Deck His Balls (Spice and Seduction)

Chapter Two

Joel

I’ve been hard since waking up from another dream about her. The same one that’s been haunting me for months—Tricia in tiny shorts and a whistle, playing stern coach until the lesson turns into something decidedly not PG-13. I adjust my basketball shorts and check my watch again. 11:30 AM. I’m ridiculously early for our noon session, but after last night’s auction and this morning’s wake-up call, I needed to burn off some energy.

My heart’s still pounding from outbidding Trevor. Twenty grand well spent to keep that creep away from Tricia. After what he did to Caress… I grip my coffee cup tighter, forcing the memories away. Focus on now. Focus on her—preferably the real version, not the one who’s been starring in my X-rated basketball fantasies.

The community court looks different in winter. Steam rises from my second coffee as I watch neighborhood kids scrape frost off the bleachers, their laughter echoing across the empty court. I’ve been here since ten, shooting hoops to burn off the kind of energy that cold showers can’t touch.

Not that I’ll tell Tricia that. Just like I won’t mention my varsity career or the fact that I still hit this court three times a week at five AM in the summer and spring before heading to the office. Some secrets make life interesting.

My phone buzzes.

Caress:

Don’t mess this up, big bro. And thanks for dealing with Trevor last night.

I type back.

Me:

Shouldn’t you be resting?

Caress:

Shouldn’t you be focusing on not making a fool of yourself? Though after that white knight moment at the auction, you might actually have a shot.

Before I can respond, movement at the court entrance catches my eye. Tricia strides in wearing black leggings and an oversized Atlanta Dream hoodie, her dark hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail that swings with each step. My mouth goes dry. The auction dress was stunning, but this? This is the Tricia who’s been starring in my dreams for months.

“You’re early.” She drops her gym bag, eyebrows raised.

“Maybe I was eager for my lesson.” I flash her my best boardroom smile, the one that usually has investors eating out of my hand.

“Save that million-dollar smile for someone who buys it.” She spins a basketball on one finger, unimpressed. “Though I guess after dropping twenty grand last night, you can afford to throw it around.”

“Best investment I’ve made this quarter.” My voice drops lower. “Especially given the alternative.”

Her spinning ball falters for just a second. “Trevor’s an ass.”

“That’s putting it mildly.” The memory of his smirk makes my jaw clench.

“Hey.” She throws me the ball, hard. “I’m a big girl. I can handle creeps.”

I catch it easily, and her eyes narrow. Just a fraction, but enough. “Doesn’t mean you should have to.”

For the next twenty minutes, she runs me through basic drills, and I do my best to look like I’m learning. But it’s hard to focus when she’s this close, adjusting my form with light touches that send electricity through my skin.

“Your footwork’s not bad,” she admits grudgingly. “For a suit.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Don’t.” But there’s a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “Ready to put it to the test?”

“What did you have in mind?”

She dribbles the ball slowly, deliberately. “One-on-one. First to twenty-one.”

“Sounds serious.”

“Oh, it is.” She steps closer, and suddenly breathing becomes complicated. “Let’s make it interesting.”

“I’m listening.”

“If I win, you walk away. No more surprise bids at charity auctions, no more showing up at my games with Caress, no more…” She gestures between us. “Whatever this is.”

The stake hits harder than I expected. “And if I win?”

“Then you get what you really came for. A date. A real one.”

“Deal.” I extend my hand, ignoring how my pulse jumps when she takes it.

The game starts fast. She’s quick, but I match her step for step. When I sink my first three-pointer, her jaw drops.

“Lucky shot,” she mutters.

By fifteen points each, we’re both breathing hard. She’s ahead by one when I get the ball for a final three-pointer. As I set up the shot, she moves to block—then crumples.

The ball falls forgotten as I rush to her side, my heart in my throat. “Tricia?”

She looks up at me, eyes dancing. “Guess you owe me that date.”

“You played me.” Relief and admiration war in my chest.

“All’s fair in love and basketball.” She grins, then accepts my hand up. “Besides, you’ve been playing me this whole time too, Mr. I-Need-Lessons.”

My phone blasts Caress’s custom text ringtone. I check the message and look up at Tricia, whose smile hasn’t faded.

“Jasmine’s finally having the baby.”

“What?” She’s already grabbing her bag. “We need to—”

“James is already on his way. Caress called him before texting us.” I reach for her hand without thinking. “He’ll be here in two minutes.”

She threads her fingers through mine and my heart stutters.

“For someone who just lost a game, you look pretty pleased with yourself,” I tease.

“Maybe because I suspect we both won,” she gives back, and I squeeze her hand gently. “Even if I had to fake an injury to make it happen.” Her laugh that follows echoes across the court as we wait for James, and I make a mental note to double my usual toy drive donation this year. After all, sometimes the best Christmas gifts come wrapped in basketball shorts and attitude.