Page 38 of Forced Proximity

‘Not bad.’ He takes the ball and bypasses me for a jump shot.

My pulse starts a slow steady beat in my chest. I grab the ball and dribble. The metallic thud of the ball hitting the court activates my muscle memory. I stare at Justin – my opponent, my nemesis – dribble a few steps and anticipate my workaround.

The ball always holds power. A magic orange entity representing a team, being part of something bigger than myself. The court was the one place where I belonged. Socio-economic status did not matter. Even in the blazing California summer sun, I can almost hear the fans cheering and the shoes squeaking on the gym floor.

I dribble, spin and land a jump shot. The rush simmers in my veins.

‘Damn, Doc.’ Justin grabs the ball with a grin.

The amount of satisfaction I’m feeling right now is for the record books. If it wasn’t ninety degrees, I’d do this all damn day.

My body is alive. A friendly one-on-one holds almost the same intensity as a real game. My adrenal glands cannot distinguish between the dribbles, sounds and the drive to land my shots. My brain analyzes Justin’s footwork and movements in micro-seconds. I bolt, execute a hesitation crossover and knock him off his game. Oh, this feels good. So good. I’m going to burn the image of his surprised look into my brain.

He plays tight defense, though, and presses a hand on to my lower back. Good thing we’re competing, because I’m pretty sure this would send all sorts of unwanted signals. But right now, all I see is the net. Mostly. My need to protect him vanishes. On the court, I’m no longer his bodyguard. He’s my nemesis and the only thing standing between me and a win.

He steals the ball from my hand and my jaw snaps tight. ‘Shit!’

The need to get the ball back flares inside. When he misses the layup, I yank it mid-air with lightning speed and make a jump shot. He pitches, misses and I dive in for the rebound. Sweat beads on my forehead, and I swipe it with my arm. Dribbling between my legs, I cross the court, decelerating to catch my breath. ‘10–8. I do believe pretty boy is getting beat by a girl.’

He chuckles. ‘Are you trash talking me?’

God, he’s cute. Like, seriously cute. Yes, of course he’s gorgeous, but this teasing twinkle in his eye, the sun warming his face, the way he’s bumping into me … He pushes his body next to me, touches my arms to block, and my breaths increase. Shoes squeak, grunts and noises that mess with my mind, but I shake it off. My momentum builds. Heartbeats pound in my chest. And then, the sweet, sweet swoosh sound from a three-point shot kisses my ears.

‘15–13. Time out.’ He plants his palms on his knees and sucks in air. ‘Water break. I’m hot as fuck.’

God, me too. I readjust my ponytail and tuck in my sleeves.

Justin whips off his tank, his stomach muscles clenching with each heavy breath. Christ. And I thought his arms were phenomenal. Exactly how many planks and sit-ups does one need to do to get those ridges? His perfectly sculpted, naked chest gleams. Sweat beads roll down the groomed chest hair. Tight obliques contain his formed abs, leading into the most perfect V at his hip bones.

Stop. I bend over to tie an already laced shoe. ‘Break’s over. Let’s finish this up.’ I slap the ball and perform a perfect hesitation dribble. Unable to keep up with my flash pivot, I go in for a basket. “Tie.”

‘You know, you’re pretty good.’ He brings the ball to half court and lines up his shot. He pushes forward for a layup but fakes the move and lands a three-pointer.

‘Dammit. You win. This time.’ I say, catching my breath. ‘Next time, I’m not gonna feel bad and let you win just ’cause I’m your bodyguard.’

‘Mmm hmm. Sure, Doc.’

I lift the bottom of my shirt to wipe my brow, and … is he looking at me … like that? Justin’s gaze burns into my navel before he turns. And now my pulse thuds again. That was a look. I’m pretty damn sure. But I’m rusty as hell in this department, and even if it was a look, there’s jack shit I can do about it. He’s a client. I yank my shirt back down, reattach my firearm and follow him into the house.

Inside, Zane’s at the kitchen counter, scrolling through their phone. ‘Why are you two sweaty? And why isn’t Justin wearing a shirt?’

‘Just a little one-on-one,’ I say between water gulps.

Zane scrunches their nose. ‘Is that a code for sexual hetero activity?’

‘Basketball,’ Justin groans. ‘I’m adding this to your file. Any day now I’m going to have enough to fire you.’

‘You’d be lost without me.’ Zane grins, then shifts focus on to me. ‘Okay, Doc, I’ll send the calendar notifications, but here’s the overview. Tomorrow, studio meeting with the AD. Anthony and management team meeting at two. Thursday, Jack will escort Justin to morning doctor appointments, followed by a late lunch appointment here with Justin’s lawyer, Erica. The chef will come in and cook for that one, so expect an extra body.’ Zane taps the screen. ‘And Friday, going to The X in West Hollywood.’

My ears perk. ‘What’s The X?’

‘It’s a nightclub.’ Justin tugs his shirt back on. ‘You’ve been to one before, right?’

I roll my eyes. ‘Yes. But three days is not a lot of time for me to scope their security protocols. I have to review their guidelines for concealed carry. There’ll be excess noise, crowding, alcohol, potential drugs. I need to check their house security and possibly do backgrounds on the bouncers. I’ll make some calls this afternoon.’

Justin’s mouth drops. ‘You’re like the grim reaper of fun.’

‘I’m not—’