Page 27 of On Merit Alone

We chatted periodically throughout the game.

He offered me one of his beers, and I said no.

He offered me a bite of his popcorn, and since the cameras were conveniently turned our way at that very moment, I politely took a piece, to which dear old Martin announced to the entire stadium, “Looks like more than just the players are shooting their shot tonight!” The crowd loved it, I didn’t, but I hardly minded either.

With this job, so many things had been said to me and about me, whether I was present or not.

A little harmless teasing was not and never would be the worst thing I’d have to deal with.

He seemed to be a good sport about it too, since he was laughing beside me.

Leaning forward on his knee, he brought his shoulder close to mine.

“You know I can’t let them do all the work for me.

I’ve been trying to find the right time to say this since I already know your name, but I’m Jared. Nice to meet you.”

Reaching an arm between us, he extended his hand for a shake.

That was nice enough. He was. Over the course of the game, he’d asked me where I was from, if my season was going well, and if I came to these events often.

He’d leaned over and made little comments about things going on in the game, and he even made a bashful compliment about how cool he thought my shoes were.

Not like Ira needed the boost to his ego.

With all that in mind, I had no problem reaching my hand between us for a shake.

Only, as I did I noticed something round and orange coming our way.

Well, technically it was coming to Jared’s face.

And since he was turned partially toward me, he wasn't able to react in time.

I was, though. Catching the ball in one hand and setting it in front of my body in the other.

Crisis averted.

Almost.

A shadow loomed above us. I don’t know how familiar a shadow could get, but somehow I knew who this one belonged to before I even looked up.

I was struck by the image of Ira standing above us, sweaty and panting from his minutes of effort.

He had his hands out, ready to receive the ball, but his stare wasn’t quite the same as when he was focused on playing.

His attention was directed at me.

“Ball, Jones,” he said.

“Keep it in play, King,” I said back, giving him a squinted once over. He was being weird. But not wanting to actually become hated by the many for holding onto a playoff game ball, I flicked it up to him so he could get back to it.

He nodded a thank you but continued on with his weirdness as his hard gaze slid over to my left for a fraction of a second before he turned and disappeared back on court.

“Are you okay?—”

“Do you know him?” Jared asked immediately, excitement rolling off him in droves.

“I, uh—” I laughed. Of course this guy didn’t care. He probably wished he’d gotten hit by Ira’s ball. Making a decision, I shook my head, not wanting to have to answer questions for the rest of the night. “No. Not much anyway.”

“Oh, damn,” he chuckled, rubbing a hand at his neck like he was embarrassed. “Thank you for saving me there. I was just about to ask, but it looks like I definitely owe you dinner now.”

I bit my lip, looking at him. He was a sweet guy—one I would not be going to dinner with, but a sweet one, nonetheless. He was probably talking through adrenaline and excitement right now. If I acted like I didn’t hear him, maybe he’d forget he even said anything.

So, leaning my own shoulder in, I decided to throw him a bone. “You know, I actually don’t know much about King’s record…”

He didn’t hesitate to start telling me all about it.

It was a little bit after halftime, and the Defenders were marching into the final quarter with a decent lead, yet Ira seemed to be slipping off.

He’d missed the last three shots in a row even though he was completely open.

This wasn’t all too alarming, but the tight set to his jaw indicated that he was clearly frustrated.

It was our ball. Defenders had half the shot clock down, and they still didn’t seem like they knew what they wanted to do with the ball, just passing it around like a burning hot potato.

Finally, Ira got hold of the ball on the outside in a stretch.

He was on his back foot, and he didn’t have enough time to do anything but shoot.

So he went for it, the ball arching wildly before it sank further, further, and finally into the basket for a perfect three.

My hands raised to clap for his shot, but my vision suddenly became full of a six-foot-plus mass of muscle barreling straight toward me.

There was no time to do anything but brace myself as he toppled off balance into the sidelines.

Into me .

I clutched my half-risen hands up to my chest, bracing myself. I was used to being sprawled out on this floor, but even I had to admit that it was probably going to hurt way more with an added two hundred fifty pounds.

It all happened in a series of breaths. Breathe out, Ira was coming toward me. Breathe in, I was bracing for impact. And as that final breath stuck in my throat, holding there as my chair tilted backward and I was lifted halfway off the ground, I gasped.

And I waited.

Only, the crash didn’t come.

What did happen was Ira’s strong arms bracketed me as he held onto the sides of my chair, successfully catching both of our falls.

He held me there mid-air. All of our weight balancing on the thin back legs of the small chair, damn near chest to chest with me as he breathed heavily from the exertion.

Around us, the crowd was going crazy, probably because he’d made the shot.

Behind him, his team was already starting toward the other side of the court, ready to play defense.

Ira had about five seconds left to get back into the game, tops.

But he stayed there, hovering over me, and as I trained a look up at his eyes, I saw that he was clearly looking at me.

I blinked, confused. Shouldn’t he be focusing right now? What the hell was he doing?

In a low, almost growl, he panted. “Eyes on me out there, Six.”

I coughed. Was he serious?

“You have a job to do,” he said, apparently dead serious as he picked up my chair clean off the ground this time and set it down with a clunk… a noticeable distance away from Jared’s. “So pay attention.”

I sputtered, blinking in disbelief as I watched him sprint back off into the game. What a fucking idiot. What an annoying man!

And what—what was this burning that was taking over my entire body? Claiming me as its own as my brain wrapped itself around the fact that Ira had been irritated because of me.

I didn’t torture myself with contemplating what that meant. I just stayed in my seat, shooting Jared one last apologetic glance.

I didn’t speak to him again. King Ira had apparently made himself clear .

And Ira racked up the most points he’d had all game in the final quarter, leading the Defenders into another win.

What a caveman , I thought as I made a hasty departure following their win.

I suddenly didn’t want to answer any questions—because I knew now there would be a ton.

And I would have no answers because the truth was, I didn’t know what to do with this man.

Not with him, or this feeling that I knew was slowly seeping into my veins because of him.

It was scary. Consuming. Frightening.

And yet, I still left the arena smiling that night.