“No, I’m not. But their agenda is winning the championship, which means ensuring they have a healthy player for the majority of the season. Yours is shortsighted. Play now regardless that you might be further injured and threaten your playing time. Which means leaving room for another player—and yes, I do mean Royce Carlisle—to use the opportunity to shine and prove himself to be Jordan Ransom two point oh. Is that what you want?”
I don’t even bother granting that stupid question an answer. Besides, I’m 97 percent sure he meant it to be rhetorical.
But damn. He’s right. I scratch my chest. That other indescribable, uncomfortable feeling that’s been tickling the underside of my ribs like an unreachable itch has been anxiety. Worry. Worry that if I don’t get my ass back to practice, back out on that court, soon I won’t have a position, a team to return to. That I’ll lose the organization and players who have become family these past years.
That I’ll be abandoned. Again.
Ignoring the groaning pain in my thigh, I stalk over to the bar, hating that my strides aren’t as fluid as normal. Scowling, I round thebar and jerk open the refrigerator with undoubtedly more force than necessary. I grab a beer and twist off the cap.
“If you wanted a drink, I could’ve gotten it for you. Doctor’s orders are to keep your leg elevated. A grade-two groin strain can become a grade three if you don’t follow instructions.” Cyrus parks his nagging ass on one of the barstools. Daniel follows him, and damn if I don’t feel fenced in.
“I don’t need a nanny or a waiter.”
I also don’t need either of them to tell me what I already know. This tear has damaged a significant percentage of muscle fibers. And every time I walk or try to pull my thighs together, I’m reminded of that fact. And that if I don’t take care, the injury can extend to most of my muscle or tendons. Yeah, their warnings are gratuitous when my too-vivid imagination and wake-me-from-nightmares pounding heart are always on call to do the job.
An image wavers in front of my mind’s eye like a flag snapping in an overbright summer sky. From one moment to the next, the picture changes, a mental camera shutter echoing in my head, gifting me with my own private showing. Gifting me ... or condemning me.
Miriam.
Miriam, standing on my private batting cage, stripping off her shirt and revealing those small perfect breasts with their mouthwatering dark nipples.
Miriam, crouched over me, my hands buried in her thick, roughened-silk blonde curls as she attempts to swallow my cock down her throat.
Miriam, beneath me, back arched tighter than an archer’s bow, nails digging in my back and her delectable ass cupped in my hands as I fuck her like the continued existence of all life depends on it.
All of these snapshots are as familiar to me as my own hand—the hand that’s become my dick’s homie, lover, friend since I’ve met her—because they’re the only things that beat back the nightmares. Insteadof jerking awake in fear that I’m a failure, I jerk awake, sweating, body strained tight, cock hard as fuck and staining yet another set of sheets.
The consequences of being in lust with a woman who permanently friend-zones you after sex so goddamn good calculus suddenly makes sense.
That’s burning-bush, parting-of-the-Red-Sea sex.
“Jordan?”
Shaking my head, I clear my throat. “You want something?” I gesture to the shelves behind me stocked with liquor bottles and glasses. “Another one of these?” I tip the beer in Daniel’s direction, even though I know he’s going to turn me down. Which he does with a shake of his head.
Cyrus waves a hand. “Whatever you’re drinking.”
After retrieving another ice-cold beer from the fridge, I slide it across the bar top toward him. Cyrus twists the cap off, takes a long sip, and then lowers the bottle, all while studying me in that unwavering manner they must teach attorneys in school. But I grew up with a single mother and three aunts with eight children between them. Under that kind of training, there’s no way I’m cracking under his stare.
“All right, I’ll leave you alone about your injury—for now. But that brings me back to my original question. Why did you lie to Miriam?”
“Oh shit, Cyrus. You’re like a dog with a bone. Worse. At least I can distract a dog with another bone,” I mutter. “Look, it’s not that big a deal. Maybe I just didn’t want her to think that I’m so pathetic that I need a constant flow of company because I can’t be by myself.”
Because I do. And I can’t. Well, I don’t want to.
Still, she doesn’t need to know that.
“Where’s the shame in admitting you’re in a vulnerable place? You two are friends, right? Isn’t this something you’d share with a friend? Unless ...” He cocks his head, that too-shrewd-for-my-comfort gaze narrowing on me. “Are you just ...?”
He doesn’t finish the question, but really, we both know it’s unnecessary.
I lift the beer to my mouth, forcing myself to meet his human-lie-detector eyes. Fortunately for me, concealing your emotions and the truth were survival skills learned alongside sounding out consonants and how to trade punches at recess without the teachers noticing.
“Remind me again.” I tip the mouth of my bottle toward him, squinting. “Not too long ago, wasn’t it you who said to me that you didn’t believe in relationships or love? Now look at you.” I spread my arms wide. “Wanting to ship your friends just ’cause you’re booed up. It’s so cute.”
“First, don’t ever saybooed upin the same sentence as me. On second thought, how about as a thirty-year-old grown-ass man, you just never say it? And two, while I might be in love with Zora, I do not see it everywhere. But since my memory isn’t failing me, I clearly remember you telling me not too long ago that you believe in the existence of love.”
“I also said I’m not settling for some half-ass shit that passes as it.”
