HOOPS Shorts: A HOOPS Novella Collection, page 11
“But when do I get you next?” He laces our fingers together. “The season is about to kick into full gear. It’s our first year, so I know we won’t make the playoffs, but we’re doing better than expected, and I can’t let off the gas. My travel schedule—”
“Is part of your job,” I cut in. “Just like mine is. We’ll see each other every chance we get. That’s what we’ve been doing, right?”
I once dropped everything and raced to LaGuardia where Deck had a layover. We only had an hour, but we made the most of it. I can now say I’ve been fucked in a men’s bathroom. Hard.
No regrets.
“I just want this so bad, Ave.” He rubs a thumb over my lip, leaving a trail of tingles. “I want this to work.”
“It is working.” I tip up on my bare toes to string kisses along his jawline. “We’re working, Deck.”
“I know, but it could be easier. SportsCo has an LA office,” he reminds me, glancing up through those thick lashes. “Couldn’t you . . .”
He trails off because we’ve had this discussion more than once.
“They do have an LA office, but right now they want Twofer based in New York.” I pause significantly. “I know because I asked.”
He pulls back, surprise and pleasure mingling in his eyes. “You asked?”
“I want this to work, too, Deck.” I blink at the emotion that overtakes me when I think about how patient he’s been the last year. How he helped me so much as I got past Will’s death. “I want us to work so much. I love…”
I catch myself. What the actual fuck? We haven’t said those words yet. I know them. I believe them. With every fiber of my being, I believe them. I can’t imagine spending my life with anyone else, even if right now thousands of miles separate us most of the time. But that’s a big step. Those words are a huge step, and the last man I gave them to broke my heart in the worst ways with the worst goodbye I could ever imagine.
Deck doesn’t look thrown off by my slip, but just tucks my hair behind my ear and smiles down at me. I know he loves me. His eyes glow with it. I think the only reason he hasn’t said it yet is because he wants me to be sure. He knows how fragile I was after Will, and he’s handling me like glass.
Not in the bedroom. In bed, he fucks like an animal, and gets no complaints from me.
In every other way, he’s been extraordinarily careful with me; extraordinarily patient. And, yes. I love him for it.
I brace my hands on either side of his face, and lock my eyes with his, losing myself in the intoxicating bourbon of his gaze.
“I love you, MacKenzie Decker,” I say, my voice, my eyes, my heart steady and unwavering.
He swallows deeply. His hands tighten at my waist, feeling like they’ll crush me, but I don’t even whimper. I want to feel him any way I can.
“Avery,” he finally says. “Baby, I love you so much sometimes I think I’m gonna explode with it.”
He dips his head into the curve of my neck, feathering kisses there and into the collar of my dress.
“And I know I’m demanding,” he goes on. “Always asking for more of your time, for you to come here more, to meet me on the road. It’s not fair—”
“You come to me, too. You travel constantly. I’m always working. We have busy lives, but call me, and there’s no place I won’t come. This relationship is important to me.” I kiss his cheek, scrunch my fingers in the silky gold-dappled hair. “You know that.”
“I do know,” he says, his eyes earnest, sober, loving. “And I don’ t take it for granted. I want to make you happy, Ave.”
I learned from Will that happiness starts with yourself; that your happiness can’t truly hinge on one other person in this world. In the end, other people can’t complete us, but can love us in our brokenness if we let them. There is a happiness you find with another when you’re first happy with yourself. The joy of shared struggles and ups and downs and trials and I’m there for you, and you’re there for me. It makes the contentment you find first with yourself even brighter, even deeper. And as we hold each other, the cool beach breeze blowing gently over us, I’m reminded of Deck’s patience as I figured that out; as I dragged myself out of the mire of guilt and shame and pain.
I have no doubt that’s the love Deck and I share.
“I am happy, Deck.” I snuggle deeper into my big man, his arms wrapped around me and sheltering me from the whipping breeze. “I’m already happy.”
FAST BREAK
“Throw away the idea of ‘getting back’ to your life as it was, and embrace the idea of ‘stepping into’ life as it is and all that it can be.”
– Amy Purdy,
Paralympic snowboard medalist,
New York Times Bestselling Author &
All-Around Bada$$
Chapter 1
Ean
“You can do it until you think you can’t.”
I consider the young, eager faces assembled on the bleachers of the outdoor basketball court. They’re sitting in the mild San Diego summer sun, guzzling Gatorade and water, sweating and winded from the pick-up game they just finished. August West, the franchise player for the team I coach, sponsors this basketball camp. It’s one of my favorite things to do in the off-season.
“The point of position-less basketball is teaching you flexibility, versatility,” I continue. “How did you feel when you had to play a position you weren’t used to?”
There’s that “play it cool” silence when guys aren’t sure they want to participate; don’t want to seem too interested. I fold my arms and watch them steadily; let them sit in it for a few moments until one of the players I saw take the lead on court takes the lead here, too.
“Frustrated at first,” Lorenzo finally says. “I never played forward. I’m a guard.”
“That’s to be expected.” I cup the basketball against my hip and tap a clipboard on my leg. “You’re asking your mind and body to function in ways and in situations they haven’t before. How’d you feel by the end of the game?”
“I dunno.” Lorenzo shrugs and grins. “I’m always gonna be a guard, but if I have to play the three, I can.”
“Right.” I bounce the ball with my left hand and nod. “You guys remember when Magic Johnson demonstrated maybe the best example ever of the position-less mindset?”
There’s no recognition on any of the fifty or so teenage boys’ faces.
“Come on now,” I scoff. “You guys aren’t that young, are you?”
They snicker. Some lean forward, elbows on their knees. Others lean back, elbows against the bleacher behind them. There’s barely peach fuzz on their faces, so I guess they really are that young. Or I’m that old. At forty, I’m one of the NBA’s youngest head coaches, but looking at these bright eyes and their spit-shine hope, I could easily feel like an old man.
“So the year was nineteen-eighty,” I begin.
“Damn, I wasn’t even born yet,” Coop, one of the group’s centers, says.
“I hear ya,” I laugh. “But knowing the history of this game is as important as what you do on court.”
My coach told me that when I was the same age as these guys. I had to live a little before I appreciated that and most of the things he said, but I’ll tell them now anyway.
“It was the finals. Lakers were leading the Sixers, up three games to two. They were on the road, and they could close the series. Kareem Abdul-Jabbar was stuck in LA with a sprained ankle, and the championship was on the line. Magic Johnson, a rookie point guard, not only played center in Kareem’s place that night, but rotated to play all five positions over the course of the game.”
They seem suitably impressed, which spurs me to finish the story. “He scored twenty-five points in the second half. Thirty-seven overall. And as a rookie, he led his team to his first championship. Position-less basketball at its best.”
A quick survey of the group makes me think maybe the example isn’t falling on deaf ears. They look invested and on the edge of their bleachers.
“Part of why I asked you to do that was because it’s a great exercise in taking what might be considered a disadvantage and converting it into an opportunity to grow.”
August walks up beside me and clasps my shoulder.
“Give it up for my coach, guys,” he says, pausing for their applause. “Coach Jagger’s talk is a perfect segue into our next guest. She has inspired millions with her tenacity and doing exactly what Coach was just talking about. Taking what some might see as a disadvantage and using it to grow. Quinn Barrow’s gonna chop it up with us after we take a quick break.”
The kids disperse, heading back into the air-conditioned building where I presume the next segment will take place.
“So Quinn Barrow, huh?” I ask, keeping my tone nonchalant. “I didn’t know you were having her today.”
“What?” August asks absently, squinting at the group of boys filing into the building. “Sorry. Making sure nobody’s sneaking off. What’d you say?”
“Quinn Barrow,” I repeat patiently. “She’s speaking?”
“Yeah, Banner hooked us up.”
Banner Morales-Foster is a partner in Elevation, the sports agency that manages August and several of my guys from the San Diego Waves squad.
“She’s something else.” I fall into step beside August as we walk through the parking lot.
“Uh, Jag.” August glances over his shoulder in the direction we just left. “Wasn’t that your Rover we just passed? I thought you had to leave for another appointment.”
I pull my phone out and, as discreetly as possible, text my assistant asking her to cancel my lunch meeting with Body Armor. I’ve wanted to meet Quinn for a year. I’m not missing my chance.
“Cancellation.” I wave my phone at him. “Just got a text from my assistant, so I can hang for a little bit.”
“Cool. You got time to hear Quinn? She’s a pretty fantastic speaker.”
“You know I’m always looking for anyone to motivate the team.”
“Yeah, maybe you can ask her about coming to speak this season,” August says, opening the door to the building the kids entered. “She donated her time for the basketball camp, but the Waves would have to pay. And she ain’t cheap.”
Cheap isn’t a word anyone would apply to the woman standing at the front of the room. Her green dress, well-cut and fitted, hangs from skinny shoulder straps and dusts the tight curves and delicious swells of her body, stopping just below her knees. She hops up onto a table, facing the roomful of young men. She even smells expensive. Her scent cuts over the smell of teenage boy. Something clean and fresh and sharp and citrusy.
“Our next guest is a New York Times bestseller,” August says. “She owns a hugely popular gym in LA called Titanium, recently released a brand-new fitness app, is an international speaker, and has an Emmy-nominated Netflix special. Please give a warm welcome to Quinn Barrow.”
I lean against the wall in the back of the room, clapping along with the guys and waiting for Quinn to begin. I’ve seen her around the stadium at games a few times. Seen her on television. I bought and read her book. Watched her TED talk. I know her fitness app is called Girl, You Better, and I’m not exactly the target demographic, but I downloaded it anyway.
She fascinates me.
They call me The Machine because of my obsession with stats and data. I have a reputation around the league for being taciturn. Reserved. Hell, maybe even reclusive.
I’m a gym rat. If I’m not at the gym, I’m at home. This job, this game consumes your entire life. I have a lot to prove. Coming off our first playoffs appearance, I’m chasing a championship ring. There isn’t room or time for much else, and honestly I haven’t wanted much else. But finally seeing Quinn Barrow in person, I want to get to know her.
“Good afternoon,” she says, still seated on the table. “I’m honored any time I get to speak to young athletes.”
There’s an electric charge in her voice. Like she’s plugged into a wall socket and can barely contain the power surging through her. Her voice pulses with it. As she looks over the small crowd, that energy illuminates her features. Facing this group of eager kids, it looks like someone just turned her light on, and she glows.
“I sat where you are once,” she continues. “I knew exactly what my life would be. I had it all planned out. I was a world-class runner, and my future depended on how fast and how far my legs could take me. I had set records and was at the Olympic trials when everything changed.”
She runs a hand brusquely through her hair. “I was running a great race, leading the pack, and on course to set a record at the trials,” she says. “I heard a pop, and next thing I knew, I was on the ground. Runners fall all the time. I mean, it sucks at the Olympic trials, but it’s not unusual. But this wasn’t your average fall. Turns out I had dislocated my knee and ruptured the popliteal artery behind it.”
“Did it hurt?” Coop asks.
“God, yes.” Quinn closes her eyes and blows out a quick breath. “Like hell. I actually blacked out for a minute. They took me to the hospital, but didn’t figure out the rupture right away. My calf and all behind my knee started turning purple. By the time they realized blood wasn’t circulating to my lower leg and toes, it was too late.”
She bends, working her fingers under the hem of her dress for a second, tugging and pulling her left leg away from the knee. She holds it up for the group to see, a prosthetic leg tipped with a red-bottomed shoe to match the one she wears on her right.
“Shiiiiiit,” Lorenzo says, stretching the profanity to its limits.
“My thoughts exactly.” Her grin, wry and small, comes and goes. “They performed six surgeries trying to save my leg, and one finally to take it.”
Her tone remains light, her demeanor matter-of-fact, and everything about her proclaims unshakeable confidence, but she’s holding her leg in one hand. And as the room is so quiet, waiting for her to flip to the next page in this tragedy, I can’t ignore that empty space beneath her skirt where her hopes and dreams used to be.
“When I woke up after the surgery,” she says, looking from the prosthetic to the group, “I thought my life was over, but sometimes life has a way of flipping our dreams upside down to get them right-side up. I’m not gonna sugar coat it, because you deserve the truth. I tried to end my life.”
She holds up two fingers, and a crooked railroad track of scars cuts across the inside of her wrist.
“Not once, but twice.” A philosophical shrug lifts the slim shoulders beneath the silky ribbons securing her dress. “I was nothing if not determined, and I was in the darkest place I’ve ever been in my life. The career I’d been pursuing literally since I was a little girl was gone in an instant. I didn’t know how to be anyone other than that person. That led me down such a dark path.”
“What saved you?”
I’m surprised the question actually left my mouth. I don’t regret it, though, because she looks at me for the first time, right in my eyes, and I’m glad I stayed.
“I saved myself,” she replies softly, her stare affixed to mine. “But someone else helped me believe my life was worth saving. Banner Morales-Foster, my agent and best friend, didn’t know me from Jane Doe at the time, but she visited me in the hospital after my second suicide attempt. She told me I would run again, and that there was something special in me that she wouldn’t give up on. She said she could see me speaking before thousands of people. She cast a vision that at the time, I couldn’t even imagine for myself.”
Quinn touches her left thigh, her hand moving over the muscle beneath the silky material of her dress. “I couldn’t even walk, much less run, but everything she said, we’ve made come true. Most would call me disabled, but losing this leg enabled me, forced me to stretch so far beyond what I ever thought I’d be able to do. Probably beyond what I ever would have done.”
Over the next twenty minutes, Quinn recounts her unlikely rise from that hospital bed to bestseller lists, endorsements and being a household name. At the end she brings out a case with various types of prosthetics for the guys to see, ranging from those that look like flesh to those that shine with sleek steel.
“So do you have a favorite?” I ask from beside her while she arranges them on the table.
“For events like this, I like the one I’m wearing,” she says, chuckling. “I can show off my extensive shoe collection, but running, I’d go with something like this.”
She reaches for the C-shaped blades I’ve often seen amputees run in.
“They’re lighter.” She hands one to me to feel and then another heavier leg for comparison. “And the blades mimic how our tendons work. The inventor was inspired by the way cheetahs and kangaroos run as he was designing them.”
“So you run a lot?” I’m running out of things to say, but I want to keep her attention as long as possible. I’m distracted by the sexy slope of her shoulders under the fragile ribbon straps, and the vulnerable sweep of her neck when she seems so strong everywhere else.
“Yeah. Most mornings I do.” She opens her mouth to say something else, but Coop asks her a question about one of the prosthetics. She walks around to the other side of the table where he’s standing and launches into an explanation.
Dammit.
I’m not sure how much longer she plans to stay. I don’t usually . . . linger in places. When I’m done, I’m out. August knows this, and his speculation reaches me from across the room. I’m not surprised when he sidles up beside me.
“You still here, Coach?” he asks. “Thanks for hanging around so long.”
“It’s nothing.” I shrug, my shoulders stiff, trying to look natural and casual. “The kids are great.”
“So’s Quinn, right?” August elbows me in the ribs. “You should ask her out.”
I freeze and issue him the wintry look I usually reserve for chewing him out when he’s slow on defense.
“What’d you say to me?” I ask, my voice low and cool.
