Page 5 of On Merit Alone

I only turned on one light when I came out on court.

The one right over the hoop. It wasn't too dark in the immediate circle near the basket, but it got dimmer the further you stepped away. I couldn’t quite make out who was standing there, but I could tell by his stature—tall, lean, and athletic—he had to be on the men’s team.

That much was obvious. What wasn’t so obvious?

Why he was standing over me like that. What did he want?

“Uh, sorry,” the man in the shadows said. “Didn’t mean to scare you. ”

I scoffed.

“So, just what did you think standing over me while my eyes were closed would do?” I asked, pressing a hand to my racing heart. It was already beating hard from exertion, I didn’t need it giving out on me from being scared to death.

“You’re the one practicing in the dark,” he pointed out.

Across the floor, the big body shrugged, his hands slipping into pockets in a way my brain clocked as familiar, but I didn’t know why.

I didn’t know any of the men’s players. Knew of them, sure, but aside from bumping into the legendary Ira himself, I’d never actually talked to any of them.

So why was this person making conversation with me now?

“It’s just a few baskets. I didn’t need to turn on the whole stadium for it,” I mumbled.

“You’ve been out here for an hour,” he pointed out again.

And yes, he was pointing these things out like they were ticks on my record or something.

Like he was keeping track of me. The strangeness of it had me closing my mouth, my molars grinding as I forced myself not to say anything I didn’t exactly mean.

Apparently, I’d been doing that lately. Taking my silence as an invitation, he kept going. “Didn’t you just have a game?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you have another one tomorrow?” he asked.

I would not be impressed that he knew the women’s schedule.

Although…

Okay. I was sort of impressed. Those conceited jerks didn’t pay attention to anything that didn’t have to do with themselves.

Shifting my limbs more comfortably under myself, I said in a more rushed tone, “ Yes , so what?”

“So shouldn’t you be resting?” he asked, his body doing its own shifting on its feet, his movements fluid and coordinated. “Shouldn’t you be giving your body a break instead of working yourself ragged out here in the middle of the night? ”

“It’s eight forty-five. That’s hardly the middle of the night ,” I said, chancing a glance at my watch for accuracy.

Shoot. It was actually nine-thirty. Had I really been going for that long?

It was already past time to order my favorite pregame dinner.

I guess I’d have to pick up option number two on the way home.

Forcing myself up, I willed myself not to grunt in front of this guy.

My muscles ached, but I’d be damned if I let the “Practice Police” over there notice.

“I only have ten more shots anyway, but thanks for your concern.”

“And you’ve been out here for how long exactly?” he continued to question.

Scooping up a stray ball, I stepped to the line. Dribbled a bit. Stopped. “Didn’t you just say an hour?”

He huffed a small laugh. “I don’t believe that. How long?”

Trying to ignore him, I ran quickly through my ritual and took a shot.

Miss .

“What does it matter?” I growled, more annoyed with the bad shot than this guy, although he was pretty damn annoying too. “Who even are you? This is my court time. Nobody else is supposed to be out here.”

“This is nobody’s court time since the gym is closed,” he corrected. “And before you ask why it matters again… it doesn’t. At least not to me, anyway. But it should to you.”

The entire time he talked, I shot. And you know what? I missed every single one. I barely refrained from a growl as I jogged to pick up more balls.

“And why is that?” I asked, taking two more shots and missing both. Turning toward him, I placed a hand on my hip and huffed an exasperated breath. “Since you think you know everything, that is.”

With those same fluid movements, he leaned down and picked up a stray ball at his feet. Then he passed it to me.

Definitely a player , I thought as I caught the pass. If his height and build alone hadn’t given it away, the strength and form behind that pass solidified it. Instead of torturing myself by trying to find out who again, I turned back to the basket and attempted another shot.

Miss .

I grunted my frustration quietly, suddenly feeling embarrassed with a bystander watching my sudden bad streak.

“Because you’re not doing yourself any favors by overworking yourself.” His voice had such a sure, nonchalant quality about it. Like he was certain I was doing the wrong thing while what he had to say was surely right. It irked me.

“I’m a professional athlete. My job is to practice these shots.”

“But you have a game tomorrow,” he repeated.

“Oh my god, I know my own schedule. I’m aware I have a game tomorrow. What I’m not aware of is your point.” And there I went, going zero to Merit’s-annoyed-again in minutes.

Great. Record timing.

“ And you had a game today ,” he repeated in that tone that made me sound like I was the idiot here.

Even though he was just repeating the same things over and over.

The look I gave him must have said what I was thinking because he raised two hands up in surrender.

“I’m just saying. Maybe you’re overdoing it. ”

An incredulous sound fell from my mouth as I glared. He had a lot of nerve. “Did you happen to see any of today’s game?”

Rolling my eyes away from him, I scoffed out a sarcastic laugh.

“Never mind. Of course you didn’t. Well, let me tune you in.

All of the shots I’m supposed to make in my sleep, I missed.

All of the shots I’m supposed to make with my eyes closed, I missed those too.

I even missed the ones a beginner can make.

So yes, I’m out here after a game and before another one because I need to be.

And I know you Defenders don’t know anything about this, but I’m paid to make baskets.

I don’t make those baskets, I’m out of a job.

I’m out of a career, I’m out of a life .

Okay? So please go try to Coach Carter someone else and get the hell out of my face. ”

Silence. Long beats of it passed between us as my awkward, oversharing blowup hung in the air between us.

It’s important to note that this was not my M.O.

I didn’t usually go around blowing up on shadowed figures or taking malicious shots at mostly innocent reporters.

I didn’t usually go around doing much of anything other than my job.

Only, my job had been stressful lately. The transition back into playing after my injury was not going as smoothly as I would have hoped, and basketball was my everything.

I felt like I was losing myself with every new game we lost. If I lost this, what more did I have left?

I couldn’t believe I’d blown up like that.

That I kept doing so. The only thing saving me from complete embarrassment was that this guy didn’t seem like he was going to step any closer.

Not knowing who it was somehow made my confession less embarrassing.

That and the fact that I refused to look his way again.

Instead, I jogged to balls, took shots, and dodged balls the mysterious shadow player tried to pass me.

Yeah, no. We weren’t playing that game. It was annoying enough that he was here in the first place. We weren’t roleplaying player and coach while we were at it.

Successfully tuning out his stares, I was finally able to get a groove going again. Nine shots made, one more to get. That’s when he spoke again.

“I’ve seen your games, Six,” he started.

The smooth murmur of his voice caused me to miss automatically, but I was determined to ignore him.

“You start to miss toward the end of each half, probably because you’re tired since they’re playing the hell out of you.

Your knee looks pretty strong until then.

After, you start to bend weird. You wobble, and you favor one side. It’s throwing off your whole rhythm.”

I can’t describe how hot my body felt at that moment. Anger and annoyance bubbling so fast to the surface it left me speechless. I could only turn slowly in his direction.

Being a professional athlete meant you opened yourself up to public criticism almost as a staple of the industry.

It was one of the only careers I knew where people made it their absolute business to tell you how to do the job you’d been doing for years.

Nothing was more irritating than being told what I should and shouldn’t be doing on the court by anyone other than my coaches.

Which is probably why my voice sounded so throaty and raw when I finally spoke to him again. “ Excuse me? ”

Holding those stupid big hands up again, he had the nerve to laugh. “I didn’t mean to offend.”

“Well, you did ,” I said.

“Alright, alright,” he breathed. His easy voice didn’t sound any different backing down than it did when he had the audacity to criticize me a second ago. It grated in its casualty. He took a big step away. “Don’t worry, I’m leaving now.”

“Good,” I said through my teeth.

He didn’t go back and forth with me. Just backing out of the little area we shared in the gym. When he was far enough that I began to lose sight of him, he turned his broad shoulders away. “See you around, Six.”

It was only after my final shots—after I obsessed over ‘ overcorrecting ’ my tired limbs and favoring one side and refused to admit to myself that maybe there was some truth to what that annoying jerk was saying— that I realized something.

He called me by my number.