Slamdunked By Love (One on One #2) (5 page)

“Ooh, what about?”

“I can’t tell you yet.” Not till she’d gained some more info on dear old Dad to make the story especially explosive. To learn firsthand what a jerk he was. To get him to admit to what he’d done. Like abandoning his pregnant girlfriend with a stupid letter when he was about to turn pro because he didn’t want any “distractions.” Thinking a check for $5,000 would be enough to justify his actions. Never once mentioning that the kids he acknowledged weren’t his firstborn. And she knew the perfect way to make that happen.

T
he shot clock let out a strident honk. The screeching of sneakers and the bouncing of basketballs came to an abrupt halt. Practice was over. Thank God.

His chest heaving, Brady bent at the waist, grabbed the bottom of his shorts, and sucked in desperately needed air. He’d pushed himself hard today. His teammates, too. Losing wasn’t acceptable. Never would be. They
would
win their game tonight. They’d worked hard today. Harder than they usually did during a game-day, walk-through practice, but he was okay with it. Last night had been a much-needed reprieve. But it was time to get back to the grind. To remember why they were all there. To come together to win a championship.

You played hero ball
.

The accusation played through his mind for the millionth time since Caitlin, all five-two of her, had offered her opinion. Is that what he’d done? He trusted himself above all others. He’d seen a sliver of a path to the basket and taken it. Until the referee blew the whistle and assessed him a foul. Bullshit.

He was Brady Hudson.

It sounded conceited, and, okay, yes it was conceited, but it was also the truth. Everybody knew there was a star system in the NBA and the best players got favorable calls. It had been a close play, and he should’ve been given the benefit of the doubt.

That’s not how the referee saw it. You had a guy open in the corner.

More unsolicited wisdom from his outspoken pretend girlfriend. Brady sighed. Was she right? He’d told himself he was helping his team, doing what it took to win, but had he let his ego get in the way of a win?

A whistle blew, cutting through the endless loop of his going-nowhere thoughts. At least practice had been closed to the media. He didn’t want to answer any more questions about the game or his less-than-enthusiastic postgame comments that had ended up as the lead story on SportsCenter, the anchors shaking their heads at his bad attitude, wondering if his stint in Dallas would be over before it started.

The players came together in groups of two or three. Mack handed his ever-present clipboard to Frank, one of the assistant coaches, and clapped his hands together. “Good practice. I liked the hustle I saw today. Our zone defense needs some work, but it’s getting there.” He swept his all-seeing gaze down the line, stopping to rest on each player for a second—more than a few seconds on Brady. Was Coach going to mention the last play of the game? Brady met his eyes directly. He wasn’t afraid. He couldn’t be afraid.

His teammates were watching.

Mack continued down the line, and then nodded as though satisfied with what he saw in his players’ faces. “That’s it for now. See you tonight.”

Brady joined his teammates trudging off the court toward the locker room.

“Hudson.” Coach.

Brady stopped and let the others pass, ignoring their curious looks. Especially the ones filled with barely concealed glee.

When the double doors slammed behind the players, assistant coaches, and trainers, Brady grabbed a towel from a rack at the edge of the court and wiped the sweat from his brow. “What’s up?”

Coach braced his legs apart and crossed his arms across a wide chest. He’d retired from the league fifteen years ago, but he still had the build of an active player. A white polo with the team’s logo on the right breast tucked into black warmup pants attested to that. “I gave you time to cool off and let you have fun last night.”

Brady’s grip on the towel tightened. “But?”

“About that play last game.”

Brady had expected to be summoned into Mack’s office immediately after the game, once the media had filed out of the locker room. He wondered what had taken Mack so long.

“Yes?” he said, pleased his voice came out steady. Mack was six-six, which meant Brady had to look up to him, but he did so without reservation. He respected his coach, but he wouldn’t cower. Not even when he suspected his eardrums would be ringing in a few seconds from all the yelling.

Mack sighed. “I understand what you were trying to do. I appreciate the competitive fire. But you have four teammates with you on the court. You don’t have to take it all on your shoulders. All you need to do to succeed here is keep your nose clean and play basketball.”

He wasn’t going to get his ass handed to him? Really? He’d take it. “Got it.” Brady used the excuse of wiping his face with the towel to exhale in relative privacy.

“Oh, but Hudson?”

He glanced up. And met Mack’s scorching glower.

“If you ever pull that shit again, your ass is mine. Believe that.”

Brady did. Mack had a completely deserved reputation as a hard-ass. A fair and intelligent hard-ass who’d forgotten more about the game of basketball than Brady could ever hope to know, but a hard-ass all the same. Brady nodded once and left the practice gym.

Most of his teammates had taken advantage of their head start on him and were already in the shower. He made his way to his locker and stared at the nameplate on the top shelf, his name etched in the Stampede’s signature purple. At times, he still found it hard to believe he no longer wore the Knicks’ blue and orange.

He was an arrogant son of a bitch. He knew that. Had never seen any problem with it. The NBA was a business. And the best way to succeed in business was to show up every day ready to work as hard as you could. And he’d done that. He was the best point guard in the league. That wasn’t up for debate. He had the records, the accolades, the awards to prove it.

Yes, he was the best. He demanded the best from his teammates. The other players could either get with the program or get the hell out. They respected him, even if they didn’t necessarily like him, something that had never bothered him much.

Until the day he’d been told to get out. Because the team had stopped winning. And he’d made a perfect scapegoat. Especially after the punch heard ’round the world happened.

He’d found himself in his coach’s office facing the Knicks’ general manager, Jesse Waters. Waters didn’t like him because Brady had been there before him. He hated that when Brady spoke, people listened. That Brady’s opinion mattered to everyone in the organization. That important team decisions weren’t made until Brady was consulted.

“You’ve become a disrupting influence in the locker room,” Waters said, leaning back in his chair, shaking his head, his disappointment cloying in its fakeness.

Brady gripped the chair arms hard until the leather bit into his palms to stop himself from leaping up and strangling Waters. He couldn’t stand the sanctimonious prick. “Are you fucking kidding me?
I’m
the disrupting influence?”

“Yes. When you demand another player be traded, you’re disrupting.”

“Because Jenkins doesn’t know the meaning of loyalty. Of what it means to be a team guy.”

“Neither do you. You want to get rid of a guy with his skillset because he slept with your girlfriend, who you shouldn’t have been dating anyway. Team rules about not fraternizing with dancers and other employees weren’t enforced because no one wanted to upset the great Brady Hudson, and look what happened. It’s time for a change if we’re going to go to the next level.”

Brady spoke through gritted teeth. “I’ll take the team to the next level.”

“Hudson, come on.” Oiliness oozed in the words. “We haven’t been to the Finals in three years. The past few years, we’ve been knocked out earlier and earlier in the playoffs. Last year, we didn’t come close to making it. And our record so far this season, well, I don’t have to tell you what that is.”

“Maybe if you did your job and knew how to evaluate talent, we wouldn’t be in this mess,” Brady shot back.

The GM’s blue eyes flashed. “I can evaluate talent just fine. Your talent isn’t where it used to be. Deandre Baker is ready to step in as the starting point guard. You have no one to blame but yourself. Fighting with a teammate over a woman.”

“I already told you what happened.”

“Did you or did you not punch Jenkins in the locker room, which turned into the top story on SportsCenter?”

Brady wouldn’t defend himself. It didn’t matter. Waters’ mind was already made up. It didn’t matter that Brady’s skills hadn’t eroded. Waters had his new pet in Baker and couldn’t wait to exert his authority over the team once Brady was gone. He didn’t bother glancing at his coach, Ted Carson. Carson wouldn’t be much help. Not when he was concerned about holding on to his own job. Nothing shocking there. Number one rule of the NBA. Of life. People looked out for themselves first. Always. He’d learned that lesson over and over throughout his thirty years on Earth.

Brady had left the meeting and headed back to the locker room. He’d expected some backing from his teammates, guys he’d known and played with for years. He didn’t receive it. Oh, they’d paid lip service about being sad to see him go, but he wasn’t born yesterday. He thought if anyone would see past the bullshit, it would be his teammates. That they were coworkers and not bosom buddies had never bothered him, but no one had reached out to him. No one had stood up for him.

Now he was a member of the Dallas Stampede. The first time in eleven years he’d been the new guy in the locker room. His new teammates had heard the rumors. That he’d used the girlfriend thing as an excuse to get Jenkins traded. That he really wanted Jenkins gone because he was usurping Brady’s role as the best player on the team. That he’d divided the locker room. That he was a me-guy who put himself above the team. All bullshit. Pride had kept him from defending himself.

Brady dropped onto the bench in front of the locker and unlaced his high tops. He eased the shoes off and flexed his feet.

He simply wanted to win. Push everybody to be the best they could be. The only way he knew how to do that was with his play on the court. So he needed to get better. He would get better. There was no other choice.

With a resolute nod, he stood, stretched his back, and headed to the shower. Half an hour later, he exited the locker room and headed for the garage.

“Hey, Brady, hold up!”

He halted while the “fucks” started taking round-trip flights through his head.

Elise hurried up to him, breathless. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he answered with a forced smile.

“How was practice?”

“Intense.”

“Well, that should pay off tonight. The Jazz are on a three-game losing streak.” She stepped directly in front of him, clearly not giving a damn about personal space, and stroked his arm.

And of course, Maguire chose that moment to walk by. He didn’t stop, but he did shoot a disgusted look over his shoulder before he opened the door leading to the garage. Fuck.

Shifting his attention back to Elise, Brady shrugged and stepped back. “Maybe. Can’t take anyone for granted though.”

“Is your girlfriend going to be there tonight?”

His cell phone rang, offering the perfect excuse not to answer her. Even more so when he saw who was calling. “Sorry. I have to take this.” He stepped a few feet away, well aware that Elise was listening.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said to Caitlin.

“Let me guess,” she said drily. “Elise is there.”

“Got it in one.” He continued toward the exit. Thankfully, Elise headed in the opposite direction toward the team offices. When he was sure she was out of hearing range, he continued, “Ms. Caitlin. Couldn’t stop thinking about me?”

“Hardly.” The sniff was silent, but loud nonetheless.

A smile broke across his face. She was fun. And if he thought about her and the kiss that had ended their night, well, it was only because it had been so unexpected. And okay, he wondered if it had been as spectacular as his memory insisted it was. “How can I believe you when you called me less than twenty-four hours after we parted ways?”

“It’ll be hard for you I know, but put your pretty little head to the task and try.”

“You think I’m pretty?”

“I insult you and that’s what you choose to concentrate on?”

“That’s because I know you didn’t mean it.”

Grumbling emitted through the phone. Brady struggled not to laugh. This was exactly what he needed after a hard practice.

“We need to talk. In person.”

He stopped walking. She didn’t sound upset. A little nervous, maybe. “Okay. Where do you suggest?”

“My job. I can’t leave, but I want to get this taken care of ASAP.”

Surprise darted through him. He hadn’t expected that, but she’d hooked him. “Give me the address.”

Ten minutes later, he arrived at the building that housed the radio station WTLK. The woman at the front desk buzzed Caitlin, who came sashaying down the hall a minute later. She looked good. Not as dressed up as the previous night, obviously, but good. Great actually. The green of the sweater complemented the sienna tone of her skin and clung to pert breasts. Before meeting Caitlin, if anyone had asked him, he would have said the bigger, the better, but now… His gaze traveled up past plump lips, a small nose that was the definition of cute, to her big doe eyes.

“Brady, hi. Please follow me.” Her hips gently swung side to side as she led him to her office and shut the door behind him. “Is the fake girlfriend gig still open?” she asked with no preamble.

“Absolutely.”

She nodded. “Great. I want in.”

Just like that? Yeah, there was more to the story than her wanting to help him out. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“You need a favor.” Her chin lifted. “And I need a favor.”

Now they were getting somewhere. “What kind of favor?”

“I produce a radio show that’s about to go into syndication. To kick it off, we need a guest with a name.”