AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I laugh. “I’m going to take your word for that. What do you have in your idea bin?”
He chuffs. “My idea bin is dry as hell at the moment. I’m scrambling to come up with something interesting.”
“Right?” I reply with a laugh. “But I’m sure you’ll come up with something.”
“That makes one of us. Christ, I hate this time of the year. There is literally nothing going on.”
Preseason games are little more than glorified scrimmages. They're not something I enjoy covering because, in terms of game action, it’s sloppy and messy. Also, there aren’t many compelling storylines. The preseason is where the players get themselves tuned up for the regular season in the limited time they play, and the coaches are looking at everybody as they put their final rosters together and decide on the division of minutes among those guys who will be one. With only so many roster spots and game minutes to distribute, the coaches have a lot of decisions to make.
It’s the most boring part of the season, but it gives me a chance to build some relationships with people inside the organization as well as the players. I like to use the time to hone my craft and sharpen my skills. I guess you can say it’s preseason for me too. We all need practice, and I’m every bit as committed to being the best at what I do as players like Ben Givens are. Sports are in my blood, and I’m driven to be a great writer. But the preseason still sucks.
My thoughts turn to Ben. Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve spent time with the coaches and the players, getting to know them all and writing pieces that serve as a primer for the coming season. And I’ve been doing my level best to stay away from Ben.
He’s a distraction. Just seeing him from afar on the court can make me lose focus. He’s a beautiful man. But he’s more than that. There’s something different about him. Something that connects with me on a deep, cellular level. I don’t know what it is, but I have an intense physical reaction whenever I'm near him.
Even when I’m not at the arena, I find myself thinking about him. Often, it’s at the most unusual and inconvenient times. Just the thought of him and remembering that silver-blue gaze of his is enough to put butterflies in my belly and ignite a fire between my thighs. I’ve never been an overtly sexual person, but I’ve found myself fantasizing about him. And despite my friends thinking that I’m a prude, I’ve spent a lot of time getting myself off to those fantasies. I may not have any experience with a man, but I do know how to please myself.
I look at the clock and see that we’re about halfway through the fourth quarter. Quickly scooping up my things, I stuff them all into my bag and sling it over my shoulder.
“Not going to watch the end of the game?” Brad asks.
“I’m trying to stay awake,” I tell him. “I’m going to head to the floor and see if I can drum up an interesting story down there.”
“That’s not a bad idea, but I don’t feel like walking down that many stairs to get to the floor right now. If you come up with anything good, text me.”
“You got it.”
After throwing away my water bottle, I head out of the press room and take the back way down to the floor of the arena. I lean against the wall in the tunnel that leads to the court and watch the game from that vantage point as I rack my brain, trying to come up with an idea for an interesting piece to write. But waiting for inspiration to strike is often a fruitless exercise. Ideas don’t just magically drift down from the ether. Sometimes I wish they did.
I watch the game end and stand aside as the players start filing off the floor. I figure I’ll hit the press room for the post-game pressers and pick somebody at random to interview.
Maybe a conversation will spark an idea. A few of the players I’ve gotten to know greet me as they pass by, heading for the showers and dressing room. As I wait, I scroll through my phone, checking my texts and emails, and find nothing too important or pressing.
“Well, hey there, sweet thing.”
When I look up, I see Murray Lloyd, a point guard with Miami, tonight’s opponent, standing in front of me. The way he’s leering sets my teeth on edge and the way he’s looking me up and down, the tip of his tongue poking out of his mouth, leaves a greasy sheen on my skin. I glance around, and other than a couple of his teammates standing on the other side of the hallway, I’m alone.
“How you doin’?” he asks.
“Fine,” I say. “Excuse me, I’m late for the presser.”
I turn to go, but he puts his hand on the wall, barring my way. When I turn the other way, he does the same thing, laughing as he keeps me from leaving. At six-four and two-fifty, he’s a large man. A lot larger than me. I’m not a girl who’s easily intimidated, but I have to say that being trapped by a man this large is scary.
“Why don’t we go get some drinks after I shower,” he says. “After that, maybe we can go back to my hotel and?—”
“I’m going to pass, but thank you for the invite.”
“Come on, don’t be like that.”
“I have a job to do.”
“I’ll wait.”
“Don’t bother. I’m not interested.”
He reaches out to take my hand, and I pull back sharply. “Don’t be afraid, baby. I’ll be gentle with you. Promise.”
My heart thundering in my chest, I look around frantically, looking for somebody, anybody, who can see what's going on. There's nobody around. The adrenaline coursing through my veins pushes me toward panic as my fight-or-flight response kicks in.
