Total pages in book: 40
Estimated words: 37344 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 187(@200wpm)___ 149(@250wpm)___ 124(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 37344 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 187(@200wpm)___ 149(@250wpm)___ 124(@300wpm)
“All right,” Coach says. “Get into your position groups and run the drills your coaches tell you to run. It’s a new year and everybody’s starting with a clean slate. I want to see what you’ve got before I start thinking about shaping the final roster and doling out minutes. Let’s go.”
The huddle breaks and everybody heads over to their position coaches. Kneeling down, I tie my shoes a little tighter, wanting to make sure I’m strapped up good and tight just in case Coach has me run one-on-ones against Eric. I want to be at my best.
“Ben. Hey, Ben.”
I look up to see a man in khakis, a blue polo, and white sneakers walking toward me. He’s maybe six feet tall, a little soft around the middle, and probably in his early forties. He holds his hand out as I get to my feet.
“Graham Driscoll. I’m with the team’s PR department,” he says. “We’re really glad to have you on the squad this year, man.”
“Glad to be here,” I reply as I shake his hand. “What can I do for you?”
“We’re so excited to have you here, and we want the people of LA to get to know you too. You’re going to be one of the faces of the franchise.” He sounds overly excited. “To get the ball rolling on your coming out part, we’ve set up an interview for you with the team’s beat writer.”
I know being in the media spotlight is part of the job. Exposure comes with the territory. But it’s the part of this gig I’ve always hated the most. I’ve never liked the spotlight. I don’t like having to do interviews or sitting for post-game pressers. I know people want to hear from the players. They want to hear what we have to say about why we succeeded or why we failed. But I’m here to play. I’m not here to talk about it or dissect my play.
I give him a smirk. “Gee, I’d like to, but I have a position meeting—”
“I’ve already cleared it with your coaches,” he replies with a grin, obviously knowing I’m trying to weasel out of the interview. “Come on. Get into the press room. The city of LA wants to get to know its newest superstar.”
Eric is standing on the baseline underneath the basket on the opposite end of the court giving me an icy glare. One of his buddies steps over and says something that makes him smirk. He shakes his head and turns his back on me.
I turn to Graham. “I don’t suppose this is optional?”
“Not even a little bit. Go. Press room. Now.”
With an irritated sigh, I turn and walk off the court, feeling Eric and his minions staring daggers at me as I go. It’s all I can do to not turn around and give them the finger. Insecure people annoy me. I manage to keep my cool though and head down the hallway that leads past the dressing rooms, hooking a right and making my way to the press room.
The sooner I get this over with, the sooner I can get back on the floor.
People think a basketball court is a basketball court. That they’re all the same. They’re not. Every rim is different, and the ball comes off it differently. Plus, every arena has its quirks of design—the position of the lights, the seats, even something like the position of the scoreboard varies from venue to venue—and you have to account for how all those quirks are going to affect your shot. Which means I need all the practice time on the floor I can get. Which also means I don’t have time for this silly shit.
I open the door and step into the press room, ready to tell the beat writer I can give him five minutes. The words die on my lips and I freeze in place, half in the room, half in the hallway, my hand on the doorknob. My heart stutters drunkenly, and I feel a warmth that starts in the pit of my belly and quickly spreads through every cell in my body.
My cock twitches and starts to thicken, and I have to tear my eyes away from her and fight every urge flowing through my body to keep from getting rock-hard in front of her.
“Ben Givens,” she says with a smile that lights up the entire room. “I’ve been waiting a long time to meet you.”
Her voice pours into my ears sweeter than honey. Her toned and shapely legs look a lot longer than somebody who stands just five-three, and her rich auburn hair contrasts nicely with her cool, milky-white complexion. She’s young, with a thin waist, and full breasts, and looks at me with eyes that sparkle like polished emeralds. She’s an absolute stunner.
“You’re the beat writer?” I ask.