Page 39 of Scoring the Player (Chasing Rings #2)

“Get back here! We’ll stay here all night if we have to!”

“It’s already past ten,” I fired back.

“You want to throw in the towel or you wanna get drafted?”

I stopped walking.

“Let’s go again,” he said.

And we did. Again and again. Defensive play after defensive play.

My phone died just shy of midnight, and that was hours ago.

My frustration grew every time he got to the rim. And he got to the rim eight out of ten tries.

He told me to channel it, and I tried, repurposing the fire and sweating out the shame.

After fighting and pushing and launching the ball across the fucking court, just to hang my head and drag myself after it, not twice or ten but seventeen times, it clicked. I felt the rotations, ignored the misdirections, and started to dictate the play, making him adjust to me .

My power as a defender grew with each successful steal until he was barely getting to the rim. And then he was never getting to the rim.

He stood, chest heaving, ball digging into his tapered waist, and smiled at me with so much pride I almost couldn’t bear to look at him.

But I did look at him, and it soaked in—the late nights, early mornings, speeches, exasperation-fueled arguments, excavating what he saw in me until no other voice spoke louder than what he fleshed out.

Rushing from vapid conversations and stale class lectures to him, bent over his desk, bleary-eyed and serious.

At the awareness of my presence, a curve of his lips, a glint of life in his eyes, like a greater obsession than game footage or complex court strategies stood before him.

And every time, I would look over my shoulder, certain someone else was standing there, praying someone else wasn’t standing there, to explain the surge of electricity that filled the space between us and the sudden relief that my lungs held air, that I wasn’t slowly being vacuumed into an expanding emptiness.

Now, there he was, bright gaze slipping, and my tongue edged to the bow of my lips, wanting to taste him there. A sharp rise of his nostrils and squeeze of his jaw, which on the next brush of my tongue, he forgot how to use—mouth parting, then closing, then parting again.

Lines of fresh sweat streaked his temple.

“Arnaz—”

I was already closing the distance and slamming my lips against his.

He froze.

“It’s okay,” I whispered before kissing him again.

He moaned, mouth spreading in a gasp, and then his calloused hands were pressing into my waist, pulling me closer. My hand lowered and ghosted against his hardened dick, and he shuddered. The force of it shattered the moment.

I rip awake and blow out a breath. Turning to my side, I bury my head under the pillow and imagine I’m back at the cabin in Salem’s arms as I drift back to sleep.

Teetering on the edge of a building, the wind blowing zigzags of wet salt from my eyes across my lips.

Crescent craters dug into my palm.

The steel-beamed titan and its blue-tinted glass towered over me, and I counted again.

Down from fifty-two until I reached twenty-three, then I swept left to the corner office.

I couldn’t see inside from this distance, but I knew she was there.

Giving her all to the only thing she’d known how to nurture.

She’d hear the sirens, see the crowd form, and watch lines of yellow tape inconvenience evening plans that don’t involve going home to her children.

A balloon of excitement lifted her heels, forehead pressed against glass, maybe it was her lucky day and the bastard with their innards plastered to the street—that poor misguided soul—would have a story that was sad, stirring, shocking because it was sweeps week, and those ratings needed to soar, baby.

And when her phone rang, she’d ignore it—how else would people learn to call her assistant? Even the school knew not to bother her on her cell. Even the children, who were old enough to feed themselves and thus old enough to figure out a flu or a fever.

After the road was cleared, and she’d changed out of her heels and freshened her lipstick, she’d hear her assistant gasp, and wonder if she’d done it, if the whispers were true.

Her two-part investigative series on the neglect, abuse, and preventable deaths of those kids slain over there in Nebraska would finally win her a Peabody.

She threw her shoulders back and breathed in the rare air of victory when her office door opened and her haggard assistant entered, wide-eyed and shell-shocked, and delivered news that I, her back-stitched son, jumped from a seventy-story building, delivering the best sweeps week of her career.

Flipping around, I shifted until my heels hit air, whispered I’m sorry to Ana?s, spread my arms wide. And let go.

I lurch awake with a gasp, stomach clenched, fingers grasping at nothing.

Sid’s living room crashes into focus.

“Fuck.” I blow out a ragged breath and press on my throat to quell the burn.

I kick off the throw blanket and scramble to my feet.

A dim light illuminates the kitchen as I enter.

Ty looks up from a book.

“Hey.” I slide onto the stool across from him.

“Chocolate mousse?” he offers. “Sid bought it.”

“What’s in it?” I lean sideways to fill my cup with water from the sink. “Butterfly pollen?”

His lips curl up in an almost grin. “Avocados.”

“Of course.”

“He also has beet yogurt in there.”

I gurgle a groan as I gulp the water. What’s next? Water alkalized from mermaid piss? He won’t pass away like the rest of us. He’ll just evaporate into frankincense-and-myrrh-scented air.

“I’ll go with the avocados,” I say.

He reaches into the fridge and then slides over a cup and a bottle of water.

“Bad dream?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Still buzzing from the game. You?”

Sid and I caught some of the replay. Ty had made it rain, something like forty points in the second half alone.

“Weird dreams,” I answer after swallowing a bite. “Old ghosts. Regrets.”

“That should be your album name.”

I grin as I scan the mousse cup’s label. “Why is this so delicious?” None of the ingredients explain the creamy, salted, dark-chocolate flavor bomb.

“I know, right?” He recycles his cup and loads his spoon in the dishwasher. “Life’s about learning to live with ’em, right?”

“What?” I ask as he retreats toward the door.

“Ghosts and regrets.”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Night.”

“Hey, that pump fake, fadeaway against Jimmy earlier… Fire.”

He smiles. An actual, genuine smile. Dimples and all. Rare.

“I’ll see you for mental health night?”

“Yep.”

“Any of the guest room beds are comfier than the couch.”

“Shh!” I cast a wary glance toward the living room. “She’ll hear you.”

His cat-like eyes crinkle at the corners. “There’s more in the fridge.”

I start to slide off the stool. “Don’t tell Sid I like it.”

I feel like I’ve slept five minutes when Sid shakes me awake.

“Go away,” I groan.

“We have to be at the arena soon. You should head home and get changed.”

“Nngh.” I rub my eyes. “Go away.”

“You hate it when you’re late.”

Ugh. I hate it when he’s right.

My eyes blink open. “We roll together?”

“Nah. Ty got in late. I want to…” He grins. “Y’know.”

“Horny fucka.” I stretch my arms over my head. “Let the man sleep.”

He smirks. “Who said he needs to be up?”

And now I’m up. “Hot!”

He laughs and backs toward the staircase. “Don’t be late.”

“Nah, you can’t drop that visual and run. Can I watch?”

“And have my fiancé commit double homicide?”

“Mm.” I swing my legs to sit upright. “I wouldn’t share Salem either.”

Sid chuckles as my eyes widen. “Yeah, you said that out loud.”

I shrug. “He ain’t a silencer in the sheets is all I’m sayin’.

“Word? Man, scoop him up and stop playing.”

“Yo, can I take the Lambo?”

“Which one? Let me guess. The Revontón?”

“That’s my baby,” I croon.

“Bet. You know where the fob is.”