Page 19 of Scoring the Player
“No one’s around. You can stop pretending you hate me.”
“Who said I give a fuck about you?” He wrestles the jeans on, pulling up the zipper, but not bothering to button them.
“Take ’em off. Let me see your eyes.”
“No.” He folds into a chair and bends over, tugging on his socks.
“Why? It’s just us.”
His jaw comes down hard, the sharp sound of gum being masticated filling the silence.
It’s either a rubber band or gum being assaulted by him every time I see him.
“You know they surge to life when you hit a beyond-the-arc, step-back three or when you son dudes bigger than you on the court?” I ask.
His tatted hands fidget with his laces.
“But when I catch you watching me…that’s my favor?—”
He flies across the room and snarls in my face, “Stop talking.”
“Or what?” I taunt.
His hand wraps around my neck. It’s clammy.
I nudge my neck forward into his grasp, choking myself.
My gaze drops down to his hardened nipples.
He catches me looking and shoves me back. “Fuck you,” he sneers, his minty breath ghosting my lips. My body seizes for a breath, trapping in the “When?” trying to spring off my tongue.
I reach up and remove his shades, and to my surprise, the little monster doesn’t try to headbutt me.
There’s a bang on the door.
“We’re good,” I call out.
“Time’s up,” the guard says.
I twist the lock. “Heard about the trade rumors.”
He steps back, glaring at me. “So?”
“Good. Your coach is a jackass. You’re their best shot at making it to the finals, and he doesn’t even have you starting.”
“Yeah, well.” He shrugs. “Some men fear glory.”
I nod.Or what it demands.“Heard LA wants you. They’re rebuilding their team.”
He leans against the opposite wall and crosses his arms. The rhythm of his chewing betrays the calm he’s trying to sell.
“Jones!” The banging gets louder. “Open the door!”
“You’ll do well in LA.” Philly doesn’t deserve him. “Coach Derek was in our shoes just a few seasons ago. He’s smart and hungry. And remembers what it takes to win. He’ll know that the best way to handle all your fire is not to try to handle it.” Some fires you fuel instead of trying to put out. “Maybe don’t punch your teammate in the face, though.”
“Says the asshole who elbowed me in the ribs less than an hour ago,” he fires back.
My gaze travels down to the deep grooves emanating from his abs to his obliques. Every inch of him hammered into armor.
