Page 34 of On Merit Alone

Chapter Twenty

Ira

The Defenders lost.

I’ve lost a ton of basketball games, but I don’t think anything has hurt quite like losing only two games away from the NBA Championship title. And the worst part was, I wasn’t even out there to fight with my team. Hurt and down for the count again.

If we were destined to lose and this was the way things had to be, the only thing I wish I could change was the fact that all I could do was wait on the sidelines.

I would have much rather had the opportunity to fight and lose with my team than not fight at all.

But that’s just how the cards had fallen.

And like any game, the cards were always being re-dealt in this business, which is why I was back out on the court almost immediately after the conclusion of the season.

I wouldn’t call this anywhere near an official practice. Not with the mixed lot of men’s and women’s Denver players filing into the practice gym, half already sweating from their in-season workouts and the other half grumbling for having to be here when their season had just ended .

I could’ve easily hopped in on the grumbling too.

Though my knee was feeling better now, it still couldn’t hurt to rest it, plus I hadn’t been cleared by the doctor to start my post-season practices.

That, coupled with the decision I had to finalize now that the season was over was putting weight on my already heavy mind.

And this wasn’t my first choice of location to figure my life out.

But there was an upside to this obligation I couldn’t deny.

Spying the dark skin and high ponytail walking through the door did a little something to lighten the burden. Hello upside .

Unlike usual, instead of the players making a b-line for each other and forming a familiar group, everyone hesitantly wandered over to the side of the gym where their charity team was congregating.

Already around me were Stephens, McKivvey, and our big forward Evans.

Across the court, searching around the space for where to go were our other team members Merit and her tall, stoic teammate with cropped hair and permanently lowered eyebrows.

“Six!” I called from my spot on the line. She looked up immediately. I’m not sure if it was my voice or the nickname, but she located me in an instant and it was deeply satisfying. I tried not to preen as I waved her over.

In a surprisingly gentle movement, she touched her teammate’s shoulder and tipped her head in our direction.

Low Brow Girl seemed to melt toward her captain, her face relaxing a little from her otherwise clear apprehension.

She calmed to Merit’s soft but steady guidance, following her closely as they both made their way over to us.

I hummed curiously at the scene.

Such a small gesture, but so big too. I know it was sort of shitty of me, but I was wondering how Merit had been named captain with that stern, eat the world before it eats you, mentality she had going on.

Don’t get me wrong, she was a great player, and anyone could learn from her determination, grit, and technique.

But she didn’t strike me as the warm and fuzzy, guide the rookies type of person.

If anything, I would think she’d get annoyed at mistakes and setbacks like she so easily did with herself.

But that single gesture, that slip of softness that I’d only ever seen off the court, said it all.

It was arrogant of me to think she only ever showed that softness with me.

This was who she was, I was learning. Even with the hardest shell built around her, the other side of her peeked through.

I just had to figure out why she’d built that shell so tough in the first place.

When the girls got to our little group, Merit’s teammate immediately started stretching and doing the random warmup exercises every athlete did while waiting for something to start.

Merit didn’t join her. She came right over to stand by me, shoulder to shoulder as we looked out towards the doors watching for the other team to show up.

“Coach after all, huh?” she asked after long moments of just standing there.

“Looks like it,” I said with a nod. We both knew I wouldn’t be playing on my knee when there was a chance I could potentially hurt it for a game that wasn’t even real.

“How’s it feeling?”

“Better,” I said, not sure why my tone went clipped or why I didn’t want to talk about it. Probably because we’d just lost because of the stupid thing.

She flipped a look up at me, her neck craning back as she looked right up at my face. “How are you feeling?”

Returning her gaze, I found something I liked—that same gentle strength I’d been enviously witnessing passed on to me. The same soft strength she’d lent me in my living room when I was all but falling apart. I leaned into it, feeling surprisingly safe and seen.

“I feel like shit. Like I let everyone down,” I admitted. With anyone else, I’d be positive. I’d joke around and say that I feel confident we can get them next year and be grateful for the ride. But with her, I knew she got it. I missed an opportunity. Shit luck or not, it sucked.

A soft hand wrapped around my forearm, squeezing as she nodded. “Yeah.”

“Will it get better?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she nodded again. “It will. You know it will. You just need to get over the hump.”

I turned my head to the ceiling, not wanting to look at her when my entire neck burned with anger.

Anger that I knew I shouldn’t be feeling.

Not with the life I had. Not with the privilege I had, especially standing here getting ready to practice for a charity game.

But I couldn’t help feeling upended. Like all the things I worked so hard to get, all the things that were well in my grasp, had just shattered an inch away from me achieving them.

I swallowed. “How, Mer?”

That hand moved up and down, rubbing gently as she comforted me. “You put your head in the freezer. Cool your helpless thoughts. Replace them with good thoughts. Then get back to work.”

I shook my head, knowing she was right but not seeing how I could possibly keep going after this .

That soft hand squeezed my flesh. So strong, this girl. And here was me soaking up not having to be the strong one on the team. Not having to have it together right then with her having it together for me. Damn. What was this?

“I’ll help,” she whispered, moving closer to me. “Instead of thinking about the bad stuff, think about that hook shot you do when you’re toying with people. How many times did you have to practice that one to make it what it is today?”

A laugh bubbled up in my chest, because she knew I didn’t bring out the hook unless I was feeling confident and maybe a little cocky. “A lot. ”

“A hell of a lot, I bet,” she said, a smile in her voice but hidden on her lips. Thinking for a second, she added, “Or think about that unreal shooting average you’ve racked up. Or the fact that you’re running dangerously close to the most shots made in league history.”

I grunted, agreeing begrudgingly. While those were all good things, they didn’t make me feel better.

They were all stats. All achievements I’d worked hard for, that I was proud of, but they weren’t everything.

They weren’t me. And I didn’t know how to express to her that I wanted more than that.

To be more than that. More than my average or my achievements.

Of course I was upset that we lost the championship, it was the championship .

Every basketball player’s dream. But I think I was more upset that I’d played a hand in letting my team down.

I was no longer a rookie. I wasn’t eager to prove myself or fight for respect in the org.

As a vet, I was someone my team looked up to.

Someone expected to lead them to greatness—to be there for them and to mentor the upcoming generation.

I’d almost done that. I’d almost succeeded in taking one of the most fulfilling seasons as captain and as someone my team counted on for more than just my skills with a ball, all the way.

And then I lost. I lost it for them. And that’s why I felt like shit. I’d failed in showing that I was more than just hands and muscles and motions that made up a game. I’d failed at being more.

It was sort of humiliating.

Beside me Merit picked up on my negative shift. The whole time I threw my internal pity party, she studied me.

“You can think about your team,” she suggested, her voice going down into a softer whisper.

“I know you said they would drown out there without you. And they did sort of, but that’s because you’re like air when you’re out there, Ira.

Like wind. Not many can touch you, and that’s not their fault. But … ”

I whipped my head toward her, needing to hear what she had to say like I needed my next breath.

All my insecurities seemed to be tied into this one conversation with her and it was alarming how much I knew whatever she would say had the power to either build me up or break me down. When had that happened?

“But?” I asked. Pleaded. My voice gravelly and desperate.

She turned toward me. “But you’ve taught them how to play around your absence.

Coach makes the plays, I’m sure, but you give them the confidence that they’ve got this even when you’re not on that court with them.

They might still need you, but it’s in a different way than you think.

It’s evident how much of a pillar you are in the way they look to the court when you’re on it, or the bench when you’re on it or the screen when you’re freaking on it .

You’re something to them. Like a support beam or glue, you hold people together.

Lift them up. And you don’t need to be on court for that. You just need to be you.”

I swallowed and her eyes tracked the movement, analyzing every raw emotion on me as we stood in a gym full of our teammates.