Page 42 of Scoring the Player
He said no, and even though it feels like someone has taken tweezers to the nerves in my gut, I have to respect that.
I have to fall back.
CHAPTER 11
SALEM
“Mom’s been trying to reach you. Call her back. Still waiting for a pic of the red rocks. Love you.” I hang up after leaving the voicemail for my brother.
“Denzel?” Cillian asks, stretching out his back.
“Yep.” I take out my headphones and shelf them with my phone.
“He’s all right?”
I roll on my compression tights. “Most likely.”
“Ready for this?”
I raise my eyebrow. “And I wouldn’t be because?”
He pauses. “I’d get it if you felt a way being on his turf. It wouldn’t?—”
I shrug. “It’s a game like any other.”
Silence the Royals’ crowd and help Brooklyn clutch a dub.
Business as usual.
Arnaz
Those. Calves. And thighs.
I wanna shove my head between them and strangle myself until my vision goes dark.
He’s ignoring me.
Good.
I don’t need him in my face, saying some slick shit to try to get me off my game. I asked for this. And there’s nothing worse than getting what you ask for and then crying over it.
It’s not like I like his voice that much to regret his silence.
I don’t.
The hell does it need to be so deep for anyway? Imagine it dripped in exhaustion at night, slipping lower, darker, kissing the ear of the person next to him, who means to sleep and now has to deal with a woody from some irksome line like “Good night, Blue.”
Imagine.
Nah.
Stay over there. Please.
I emerged from the tunnel during warm-ups, and there he was. Standing sideways from the net, he swung his arm over his head in a smooth arc, swishing a left-handed hook shot. Tossed another one, he turned, dribbled…and caught me staring.
With a tip of his head so slight I questioned if it was even there, he took off to the hoop for a floater.
And the coldness wasn’t just warm-up vibes.
