I don’t have a reply to that, as she’s not wrong.
Common sense dictates,You’re injured. You have no control over that, and no one’s condemning you for it. But my heart—fuck it—that little boy who carried the weight of his family on his thin shoulders too soon,who understood only the principle of “You don’t work, you don’t eat,” can’t accept not being in control of this.
She rises from the floor, effortlessly fluid and still elegant in ripped skinny jeans and a tight gray long-sleeve T-shirt boasting across her breasts a jacked golden-haired anime figure in orange pants and a blue belt. I adore this about her. Whether she’s dressed in leather and a corset or one of her beloved anime shirts and jeans, she’s confident, comfortable in her skin, in her innate sexiness. Hell, Miriamissex.
And as she crosses the short space that separates us, stopping in front of me, then kneeling between my spread thighs, my breath snags in my throat.
Fuck.
I curl my fingers into the cushion next to my legs, scrambling for the physical purchase that has eluded my mind. Heat pumps through my veins, so hot the air in my lungs transforms into steam. Unbidden, images of another time, another night when she knelt in front of me, flash across my mind. Then, I’d been allowed to tunnel my fingers through the coarse but soft strands of her hair, to scratch my nails over her scalp. To cradle her in the V of my body. My thighs tense, the dull echo of pain pulsing down my right leg ...
Don’t you dare move, I silently order my body. More specifically, my dick.
Miraculously, I remain still. But goddamn. What is she doing?
She answers my question. Not with words, though.
Miriam presses closer, closer still until her breasts press against my abdomen ... and her arms wind around my back.
I exhale.
And wrap mine around her.
Closing my eyes, I nuzzle her curls; the earthy, sultry scent of cinnamon with a sweet hint of vanilla teases me. And for a self-indulgent moment, I permit myself to get lost in it as well as in the crush of her flesh to my body, in the gentle yet strong clasp of her embrace. I ignorethe protest of pain in my thigh, and I shift my legs closer, returning that hold.
“What’s this?” I murmur.
“Growing up, Zora, Levi and I didn’t know what it meant to have a safe space to express ourselves. To voice how you felt—especially for Levi—meant ridicule. And with my father, a side dish of scripture and an unsolicited definition of ‘being a man.’” Her arms squeeze me, once, before loosening but not letting go. Nor does she remove her ear from my chest; she doesn’t tip her head back, instead seeming content to speak without our gazes connecting. “I want to be your safe space, Jordan,” she whispers. “Now, without having to look at me, tell me the truth. What are you afraid of? Truly afraid of.”
I swallow, burying my face deeper into her curls. Hiding. From that question. From the truth.
From the persistent need to purge myself.
A need I surrender to because this is Miriam. And though what she incites in me is too unfamiliar, too terrifying for her ever to besafe, I can deny her nothing.
“This—basketball—isn’t just about me. When I first started playing, yeah, it was. It, along with my books, provided an escape from the loneliness when my mom worked one of her many jobs or the fear and anger when she dated one of her asshole boyfriends ... or broke up with them. Basketball offered me the dream, the hope of one day leaving the shit places we lived, of being able to give my mom more. To take care of her like my bastard of a father could never be bothered to do.” I clear my throat. “But when I got to college, it hit me that ball could no longer be about what I needed. It had to be the way I took care of my mother, of her future. She sacrificed so much, being both parents, working herself to the point that she was too tired to cry. Now it was my turn to provide for her so she didn’t have to take on one more job that took and took from her and didn’t pay nearly enough back. Failure, Miriam, is not an option. And every time I’m on this couch, watchingmy team instead of playing with them ... every time I can do nothing but sit here with my thumb up my ass as someone else takes my place on that court, I’m letting her down.”
“Bullshit.”
“Excuse me?”
She loosens her hold on me and leans back, and I’m stunned by the anger tightening her lush mouth and tautening the skin across her high, sharp cheekbones. That same fury glitters in her narrowed eyes, and I’m caught between shock and an inappropriate, misplaced amusement.
Informing her that she looks like a pissed-off fairy right now would probably put my nuts in jeopardy.
“That’s bullshit. And I refuse to accept that you believe it.”
Again ... “Excuse me?”
“There’s not a damn thing about you that saysfailure.”
She pushes off me, jackknifing to her feet, and I immediately miss her warmth. If I hold still, I can savor the imprint of those perfect firm breasts like a brand. Flattening my palms against my thighs, I trap the heat of her in my skin.
So consumed with soaking in and entrapping that sensory memory, I almost don’t catch the rant happening just in front of me.
“One, you, a boy raised in a single-parent home in an economically depressed environment, graduated high school, entered college, and then beat the odds and made it into the NBA. Do you understand how incredible and statistically difficult that is? Only three in ten thousand, or point zero three percent.”
Pacing, she pops up a second finger, clearly on a roll because she’s breaking out the statistics.
