Page 66 of Power Play

But first, it’s game time.

I take a deep breath, pack up the last of my things, and walk back out into the room.

When I get out, she’s standing there, wearing nothing but the jersey with her hair messy and flipped to one side.

“Question,” she says. I swallow. I want to devour her. Inch by fucking inch.

“Shoot,” I say.

“Is there, like, some sort of team policy against…uh…canoodling on game days?” she asks, chewing on her thumbnail.

I feel myself grow rock hard in my pants. I laugh and shake my head.

“No. Why?” I ask. She turns around and lifts the jersey up slightly, revealing her bare ass. She walks to the bed and bends over it, exposing herself to me, and I swear I’m drooling.

“Because I’d really like it if you fucked me while I wear your jersey,” she says, pulling it up even higher.

Goddamn it, she’s fucking perfect.

An hour later, I’m getting in my rental car and driving across D.C. to get to the arena. I show them my pass and pull into the back, and a valet gets out and takes my keys. I grab my bag and look up at the huge building.

This is it for us tonight. Despite a hard-fought battle, the Storm won’t be making the playoffs. So this is it for all of us for the season. But for me, this is it—permanently. There is nonext season.

I take a deep breath.

This is it, Buck.

Life as I know it will be over after tonight.

But there’s this beautiful girl across town who will be there. And who will be waiting for me afterward. And somehow, it seems less daunting.

A little while later, I’m in the locker room, sitting on a table while the trainer stretches me out. I’m blasting Eminem and leaned back against the wall when I feel a tap on my shoulder.

It’s Coach Roberts, and next to him stands the team physician.

I swallow and take out my earpods.

“How we feelin’?” Coach asks, patting my leg. I move around, showing him how nimble I am.

“Good as new,” I say. I knock on my head. “Everything is in place up here, too.”

He smiles and nods.

“Dr. Sanchez is here to do your pre-game evaluation,” he says. I nod. I’ve been back and forth to the doctors and physical therapists for the last eight weeks. They’ve all cleared me, so I know I’ll be fine. But there’s nothing like that pre-test anxiety to kick you right in the ass. I sit up and swing my legs over the table. He does a few tests, looks into my eyes, tests my balance, and then writes a few things down.

Then he looks up at me.

“I’m clearing you,” he says. “You’ve passed everything. But I would be remiss if I didn’t warn you one last time about the severity of your previous injuries.”

I nod.

“I understand, Dr. S. I appreciate your time,” I say with a nod. He nods solemnly, then hands me a waiver. I sign it, and he walks away without another word.

Coach sighs and leans back on the table next to me.

“You still have a chance,” he says. “If you decide right now that you don’t want to go out on that ice, not one single person will think you’re a lesser man because of it.”

I shoot him a look.

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