Page 21 of On Merit Alone
Chapter Twelve
Ira
Me
Six
How’d you get this number?
Me
Guess.
Six
You asked one of my teammates?
Me
Oh, I’m much more exciting than that, Mer. C’mon.
Six
You snuck into my locker when I was practicing?
Me
Okay, less creepy.
Six
I give up.
Me
Ryan Carmen.
Six
Hmm. Isn’t that like a conflict of interest or something?
Me
How so?
Six
I thought I paid him to keep my business out of the wrong hands. Not hand it over.
I found myself smiling like an idiot as I leaned back against my headboard in the dark of my bedroom.
I was running through rotations of icing my knee and watching sports as I tended to do at the end of the night.
It was only when I got to reruns of Merit’s game from earlier that night that I decided to use the number I had hounded Ryan for just that morning.
Me
You think you’d be in the wrong hands with me?
Six
Loaded question.
Me
Answer it anyway.
Six
Depends on the circumstance.
Me
Ohhh. Loaded answer.
Six
I’m a strategist, if anything King.
Me
Alright then.
More smiling, and was she flirting with me? No. Merit Jones didn’t flirt. She wasn’t the giggling, preening type of girl, so “flirt” seemed like the wrong word for it. But she was definitely vibing with me, in conversation that wasn’t about basketball, no less.
Huh.
But she also wasn’t giving me much, judging by the multiple minutes of silence she kept me waiting in. I needed to change the conversation.
Me
How’s the knee?
Six
You watched the game?
Me
I watch every game I bet on.
Six
Did you bet for me or against me?
Me
How is it, Six? Stop trying to change the subject.
Six
Hurts.
Why did that one word stab through my heart?
Me
Want to elaborate?
Six
Not really.
Me
Merit.
Six
It’s nothing. I think I was more freaked out than anything. Once I got up, I was fine.
Yeah. Cause that sounded convincing. I was just about to give her crap about that terrible answer when I noticed something on the screen.
Merit.
Usually, this late at night, when I was teetering between sleep and consciousness, I tended to watch things on mute or very low volume.
But my interest peaked when I noticed a familiar chestnut brown skinned girl—her long hair up in a tight bun on the top of her head and in street clothes as she sat in a familiar press room.
She sat across from Chelsea Cherry, the powerhouse anchor contracted to work exclusively with the Mountaineer Sports Complex.
But she wasn’t the one interviewing Merit.
It was somebody else, Tom something or other with the mic while the screen below read: Merit Jones and Double C Making Amends.
A segment on women in sports and the importance of solidarity within their community.
“The fuck?” I mumbled for no one to hear.
Because what the hell was this? The Dynamite had just won a huge game to tie them up for their season and this is what they were running? What the hell?
On a whim, I snapped a picture and sent it over to Merit.
Me
What’s up with this?
Time passed slowly. More time than it had taken her to answer previously. Unless I truly believed Merit’s overactive brain let her fall asleep before ten, I think it was time to face the facts.
She was ignoring me.
Something my subconscious did not take kindly according to the way it freely directed my fingers to keep typing. With Merit, apparently there were no games. Nicknames and double texts were not even a second thought.
Me
Don’t make me come find you, stalker.
Okay, now triple.
Me
Okay…
And damn if her continued silence didn’t nag at me, because I knew Merit didn’t play games either. Either she genuinely was sleeping, or she was avoiding the question, which only served to spike my curiosity more.
Dammit, this girl was driving me nuts. The proof was in the fourth text I was typing in a row.
Me
I’m not actually a gambler, but if I were, I’d bet on you every time. Night, Six.