Basketball Babymaker Read online

  My mother always believed in fate and destiny, and if I’m being honest I thought she was a little bit absurd with it at times. Well, as fate would have it here I am now…here with him. My body overrun by goosebumps as I wonder if she had something to do with it from up above.

  “Thanks, mom,” I whisper under my breath as I try and stay calm.

  “What did you say?” Stephen says.

  “This is gonna be the bomb,” I say, trying to act all hip and failing miserably. He raises an eyebrow at me shooting me a curious look.

  “The bomb?” He gives me a look that says a girl that looks like me shouldn’t talk like that. Like I don’t know a bit of street slang, not that that even really qualifies. But street slang is built on quick witticisms, and I’ve got some for him of my own.

  “Bombs over the Bay Area,” I say, referring to the fact that he plays in Northern California.

  “I don’t follow.” His hands find his hips and I feel like I’m losing any confidence he may have had in me real quick. Then again, I don’t think he had any confidence in me so there’s nowhere to go but up. Stay positive and stay in control, Skylar. You can do this.

  “We’ve got the music rights to Outcast’s song Bombs over Baghdad, but we’re going to flip the script and have you shooting three point bombs, basketball style, from all over the court, showcasing your range, and then we’ll CGI that footage with some studio stuff and you’ll be quote unquote dropping bombs on the whole league.”

  Slowly, very slowly he starts to nod his head. “All right then. All right,” he continues nodding. “I like it.”

  And I like him…a whole lot more than he could ever know…or that he’s allowed to know.

  Just keep it professional, Skylar. Don’t fan girl out and don’t do anything that would risk dad’s company, relationships, or…my crazy chance of ever having a relationship with him.

  Not that that’s even the most remote of possibilities.

  CHAPTER 3

  Stephen

  “So Al’s got a daughter he never told me about?”

  One look at her and I can’t blame him, but on second thought why didn’t he trust me with that information?

  We’ve grown close over the years. And even though I’m thirty and he’s forty, I consider him my best friend.

  When I first came into the league ten years ago he was my age now. The shoe company I signed with had him put together my first commercial and it was instantly a success. People compared it to the Michael Jordan and Spike Lee commercials for Nike back in the late 80’s and early 90’s. They were that good, and it was all because of Al.

  We quickly filmed a second commercial my rookie year and our relationship grew. He became more of a father figure to me than anything else. I never knew who my dad was and I always just gritted my teeth and told people that was fine. And it was, until I met Al.

  “Stephen, let’s have you start out over here,” Skylar barks out.

  “I know how to ball,” I say.

  “I know you know, that’s why I’m not wasting anyone’s time and having you shoot the most difficult shots first. Straight to the hard stuff.”

  “You saying that shot is gonna be hard for me?” I cock my eyebrow and dribble over to my mark.

  She’s directing traffic like a police officer in a busy intersection at rush hour. All the guys are moving things and setting things up and she’s not even taking the time to lock eyes on me…and it’s driving me crazy.

  Finally her entire body stops. Her hands fall to her side as she squares up her little frame right at me, looks me dead in the eye, and shows me she’s got more balls than most guys. “I guess we’re gonna find that out right now.”

  Either Al told her how competitive I am or she figured it out. Damn right I’m up for a challenge, but little does she know shooting long range jump shots isn’t one that’s going to cause me to even blink. I got that down cold.

  But what will keep my eyes open all night is wondering how I’m going to make this woman mine.

  She turns to dole out some more instructions and I stop dribbling and shake my head. Make her mine? What am I thinking? Take her out on a date. Damn, my mind is already speeding ahead to walking down the aisle with this perfect woman.

  My woman.

  Not ten seconds later she’s barking out more orders. “Okay, Stephen…in three…two…”

  “Hold up.” I need to buy some time. She caught me off guard, daydreaming about her. “You just got here. You’re ready already?”

  “Just waiting on you. In three…two…one…”

  She brought her A game and I need to elevate mine to make sure I do the same because right now my head is spinning.

  “Action!” she yells, and I dribble over to my mark and launch up a long three pointer…which clanks off the back of the rim.

  “Let’s run that back. That was just warm up.” I feel my face heating. I never miss from this spot. It’s probably why she chose it. I bet her dad told her or she did her research and studied some film last night. Her dad is always prepared and I’m sure the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

  “Don’t worry if you can’t make the shot. We can put that in in post.”

  Are you fucking kidding me? This woman has nerve…a lot of nerve.

  “But what we can’t put in is more passion. You need to look like the game’s on the line when you go up for the shot. More emotion, Stephen…and don’t fake it.”

  She’s not going to be faking anything when I make her scream out my name when I’m on top of her pleasing her like no other man ever has. My fingers grip the ball so tight I could swear it’s about to pop. The thought of another man being with her has me pissed the fuck off. I don’t like that idea…at all.

  It only reiterates the fact that I need to make her mine now. Proto. Yesterday.

  But if she’s filming now she’s probably flying all over the place. I bet she flies out of here tonight, or maybe tomorrow if I’m lucky. A young director of commercials? Surely she’s in high demand. And I’m going to demand that I see her again…if I don’t stop her from leaving my sight right now. I could wife her up this very moment and retire her immediately. Just put her in my house and fill her up with my babies.

  What. The. Fuck. Are. These. Thoughts. In. My. Head?

  “Let’s go!” She leans in closer, clapping her hands together. “In three…two…one…action!”

  I rise up, gritting my teeth as I focus in on the basket. My face is strained, even though it wouldn’t be in a real life game-winning situation. I practice for this constantly…been doing it my entire life, but I know I have to sell the emotion to the viewers.

  I release the shot and two seconds later it goes straight through the net.

  I nod my head, smirking as I turn toward her. “How’d you li—“

  “Cut! That was terrible.”

  “Terrible?”

  She moves in from out of the shot, storming right over to my mark. “Give me the ball.”

  I extend my hand, holding it from underneath. She grabs it from my palm with both of her hands before pounding it into the court and then acting like she’s taking the shot.

  “You see my face? My body language? My swag? Like that.”

  “That’s not how you dribble.”

  “Then show me, because we’re already running behind and we need to get this right, right now.”

  I move in closer, the closest we’ve been yet and I freeze. I smell something fruity, like one of those shampoos you’d find on the women’s aisle. I breathe in again, trying not to make it obvious that I’m smelling her. Yes, I’m smelling her like a feral beast.

  I can’t make out the scent. Is it apples? Strawberries? I actually don’t think…it’s either of those. It’s just something so sweet, so perfect and so feminine. Could this possibly be her natural scent? No way. Nobody smells like that.

  “Well, are you gonna show me?”

  I lunge for the ball but just as I go to take it she rele
ases her grip and it falls to the floor. I wasn’t expecting her cat-like reflexes at all. Not because she’s not fast or anything like that it’s just that I’ve got the fastest hands in the league and I don’t expect anybody to have faster hands than me. Not even a boxer.

  But she does, this time.

  My hand extends to where the ball was, but now it’s just her hand. My much bigger hand clutches for the area where the ball was, my mind still a split second behind, but all I get is her hand instead.

  I say “all” but it feels a lot more like everything than all. If I was disappointed not to get the ball before, that’s immediately gone.

  My hand is so much bigger it engulfs her entire hand and half of her forearm. And there we are…my fingers extending half way up her tiny, delicate forearm as our eyes lock in and neither of us says a word.

  I can feel the pulse from her wrist beating in my palm and my body’s rhythm immediately joins hers. Or does hers join mine?

  I don’t know and I don’t care. Either way we’re on the same wavelength and it’s absolutely instant and absolutely incredible.

  Another moment passes and neither of us moves.

  “We can change the lighting so he looks meaner, more aggressive,” one of her assistants yells out.

  “No, it’s fine,” she says softly.

  “Yeah, it’s fine,” I parrot. But what I really mean is she’s fine. F-I-N-E fine.

  And maybe I’ve been hearing too many of those jingles they play during timeouts because what rhymes with fine?

  Mine.

  And as our pulses beat in rhythm it’s absolutely clear that that’s exactly what she is.

  Mine.

  CHAPTER 4

  Skylar

  I sit in my hotel room running back the footage from earlier today on my computer.

  My crew is long gone, off to another project, and I’ve already submitted a report over to the agency who forwarded it to the shoe company.

  No word yet.

  Now comes the part of editing all this into the actual commercial. It’s way beyond my level of expertise, but what’s not beyond my level of understanding is how well this commercial is going to turn out.

  I’ve seen thousands of hours of raw footage in my short filming career, and I know how raw footage translates to the final product.

  The raw footage we got today is incredible, but only the stuff we shot after Stephen’s hand touched mine. Touched isn’t even the right word. Took my hand. Claimed my hand. The moment the two of us really connected.

  I lean back in the cheap hotel chair and it creaks loudly, but I barely notice it. All I can focus on is the footage on my computer.

  The way Stephen moves so effortlessly with that ball in his hand. The way he cuts on a dime, his body spinning and then launching a shot from those huge mitts of his.

  I’d sure like him to put those mitts on me.

  I feel a tingle in my body and my eyes lock up as my mind shifts from the computer screen to what’s happened right here in the chair without me even realizing it. Slowly, my eyes move down, across the desk, and onto my lap. I’ve slid the tips of my fingers into my yoga pants without even realizing it.

  I bought these tight, nearly compression, yoga pants to relax in at the end of the day. The last thing I expected is that they’d get my blood moving so much that relaxing is the furthest thing from my mind.

  But it’s not the pants. It’s him. And my subconscious desire, mixed with the very conscious one, has caused my hands to wedge underneath the fabric, something I’ve never done.

  Until now.

  Until my body needed to be touched so badly that my mind willed my hands down there.

  I continue staring at them. I can pull them out and go to bed like I should or I could…

  Thoughts of Stephen’s hands down there rush through my brain, but my brain can’t make a believable connection. The analytical side of me knows how big his hands are. I felt them. And there’s no way my imagination can conjure up the idea that my tiny fingers are the massive digits he uses to effortlessly palm a basketball.

  I’d sure like to let him palm a lot of other parts of my body though. My mind quickly wanders to him palming my ass, kneading my flesh in-between his fingers before bringing his hand down hard on my globes. He could slap both my ass cheeks at once his hands are so damn big. Okay, maybe not that big, but still…he’s just a whole other level of man.

  I jerk my hands from underneath my tights and shake my head from side to side. Quickly I move to the kitchen, pouring a glass of water and drinking the whole thing down.

  The clock on the wall reads fifteen after two in the morning. No way. I squint to make sure I’m not still daydreaming of him, but when I walk back into the living room and check the time on my computer it’s confirmed.

  I’ve been sitting in this seat since after dinner, which was at seven downstairs with the crew.

  They left for the airport at just before eight and I came up here to my room after so I’ve been sitting here for…six hours! Just staring at this incredible man for six hours straight? It’s a wonder I don’t have blood clots in my legs.

  I guess that’s because the blood is most certainly circulating through my body all right…thanks to him.

  I click on the play button, refusing to sit down, and watch as Stephen does his thing. I lean back, my first finger and thumb finding my chin as I just stand there watching my computer screen…watching him.

  “I really need to go to bed,” I mumble to myself, but my feet are stuck in quicksand.

  My phone on the table next to my computer buzzes.

  I look at it seeing a number I don’t recognize.

  How’s the footy?

  Footy isn’t just a slang term for football. In our industry it means footage, but what’s even more mean is that this man won’t let me go to sleep. It’s like he knows what I’m doing.

  Despite the fact that there’s no name shown and I don’t recognize the number it can only be him.

  Stephen.

  Got your # from your dad.

  Exactly. Of course you did.

  And now there’s no way I’m getting any sleep. The real question is should I pick up my phone and respond or just get back to him in the morning?

  I pace the room, not wanting to seem too needy.

  Why is he up at this hour? Doesn’t he have a playoff game tomorrow…or technically today?

  Ballplayers are all about schedules and keeping their bodies in rhythm. Well, he’s certainly gotten me out of mine. The question is have I thrown him off his?

  Screw it.

  I reach for the phone.

  Up late

  You too I see

  Work never sleeps.

  I feel ya. Addicted to the grind.

  Like the grinding my fingers were just about to do not more than three minutes ago.

  You’re gonna come see us grind out a win, right?

  I pause. Don’t have tickets.

  One will be at the front under your name

  Go to a basketball game by myself?

  I’ll be there.

  You’ll be on the court playing. lol

  Come down and say hi during shoot-around.

  When’s that?

  Couple hours before

  So that means I’m there four or five hours?

  Plus the time after when we get dinner

  My heart skips a beat. Is he asking me out? Is this just about business or something else? I mean I saw the way he looked at me today, but he’s a professional athlete. I’m sure there are girls literally throwing themselves at him. I know some woman know every hotel where road teams stay in each of the cities where the league has teams. Granted, I’ve never heard of Stephen being a player, except on the court that is.

  My dad tells me how disciplined he is and how much he’s practically like a son to him. I know they do things together and they go to dinners and such, but me?

  I have to be careful here. If I push for clarific
ation I could make this awkward. The last thing I need is to explain a weird situation I created with Stephen to my dad. Then again my dad wouldn’t grill me like that if something came up, but still. He’s probably just being nice, despite what I want him to be…which is on top of me enjoying me for desert after this dinner he’s asking about.