I start toward the door, but Clay grabs my hand.
“Meet you there in thirty,” he calls out the door.
“The sight of Michael wound you up?” I murmur under my breath.
“Not Michael,” he replies.
“No. Now!” Rookie says.
I bite my lip as I take in Clay. Then I turn back to the team. I smile and try for generous. “Give us fifteen.”
They holler and laugh, and I shut the door.
“Fuck fifteen,” Clay growls, lifting me under my legs and carrying me to the bed.
“You can’t work that fast?” I murmur.
“I don’t want to. I like having you in my room.”
“Pretty sure it’s our room.”
“I’ll call it anything you want as long as you’re here with me.” He sets me on the bed, tipping my chin up, and I spot the notebook I made for him on the nightstand.
“You still have that?”
Clay follows my line of sight and coughs. “Yeah. It helped me when you weren’t here. It was like having a piece of you. When things get dark, I think about your light, and it gets me through.”
I’m overwhelmed. Every cell in my body is about to burst.
Knowing I helped him get through, even in some tiny way, fills me with gratitude.
“You almost had a triple-double tonight,” I say, unable to stop the smile.
“That’s it, baby. Talk dirty to me.” He yanks down the zipper on my dress and tugs the fabric over my head.
I shift to kneel on the bed, giving him a view of the lingerie I put on after the game as I peer up at him from under my lashes. “You went off for thirty-two.”
“Fuck, I’m about to go off for more than that.” He grabs the front of his shirt and rips off the buttons.
A thrill races through me as I take him in, his gorgeous body, his feral intensity.
He presses his thumb into my mouth and against my tongue as I drag down his pants. He’s already huge and hard, and when I suck on him, he groans.
“Fourteen rebounds,” I whisper, releasing his thumb and shifting my attention to the obvious thing between us.
Clay was a superstar tonight. He did what needed to be done for his team and millions of people.
After the game, when the door closes, I’m the one here with him.
Well, me and Michael anyway.
I wrap my hands around Clay, needing to feel him. I lick around the head of him, a bead appearing immediately at the tip. I’ll never get over how insane it is that I can make him feel this way, that I’m the one he looks at as if he needs me more than air.
“Nine assists. If you’d helped out just one more time…” I tease lightly, only because he just won.
Clay grabs my chin and drags me up until our foreheads are pressed together. “Consider this the tenth.”
He drops me back on the bed and spreads my legs. He’s ravenous. Before long, I’m coming, my body tightening with pleasure until I’m gasping.
“That fifteen minutes?” I pant as he shifts over me.
“No.” He runs a hand down my body, caressing my breast, gripping my hip.
I soak in the sight of him, his scent, the rough sound of his voice.
“You didn’t check the clock,” I point out.
He sinks inside me and fills me so completely I can’t speak.
“Everything else will wait.”
“For you?” I manage with a smile.
His eyes lock with mine. “For us.”
WESTERN CONFERENCE FINALS
LOS ANGELES
30
CLAY
We roll up to LA riding a high, having won our first two series, doing what the oddsmakers said we couldn’t.
Only now, we’re staring down the barrel of the defending champions—in their building. Kyle’s still out and my knee is questionable.
There’s no mistaking we’re underdogs as we take the court.
The first quarter is like watching a car wreck.
Atlas gets caught in the perimeter where he can’t shoot or guard.
Jay gets double-teamed by bigger guards.
Miles misses his first four attempts from deep.
Rookie tries unsuccessfully to take the ball into the paint, only to get turned over by more experienced guys.
If I questioned how much trouble we’d face in LA, now I have my answer.
The Kodiaks were going in like David versus Goliath, and Goliath steamrolled us.
Forty-eight minutes of scrappy game play leave us bruised and bloodied.
In the locker room, my guys are deflated.
“If we’d had Kyle…” Rookie starts.
“Kyle doesn’t give a shit,” Jay replies.
“They’re too good.” Atlas shakes his head.
“Don’t put this on them,” I interrupt as I change my shoes. “You want to look at what to fix, you look at us. We let them do this.”
I kick my locker and stalk out of the locker room to cool off.
Harlan’s pacing the hall.
“You want to say something?” I call to him, and he stops.
“It was a good run. You took this team farther than we had any business going. It’s been a rough couple of years, and you’re showing up as professionals. You put the team ahead of yourself, and that’s all I can ask.”
I stare down the tunnel toward the lights.
No.
We’re not giving up.
I pull out my phone and text Nova.
Clay: Do you still have that flag?
I place a call, and twenty minutes later, the entire starting lineup plus Harlan is piling into a limo.
“Where we going?” Rookie asks.
“It better have a drink,” Atlas grumbles.
Nova and Brooke tuck in too, Waffles in Brooke’s lap.
The mood is rough. When we pull up in front of our destination and pile out, the guys eye the business’s sign skeptically.
I hold the door, and Nova leads the way, everyone heading inside. I shake hands with my artist.
“Was wondering when you’d be by for your next tattoo.”
I hold up the flag and point at the bear in the center. “I want that.”
“Where?” Jay asks.
I tug my shirt over my head, pointing to an empty spot on my chest next to my heart.
“Been saving a spot. I thought it would be for when I won the championship, but I was wrong. It was for this team. Because I’ve played ball a few places, but nowhere like this one. This team makes the most of what it’s given. This team fights, even when it’s hard. This team looks out for one another, on and off the court.”
I take my seat, my gaze connecting with Nova’s as the artist starts his work.
A throat clears.
Jay.
“Yeah, I want one too.”
My chest expands. I hold up a fist, and Jay bumps it with his.
“And me.” We both look over to see Rookie eyeing the banner.
“You mean like a little baby bear?” Miles drawls.
Rookie shoulder-checks him, and Miles only laughs.
“And me.” Miles.
“I’m shocked you’d want a tattoo of something other than your own face,” I say.
“Haha. There are things I love as much. Sorry, Waffles.”