Page 8 of On Merit Alone

“ Antonio ,” he said in a murmur that was deceptively soft. I could tell by the tick in his eye he was actually irritated. “What did I tell you about speaking when I’m in the room?”

I curled my lips into my mouth to hide my smile. I would not mess this up by laughing. I, too, wanted to know what he told him.

When he was met with guilty silence, Ryan went on. “ I handle the contracts, and you handle the infomercial deals. And right now we’re negotiating a what?”

“Contract—” Tony started dejectedly under his breath.

“ Contract , exactly,” Ryan finished. “So please, for the love of Christ, just sit down, shut up , and let me do my job.”

Tony grumbled but shrank noticeably in his seat. People tended to listen to Ryan when he spoke anyway—but I assumed Tony listened to him specifically because, demoralizations and all, Ryan brought in the money.

When Ryan first started with me, he’d done it all, managing everything from the smallest meetings to large contract negotiations like this one. But sooner than we thought, I got big, Ryan also getting big at the same time, so we both decided it would be better if we split the load.

Insert Antonio Blagario.

Tony negotiated smaller deals like short-term brand ads, public appearances, interviews, and that sort of stuff.

Things that had to do with the glitz and glam of the industry.

On top of handling my official NBA contracts, Ryan also took care of larger-scale contracts like long-term brand collaborations, sponsorships, and endorsements.

Tony was lucky enough to be riding the coattails of Ryan’s clientele, as I’m not the only client he had to cut down involvement with to keep up with demand.

Which is why I suspected when Ryan said ‘jump’, Tony begrudgingly said, ‘how high’ .

Unfortunately, Tony’s ideocracy had already tainted the conversation, tipping Chip off and causing him to look at me curiously. Chip took the first pause in his pacing since I’d walked into the room. “What do you want to do, King, if it’s not another season of basketball?”

I sighed. I wasn't lying when I told Ryan I didn’t know what I wanted.

I was wholly uncertain if I wanted to continue playing in the league after fourteen good years of my dream career or if I wanted to go out and chase this feeling of longing that had been nagging me lately.

The same went for what I would pursue after the league if I did decide that this was it.

I had no idea. All I had to go off of was a feeling.

I glanced up at Chip before quickly blinking away. “I’m not sure.”

“What do you mean you're not sure? ”

“I mean, I don’t know,” I said, slightly more frustrated. “With the season going on and me constantly playing basketball, I haven’t had a chance to think of what my life would look like without basketball, okay?”

“What are you, burnt out or something?”

I shrugged.

“You’re not dealing with another team under our nose, are you?” he asked, eyes narrowed.

“Chip, my family is here. I told you when I moved from New York I wanted Denver to be my last stop,” I said. Because I had.

After playing only one season of college ball, I was drafted into the NBA and swiftly signed with New York.

I was homesick within the year, but when I expressed interest in signing somewhere else, they offered me a deal I couldn’t refuse.

That only sustained me a couple more years before the pull of needing to be close to my family eventually led me back here to Denver, where I intended to settle.

So no, I wasn’t considering any new deals; I was just tired. But not of basketball and not of the heat of the game either.

When we were down three games against the Dunes just over a week ago, I honestly thought that was it for us in the tournament. And I was okay with that. We gave it a good effort, had a good run. But somewhere in the back of my mind, a voice knocked at my nerves.

I know you Defenders don’t know anything about this, but I’m paid to make these baskets. I don’t make them, I’m out of a job. I’m out of a career, I’m out of a life.

Her voice and words had chosen to play back in my head. She sounded so raw in that moment. When she said she was shooting for her life, she meant it. And on top of wondering why she felt so deeply about it, I suddenly wanted to kick myself for not being half as hungry as she was.

Here I was, with an opportunity just an inch away from my grasp, and I was becoming complacent. The woman I noticed shooting baskets for hours by herself at night would never .

That reminder, the one that I did want this just as much as Merit Jones did, inspired me. Her mentality pushed me to pick me and my team up off our asses and fight. And it felt amazing.

The experience left me confused about what I thought I wanted.

My indecisiveness must have been apparent because Chip leveled me with a borderline condescending look. “So you’re willing to give up a successful career—forget about the money, but a legendary, history-making career on a little case of burnout?”

I ground my molars together, irritated. And Tony, with great timing, chimed in, “Sounds dumb to me.”

“Alright.” Ryan rose from his seat in one swift motion, buttoning his suit jacket in the process. Turning slightly, he pointed at Tony. “You. Out.”

He didn’t even wait for a reply from him, just turned back toward Chip’s desk with all the confidence of a man who was about to get his way.

“Look, Norris, he’s got a game tonight. One of the biggest games in Mountaineer recent history, need I remind you.

Do you really think he needs to be thinking about this now ?

Nope—no. It was a rhetorical question. I wasn’t expecting an answer. ”

Chip shut his mouth, indeed about to answer. Ryan continued.

“He needs more time. You have more time. So unless you’re pulling your offer, we’re leaving.

We can meet about this again when he’s ready.

” The man let his normal three beats of quiet stretch between us before he took his adversary’s quiet as confirmation.

I rose too, realizing this meeting was over.

“Great. Pleasure speaking with you as always, Charles.”

He shook his hand with one firm movement. I followed close behind, offering my hand to Chip with a somewhat apologetic tilt to my mouth. He latched onto it. “At least think about it, King. Time is running out, and even if it’s not the NBA—you need to find out what your future looks like. ”

I just nodded before excusing myself behind Ryan.

We were silent as we exited both Chip’s office and the Mountaineer office suite, but my mind was stirring.

Going on its own journey of overthought and worry.

It was only the cutting sensation of someone staring at me that brought my attention back to Ry.

He was glaring at me as he held open the final doors heading into the lobby.

“What did he say to you?” he clipped.

“That I need to figure my life out, basically,” I grumbled.

He shrugged, letting the door go as I passed through. “Well, he isn’t wrong. Are we all set here?”

“You tell me, boss man?” I said. “You got a deadline for me too?”

“My preference would be now, but since you don’t seem to be figuring things out anytime soon, no.” He paused, giving me a rare second glance. And then an even more rare pat on the shoulder. “Just focus on tonight, yeah? We’ll figure everything else out when it’s time.”

“Alright.” I swallowed.

He started to say something else, but his head swiveled instead, his attention catching onto something down the hall. “Swell. My other problem child.”

Following his gaze, my eyes fell upon a form hovering near the stairwell at the other end of the hall.

I’d seen her so many times before. On TV, on the court, and even in this very same hallway.

But now, after actually speaking to her, this felt like the first time I was recognizing all that she was.

Tall, as those in her position tended to be, she had dark brown skin that stretched over lean muscular limbs.

She wasn’t in team gear, but she still sported sweats.

The black branded shorts and matching T-shirt was one I recognized her advertising often before she got hurt.

On top of her head was a pair of dark sunglasses that served the purpose of pushing her very long braids away from her face.

Finally, she wore a pair of special edition sneakers on her feet.

I recognized the clean white and red pair because I owned the same ones.

I wasn’t a big sneakerhead or anything. Truthfully, if it wasn’t sweats, my sister was usually the one giving me outfit advice. But I owned this specific pair because they were special editions made by me—well, made by the name-brand sneaker company that offered to design a shoe for me.

The fact that she had them on after barely refraining from ripping me a new one brought a quirk to the side of my mouth.

Something Ryan said belatedly landed in my head. I looked at him. “You represent her?”

“I do,” is all he said. He sounded distracted as he turned in her direction. Also interesting . “Good luck, Ira.”

And then he was making his way down the hall to his “other” problem child.

Toward Merit Jones.