The Right Move (Windy City Series Book 2)

Morning shootaround was relaxed but filled with reporters waiting to talk to us the second we stepped off the court. I did my job, giving them enough of an inside scoop before I was back behind the microphone for pre-game interviews answering more probing questions.

This afternoon, I went home for a quick pre-game nap, finding Indy packing for another road trip. I was hoping she’d call out and give herself more time to rest, but she promised she was feeling like herself again. Her fever broke in the middle of night and the twenty-four-hour bug seems to have come and gone.

She freaked me out when I saw her at that party, clammy skin and sunken eyes. I didn’t realize she’d need someone to remind her to take care of herself, but I shouldn’t have been surprised. She spends so much time making others happy that I’m learning she tends to pass over her own well-being in the process.

“Shay.” Ron stops me in the hallway after I’ve finished my pre-game interviews. “We missed you at practice yesterday.”

He stands in his tailored suit, hand outstretched to shake mine.

“I’m sorry, sir. Indy was sick, and I didn’t feel comfortable leaving her alone. I know you have to fine me for an unexcused absence. I completely understand.”

“A family emergency qualifies as an excuse.”

“But she’s not my family.”

“Is she not? You live together. You clearly love her enough to miss out on time in the gym. I’d call that family. She’s good for you, Shay. You never would’ve skipped practice last season or any season before that.”

He’s not wrong. I wouldn’t have dared miss precious time on the court. My opponents sure as hell wouldn’t and how am I supposed to be the best if I’m taking days off while my competition is working hard?

But when Stevie called to tell me Indy was too sick to stand, I wasn’t thinking about my competition or the game at all. I was thinking about the blonde across the hall who I’d give up almost anything to take care of.

“As my boss, don’t you want me at practice?”

“I want you to have a balanced life, and for a player at your level, you’ve never had that before. I won’t lie, I was skeptical about the whole thing. I thought you were trying to pull a fast one on me, but I know you. You’d never give up time in the gym for a ruse. I like this version of you, Shay. Keep it up.”

My stomach churns with unease at the accuracy of his words. I knew Ron was suspicious of me and my fake relationship, and come to find out, the part where we weren’t faking it at all is what got him to believe in us.

The whole thing is starting to feel messy, and I hate a fucking mess. How much of it is even pretend anymore?

I care about Indy much more than I’ve allowed myself to care about anyone in years, and at the root of it all, it’s centered around me using her. It’s a sickening realization.

“Caroline was looking at the schedule, trying to find a road game she wanted to fly out for. The Raptors are going to be in Phoenix at the same time as us. Would Indy want to catch your game with us?”

“Oh. I’ll have to see if she’s free and if it works for her schedule.”

Yet another night I need her to use her. What the hell is she getting out of this deal? A wedding date to impress a group of friends that don’t deserve a second of her attention?

“But,” I continue. “She’ll be working, so I’m not sure if she can make it.”

“Of course,” Ron says, clapping his hand on my shoulder as we begin walking through the players’ tunnel to the home locker room. “I wanted to mention, there’s been a lot of chatter behind the scenes. I know it’s only January, but there’s only one name floating around for league MVP and it’s yours.”

I stop in my tracks. “No shit?”

“You act so surprised.” He laughs half-heartedly.

“I am. I didn’t expect them to consider someone from a non-playoff team.”

“We’re making the playoffs. At the rate you boys are playing? There’s no doubt in my mind. You’re doing good, Shay. You’re exactly who I needed you to be this season. A good return on my investment.” His phone rings in his pocket. He pats me on the shoulder one more time and finishes with a, “Good luck tonight, kid.”

It’s what I’ve wanted to hear all season, that he believes I’m the right man for the job. That’s what this whole ruse with Indy has been about, proving the team made the right decision when they named me as Captain. Sure, a lot of them still go to Ethan when they need something, but I’m two months away from getting us in the playoffs, something that hasn’t been done in the organization in years.

I allow Ron’s praise to wash over me as I warm up, and I carry his words into the game. I don’t necessarily need someone else to tell me I’m doing a good job. I know I’m doing a good fucking job. I’m on pace to break my personal records in both assists and points in a single season, but I won’t lie and say gaining the approval of the man who signs my paychecks isn’t a total ego boost.

It’s what I’ve been working towards. It’s what I’ve been lying for.

Middle of the third period, up by eighteen, the home crowd of Chicago fans electrifies the building. The boys have been playing great, completely in sync. No one is in foul trouble, and all our starters are hitting double digits in scoring.

If we can keep up the tempo, I’ll be sitting my happy ass on the bench for the entirety of the fourth quarter, as Leon takes over as point guard for the rest of the game.

My arms are covered in angry, red scratches thanks to driving the lane and the refs not calling anything. My body is sore from the constant fight to stay on my feet against guys way bigger than me. I’m quick, though, and can usually outmaneuver the punishing blows to my body. However, sometimes, I get caught in the middle of something that any other MVP nod would be given a whistle in order to stop the play.

Not me. I don’t know if it’s because of my size or that my fingers aren’t decorated in championship rings yet, but I’m rarely given the respect of a protective call.

Taking my time coming up the court, I hold my hand in a fist above my head, calling for a motion offense.

Our power forward sets a screen on the backside of my defender, giving me room to move before he rolls off towards the basket. I feed him the ball just in time for Ethan to swing around to the corner off a screen in the paint from Dom. The ball is kicked out to him, then passed to me, open at the top of the key where I sink a three.

The crowd erupts as we lead by twenty-one. Plenty of space for me to take the rest of the night off, and after staying up late, taking care of Indy, I couldn’t be more stoked to get pulled from a game.

“There he is!” Ethan shakes the back of my head as we jog back on defense.

“Jesus,” Dom huffs, running by. “You get laid or something? You just hit a triple-double for the second game in a row.”

I laugh, turning around to play some defense, wondering just how accurate that accusation is. I’m relaxed, that’s for goddamn sure.

Coach stands from the bench, edging towards the court and I know the second there’s a dead ball, he’s subbing me out.

“On your left!” Dom shouts and I tighten my defense on Memphis’s point guard.

I get so close to him that when their center tries to set a screen on me, I’m able to slip around his giant body, keeping me one step ahead of my opponent. Their big man rolls off his useless screen, and Dom is quick enough to get in front of him, knocking the ball and disrupting the pass.

I take off the second Dom gets his hand on the ball. Ethan picks it off, and just like that, we’re in transition with a clear lane from me to the hoop. Memphis’s point guard is hot on my trail, but Ethan passes the ball out ahead of me, giving me space to control it and get to the basket.

A quick glance over my shoulder confirms how close he is, so I give myself one dribble before I’m off my feet and putting the ball through the hoop in a self-assured dunk. Nothing too flashy, we are up by twenty-one after all, but just enough to snuff any hope of closing the gap on our lead.

As soon as my fingers grip the rim, I’m coming right back down. Sure, these fans paid for a show, but there’s a fine line between confidently putting the ball away and being a dick to a team now down by twenty-three.

I don’t see it happen.

I don’t see him coming because why would I expect another player not to slow down after I’ve already scored an easy bucket?

Memphis’s point guard barrels underneath me as I’m coming down, swiping my legs, and flipping me in the air. I watch myself falling headfirst into the hardwood, but I keep turning, sheets of color zipping past me, as I hope to God my body finds the right side up.

Somehow, the balls of my feet and my toes hit the ground first. The unprepared smack to the hardwood shoots a burst of sharp pain through my right knee. There’s an unmistakable pain in the joint and the immediate knowledge of what happened provides a deafening ring in my ears, even over the rowdy crowd.

My body is thrust forward, falling to the ground as I grab my knee, the pain shooting through me, my joint instantly throbbing.

And as I see the team doctor sift through a few rows of seats, running towards me, I know in that moment, I’m entirely fucked.