were losing. Of course they were going to rip me a new one.

But still, suspended ?

The word reverberated through my entire body, shaking me from my knees to my ankles. I can’t believe I almost got myself suspended . What would I have done then?

I didn't want to think about it. The thought made me so sick I might actually tip over as all six-foot-two inches of me spilled out of the lobby door.

I tried to grasp the nearest wall in sight. Only, it wasn't actually that near, and leaning too far to one side, the wall slipped just out of my grasp.

I was going to fall. Or at least I thought I was going to fall before a big hand caught onto mine and steered me back upright. A moment later, I was back on my feet, that one and only point of contact enough to catch me and lift me up straight.

My eyes followed the line of that hand slowly. Golden skin the color of yellow-brown sand ran across long, manicured fingers. This hand was attached to a muscled, chorded forearm that was attached to a large bicep, all eventually leading to an outrageously tall body. A basketball player.

No, the basketball player.

Ira King.

No wonder he caught me so easily. Not many normal men could catch a six-foot-two block of muscle. But seeing as Ira was a six-foot-six block of even more muscle, I’m sure he had it covered.

“Alright?” I’m pretty sure this was the first time I heard his deep, smooth voice. Or at least it was the first time without all the extra acoustics of a courtside interview. It seemed calm in a way I never imagined it would be. Calm in a way my beating heart was not.

Suspended .

I had almost gotten suspended because I was a lowly member of the Dynamite in a world that favored the Defenders.

I felt my jaw tighten once again as I straightened up, my hand retracting from his as I pulled it back to my side. Avoiding his face, a beautiful mix of golden skin, structured jaw lines, mauve lips, and bushy brows, I flicked a quick glance at him, nodding. “Fine, thanks.”

He straightened too, and for a second I wondered if he was six-seven instead, but I knew that wasn’t true. I knew his stats. He just seemed so much bigger up close. Bigger and so… steady ?

Yeah, steady was the exact word I would use to describe the way he nodded easily and slipped his hands into his pockets.

“Alright,” he said again. He let his eyes remain on me for a few long seconds, surveying me before ultimately shrugging as he started his way into the offices. Over his shoulder, he added, “Easy, Six. Season’s just starting.”

Easy, Six.

The words sounded like a taunt when I repeated them to myself, rather than the melodic lull of concern from the man who came up with them. They were meant to be nice, but I couldn’t help the way they twisted in my gut.

Season’s just starting .

That’s right. My first comeback season was just starting, and I was already fucking it up.

And if I didn’t shape up soon, it could very well be my last.