Page 4 of Shot Taker

But I ended it because she’s better off being halfway across the country living her safe life without me.

I tell myself that late at night when I’m restless in an unfamiliar bed and so starved for a taste of her that I’d settle for listening to her voicemail greeting on repeat just to feel like we’re still talking.

With ninety minutes to the game, I need to start my routine. Then shootaround and tip-off, then I can take an ice bath, crawl into bed, and sleep for ten hours.

I don’t want to see anyone from the team, so I take the longer, more public route to get to the home locker room.

The music pulses in my ears, vibrating through my muscles, joints, skin.

When I head into one of the open hallways, every part of me stiffens. I pull up, and my bag thuds against the floor.

Her back is to me, the back pockets of her tight jeans at eye level as she stands on the ladder, her weight on one hip.Her hair tumbles down her shoulders, headphones tucked between the hot pink strands.

She’s here.

Nova’s at my workplace, in my jungle, taking up space like a pink neon sign declaring, “In your dreams.”

The feeling in my gut isn’t sadness but longing. A throbbing ache that swells until it consumes all of me.

I’m not over her.

Not one percent, not anything.

Forcing my feet to move, I grab my bag and change directions.

* * *

“What the fuck are you playing at?” I slam the door of Harlan’s office behind me.

Harlan looks up, surprised. “You have a game.”

“The game can wait for an explanation.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I drop the bag and pace the room. “Don’t lie to me. We made a deal. You’d get me LA if I stayed away. How the hell am I supposed to do that when she’s parked in my commute?”

“Who?”

“Nova.” Saying her name hurts. The ache in my chest takes root, deepening and spreading to my lungs, my gut.

Harlan’s expression sharpens. “Impossible. She went back to Boston.”

I stab a finger at the door. “She’s on a ladder in the lobby, staring at a wall like it’s playing HB-fucking-O.”

He frowns, his gaze dropping to the desk.

“You didn’t know,” I realize.

“The tenth-anniversary gala in February. James wants to make it a showcase, a triumph. Celebrities, music, art.”

The owner is a spoiled rich asshole who cares more about style than substance, but I’m not sure what he has to do with…

Art.

A piece clicks into place.

“He wants her to paint the wall.”

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