Long Shot: A Forbidden Basketball Standalone Romance (HOOPS Book 1)
Long Shot: Chapter 15

From tip-off, I know something is wrong with Caleb. I’ve been facing him since we were bare-faced adolescents whose voices hadn’t changed yet. I’ve studied him and know his every tell and all his triggers. Something’s different. Something’s changed. He’s even more aggressive than usual, but he’s not hiding it in sly side-plays the refs and the cameras miss. He’s more blatant and less controlled than I’ve ever seen him. Almost unhinged. Sloppy. Picking apart his game isn’t even a challenge this time, and his frustration boils to the surface and over the sides quicker than usual.

Me—I’m having the game of my damn life.

Tres. Trois. Triple.

Any way you wanna say it, I’m raining threes. There’s a zone a shooter enters where the hoop feels closer and wider, like a woman spreading herself open and making it easy for you to slip in. You hear swoosh before the ball leaves your hands. It feels like you could close your eyes and make every shot—you’re that in tune with the net. That’s the zone I’m in tonight, and for some reason, the Stingers coach leaves Caleb on me when we all know he couldn’t guard me with a sword and shield. He’s never been able to, but he always insists on trying. His ego is not only his downfall, but his team’s, because remarkably, we’re up at the half. This game does matter for them. They’ll probably make the playoffs, but they’re in the wild card position. They need to win, or other teams need to lose for them to make it. And if I have anything to say about it, they ain’t winning shit tonight.

“You guys are killing ’em,” Coach Kemp says when we huddle after halftime before the third quarter starts, his eyes fixed on me. “Keep it up.”

He’s a good leader, but everyone knows his assistant coach, Ean Jagger, is the brains behind this operation. A college injury ended Jagger’s pro hopes, but he’s a basketball savant. With his dark, closely cropped hair and black-rimmed glasses, he’s got a little bit of a Clark Kent vibe going on. Around Deck’s age, he’s one of the most respected minds in the league. Every team wooed him, and I have no idea how Decker cajoled or bribed him to slum it with an expansion squad, but thank God he did.

When we break, Jagger waves me over. I join him by the bench, tucking my jersey into my shorts.

“’Sup, Jag?” I don’t have to bend because at six foot seven, he’s got an inch on me.

“I know you’re in the zone right now.” His deep timbre rumbles low under the collective hum of the waiting crowd. “And every shot is falling, but if you go cold, we’re fucked.”

“’Scuse me?” I glance at him with a frown.

“Yeah, since you’re taking every shot, you’re the only one in rhythm,” Jagger says, the calm demeanor he’s famous for unruffled. “You start missing, no one else is ready. We all know you’re a gifted athlete, August. Don’t just show off. Show us you can lead.”

He taps his clipboard for emphasis, nailing me with a look from behind his glasses.

“You’re the point guard. The floor general. Involve your teammates more,” he says. “Slow the game down so they can catch up. Open the floor. What happened to the passing we’ve been working on all season? You’ve reverted to hoarding the ball. Where’s your head, man?”

Only Jag would hone in on these issues when, from the outside, it looks like things couldn’t be better and I’m having a stellar game.

Everything he’s said is spot on. I’m playing well, but I’m the only one playing well. That’s not the kind of team we want to be, and that’s not the kind of player I want to be. I promised myself I wouldn’t let Caleb take me out of my game, and even though I look good, it’s selfish play that’s doing it. And that’s his game, not mine.

“Good looking out.” I fist-pound him and nod. “Thanks, Jag.”

“No problem.” He pushes the glasses up his nose, looks back to his clipboard and starts marking up our next play.

I’m headed toward the floor to start the second half, when I happen to look up at the jumbotron. Some cameraman has a great eye because out of all the people in this arena, he found the two most beautiful.

Iris doesn’t seem to realize the camera is on her. “Shot Caller” is emblazoned on the front of her red T-shirt, and she bounces Sarai on her knees, making animated faces to coax her into laughing. Sarai’s little hands flap, and her fingers close around her mother’s nose. I can’t hear Iris’s laugh, but even the memory of it is like warm honey pouring over me. Her laugh is husky and full-bodied and genuine—something her soul cooks up and her heart serves.

When she finally realizes the camera is on her, and she and her daughter are on the big screen, she looks embarrassed for a second but recovers. Like the perfect baller’s chick, she looks into the camera and waves Sarai’s hand. The most angelic smile lights up the little girl’s face, sparks in those violet–blue eyes.

Even with my team up, and my highest-scoring game already on the books by halftime, disappointment singes my insides. I’m about to turn away and walk on court when Iris looks right at me. Only a few rows behind the bench, she’s close enough for me to see her eyes widen, and that gorgeous, fuckable mouth falls open the littlest bit.

If I’m off my game, so is Iris. She should have looked away by now to hide this. The camera is still on her, and in seconds, someone will connect the dots between me staring up at her and her staring back at me, but neither one of us looks away. On lonely nights, drowning in pussy instead of booze, I’ve lain awake and tried to convince myself I imagined this pull between us. But this thing that connects us may as well be a neon thread, lit up for everyone to see. It’s so tangible you could pluck it. I’m tangled up in it and can’t seem to work myself free.

“West!” Kenan calls, finally jerking my attention away. “You playing or what?”

Shit.

Our starting line-up is already on the floor, and so is the Stingers’. I’m the only one not out there. I take one last look at Iris, who is now looking at her daughter and not me, before going on the court.

When I take my spot, Caleb’s eyes are slitted. He looks from me to the stands, and there is no question he noticed the long look I shared with his baby’s mama.

What-the-hell-ever.

I put the incident behind me and grab hold of Jag’s advice. Getting my team involved, spreading the floor, and slowing down the game helps me to shake off the moment with Iris that rattled my insides.

One of our players is at the free-throw line, and Caleb and I are standing beside each other, waiting for him to take his two shots.

“You see something you like up in the stands, West?” he asks, watching the ball circle the rim before falling through the net.

I don’t respond. I think that’s best. He knows what he saw, and I don’t feel like lying to him.

“I fucked her in the ass before the game,” he says, so low only I’ll hear. “No one’s ever had her like that before. I get all her firsts. Did you know I was her first, West? I’ll be her only and her last.”

Outrage and disgust rise like bile in my throat. I glance at him, my eyes burning with hate. I squelch my fury and reach for the coldhearted, ruthless competitor who always replaces a way to ruin this man’s night.

“You talk that way about the mother of your child?” I tsk and shake my head like it’s a shame. “I was gonna ease up on you, show some mercy, but now I’m gonna wipe the floor with your bitch ass.”

And I do.

For the next twenty minutes, I take Maverick’s advice to a degree, but I shake Caleb, deny him the ball, do everything in my power to pick him apart.

With only a few minutes left, this home crowd is stunned that we’re up by ten points. Caleb attempts a dunk. Not on my watch. I leap to trap the ball against the backboard, and the ref calls it a clean block shot. None of Caleb’s shouting and whining gets the call overturned. The building is as quiet as it’s been all night, and some fans are even starting to leave.

Next time down the floor, Caleb tries to return the favor, but my shot goes in, even though I fall on my back in the act of shooting. I’m about to get up, when he comes to stand over me, legs spread and groin above my face, a not-so-subtle “suck my dick” message—a blatant disrespect among ballers.

I’m on my feet and in his face before my brain can catch up to the rest of my body. We’re head to sweaty head, chest to chest, nose to nose, growl for growl. Teeth bared and tension unleashed in the tight space between us. A leanly muscled arm shoves me back.

“What the hell?” Kenan demands, his nose now at mine. “You trying to get suspended for the next game? Keep your shit together, Rook.”

Caleb looks over the shoulder of a teammate, his eyes baleful and malevolent. Indignation drains out of me every second I hold his stare. I glance from him to the scoreboard and back, my smirk telling him without words that he may go home with Iris, but it’s as a loser who got his ass handed to him on the court. I made him my highlight reel bitch, and she witnessed every second of it.

Fuck that in the ass, you pussy son of a bitch.

I turn away, as disgusted with myself as I am with him. I give Kenan a curt nod, letting him know I have my emotions on lock again. With only a minute left in the game, we’re almost home free. In the last time-out huddle, Decker stands behind the bench.

“Game’s over, Coach,” he says, his eyes trained on me. “Do we need August out there? It’s sewn up, right?”

Coach Kemp looks at me speculatively. “It’s true, West. Why don’t you sit out this last—”

“No,” I cut in, looking from him to Decker and back again. “Let me finish.”

I want to be out there when the buzzer goes off. I want that asshole to shake my hand like a good little golden boy when this is over or risk everyone seeing him for the whiny little bitch he is.

“Up to you,” Decker says, disappointment flickering over his expression before he clears it. “But I’d prefer you sit out.”

I don’t wait for them to reconsider. I leave the huddle and walk onto the floor.

It’s our final possession, and I’ve got the ball. Me and Caleb, one on one. I fake left. He dives. I turn right. I’m gone. Dodging defenders, in the paint, penetrating to the goal. I leap and scoop the ball in. I’m high. Caleb’s below, and our eyes connect.

Nail in your coffin, motherfucker.

When I come down, Caleb’s still standing there. Our bodies collide. I plummet to the floor, my leg twisting awkwardly when I land.

White-hot pain lances through my leg, and my vision goes black around the edges.

The team trainer is immediately at my side and tells me not to move. I try to sit up, but my head swims from the pain.

“Shit,” I mutter, collapsing back onto the court.

“He said don’t move,” Decker orders from my right, his furrowed brows and tightly held lips a map of concern. “And don’t look.”

Don’t look? What is there to see?

I glance around the tight circle of grim-faced players surrounding me. The emotions warring on their faces range from horror to pain to pity.

My heart batters my chest, not because of the pain, though it’s excruciating, but because of the pity in their eyes. So few people can play at this level, and we’re an elite fraternity of sorts. We’ve all worked unimaginably hard for most of our lives to get here, and it can all disappear in an instant. One bad fall can ruin a career.

I need to see my leg.

They bring a stretcher, and I shake my head. No way I’m going out like that. Even if I have to hobble off the court, I want to go under my own steam.

I sit up to tell them so and another wave of dizziness overtakes me, but not because of the pain. Because of what I see.

The large bone in my right leg protrudes through the skin. Nausea roils in my stomach at the gruesome sight. This isn’t a strain or a tear or something you bounce back from easily. It’s a break, and recovery will take incredible effort and time, if it can be accomplished at all.

Through a haze of mind-numbing pain, my first memory of handling a ball rises up as they lift and strap me to the stretcher. I’m in the backyard and barely able to hold onto the ball because my hands are so small. Perched on my father’s shoulders, and with his great height, I can just reach the goal and drop the ball through the net. He and my mother cheer, and even at that age, the approval is a warm rush I hold close and immediately want more of.

Will a crowd ever roar for me again?

It’s not our home crowd, but everyone cheers as I’m hoisted on the stretcher and taken toward the locker room. Every face I pass shows sympathy, even the Stingers’ players. When I pass Caleb, though, a black satisfaction darkens his blue eyes. There’s retribution in the curl of his lip.

The defending player is supposed to give the player with the ball room to land. Caleb didn’t do that. It was a dirty play. No reasonably informed person watching what just happened would say otherwise.

His scorn and cruelty cover me under the blinding lights and flashing cameras, and I wonder if Iris is still here. If she saw the play. Caleb did this to warn me, but I hope Iris takes it as a warning, too.