Page 23 of Scoring the Player
I shrug. “Ask him.”
“I have. He said,‘That’s just how Blue likes it.’”
“How I like it?” I’m not the one who fucks with the other every game. “What part of my fist in his face screams ‘I like it?’”
“What’s the story behind the nickname?”
“Hell if I know.”
She sighs. “Okay. You sure you don’t want to come work here? You keep more under lock and key than I do.”
“I seriously don’t know. I’ve asked, and he never answers.”
“Blue. Hmm. Maybe it’s your broody nature. Or maybe you remind him of the color. Oh, crap. I’m late for my meeting. Let me run.”
“Aight. Later.”
“Hey, do what you want with this unsolicited advice, but maybe you should get to know the guy you hate. You might be surprised at what you find.”
I’d rather eat through my arm than get to know Salem fucking Jones.
Mr. Anxious-For-No-Reason strikes again,and sleep drifts off without me. Picking up my laptop from the nightstand, I head to my favorite hookup site, but somehow, I’m staring at Salem taking a seat at his press conference.
2.3 million views.
The nausea from this morning returns.
Directing an I’m-friendly-for-now glance around the room, he settles into the chair.
The camera zooms in.
If autumn was a face…
Deep honey-brown eyes. Warm with an underhanded edge. Nothing like the unwanted inheritance of my murky, dark moss.
You can tell a lot about someone from their eyes. Like, how many words it’ll take to get my point across. His tell me I’d use fewer words, and they may even read my silences.
God, I hate dimples. And plump top lips that curl up. And extra-as-fuck sharp cheekbones.
I roll my eyes as the reporters dick-ride his return.
A tat peeks out of the unbuttoned collar of the blue button-down hugging his chest and biceps. I make and then immediately delete a mental note to look for a full picture of it.
He thanks them.
So polite.
When his gift baskets start to pour in, he’ll probably sit down at night and pen heartfelt thank-you notes.
A sheen of a winner’s glow spreads over his brown skin and its undertones of gold—the same color of his small nose hoop. Stubble outlines a tapered V-shaped jawline. Like his crew cut, it’s all so neat.
Yeah, the gift baskets will definitely be rolling in.
Fucker.
I hope he chokes on them.
A cover photo of him in a rust-colored sweater and dark blue jeans standing in front of a stoop covered in snow has me hitting play on the pop-up video titled “Inside NBA Star Salem Jones’s Sophisticated Brooklyn Brownstone.”
