SNEAK PEEK of "In The Zone"

Book 3 in the 6th Man Series

Here's the entire FIRST CHAPTER for my next book. In The Zone will release on Amazon on 12/31/2024 in Kindle and KU versions. Paperbacks will be coming later.

Spencer

Spring Upshot Tournament, Arizona

Every athlete lives for The Zone: that space you go to where you can do no wrong. The world around you warps so there’s nothing but you and the ball. Your opponents exist only in the way that a mirage exists in the desert, feeble and wavering without fully forming.

The Zone is elusive. Fickle. Some might even say: temperamental. You can do everything the same, follow all your pre-game rituals, be the most superstitious player out there, and still… the zone can elude you when you need her most.

Other times, you slip right in without realizing that’s what’s happening. You step onto the court or turf or diamond or ice—whatever your playing arena might be—only to wake and find you’ve broken records. You’ve scored more, played harder, gelled better with your teammates than anyone thought possible.

The Zone? She’s the Prom Queen, Miss Universe, and Virgin-Next-Door, all rolled into one blissfully charged moment.

Maybe that’s why I’m not prepared for the defensive player as he barrels around the screen JP had set; I’ve confused this moment for something it wasn’t. My arrogance had me believing I’d shifted from my normal level of playing into that elusive “Zone.”

The arena is packed with fans from both schools as we compete to advance in the Spring Upshot Tournament. It’s like someone jacked the volume to a level one hundred only to immediately tap the mute button. In the blink of an eye… for a split second… silence. Blissful, easy… silence. The play progresses seemingly in slow motion in my lulled state.

And then?... Someone presses the fast forward button and the world comes crashing into me, literally. The last thing I hear before everything darkens is a sharp crack. The last thing I feel is a blinding pain shooting up from my ankle.

I hear the muffled sound of a whistle blowing but it sounds far off, like a ship at sea announcing her impending arrival. And then, once again, my world goes silent. This time there’s nothing fortunate or pleasant about it.

***

“Grade Three Stress Fracture.” Not exactly the “Welcome back to the land of the living” I was hoping for, but there’s no mistaking the strain in Doc’s voice. The lead Athletic Trainer is the best in the field and has earned the title out of respect from every Franklin University Hawk who has donned a uniform or jersey. Possessing an eerily accurate sixth sense in all things of the body, his word is gold.

Right now, though, I wish there was even a flicker of uncertainty in his tone. Some sign that the excruciating sparks shooting from my foot up my leg and spreading throughout my entire body are more likely phantom pains.

Phantom from what? I don’t know. And honestly? I don’t care. All I care about is what this means for my career. My team is counting on me to get them through this tournament, and— with another year of eligibility—lead them to a national title next year. A broken bone anywhere in the body isn’t good for a basketball player. But a broken ankle? It’s been the kiss of death for more than one great baller.

“How bad?” I don’t recognize the gruff voice that speaks up, so it takes me a solid ten seconds to realize I’m the one speaking. Fluttering my eyelids against the offensively bright lights of the locker room, I work to open my eyes and look at the man who will determine my fate.

Slowly, the figures of Coach, Doc, and some of my teammates begin to take shape. I manage to take in the faces of Court Roberts— the team captain— standing next to Beau Stephens, Justin “JP” Parker, and Kyle “Hemingway” Moore before the throbbing in my head becomes too much to bear and I close my eyes again.

Or maybe I just don’t want to see the pity in their eyes.

Because in those few seconds I saw what no one wants to tell me: I’m done. Definitely out for the rest of the tournament, but potentially done-done. My career could be shot before it even takes off.

“I won’t know more until we take you to the hospital for x-rays, but it seems…”

“I’m not going to the hospital,” I interject forcibly. Doc opens his mouth to convince me, but I hold up a hand. “Is it broken?”

Doc shakes his head. “Technically, I can’t say for certainty, but it doesn’t appear to be broken. Per se. But a stress fracture of this magnitude isn’t something to scoff at.”

“If I sit the bench the second half, promising to go to the hospital immediately after the game’s done… will it get worse?” Doc’s eyes flit around the room, taking in the coaching staff, I'm sure. When he doesn’t respond, I continue. “If supporting my team from the bench won’t lead me to lose my foot, that’s what I’m doing. This is a team sport. Team. I’m part of this team.”

“Son, I really don’t think that’s the wisest course of action here,” Doc admonishes me. “The smart thing to do would be to take a ride on one of  the Gators the staff provides, get you to a hospital, run some tests and imaging… Get a full picture of what’s going on.”

I nod, acknowledging what he’s saying. “I’m sure that is the smart route. But I’m asking: will thirty minutes riding the pine keep me from playing next year?”

Doc shakes his head, admitting defeat. I’d smile, but the fact is, I’m feeling the weight of this injury already. On my body. On my scholarship. On my career as a professional basketball player. “There are no guarantees, obviously. Things could be far worse than we’re predicting. But I think, with some serious personal training and commitment on your part, you’d be back halfway through next year.”

Damn. Not exactly what I had been hoping to hear. Losing half a season is better than never playing again, but … it’s half a season! Of my senior year, no less. I let my head loll back, debating my options.

“Maybe…” A strong, decidedly female voice interrupts whatever Coach was about say. I swallow around the thick lump in my throat and open my eyes again.

The lights are clearly playing tricks on me because there’s no way Ryleigh-fucking-Simpson is here. Embarrassment floods my cheeks and I bite down the urge to snap at her knowing nothing good will come from it.

“What are you thinking, Miss Simpson?” Doc asks, gently pressing her forward so she’s no longer hidden by the lanky bodies of my teammates. As soon as she’s front and center, she’s all I can focus on. The blinding purple jerseys of my teammates melt with the backlighting of the overhead fixtures, casting a halo effect around Ryleigh.

Not that she needs any assistance.

Ryleigh’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. She’s curvy in a way Greek and Roman sculptors appreciated. She’s wearing the official uniform of the medical staff with her yellow polo shirt and pressed khakis, but I’ve spent enough time studying her, albeit from afar, that I’ve memorized each dip, each flare of her body. The way her shirt pulls across her chest only hints at the most incredible set of breasts anyone has ever seen.

You think I’m joking? I’m not. Even squished as they are in the sports bra I’d bet money she’s wearing – I know they’re full. A handful, minimum. I try to imagine holding them in my palms, feeling the weight of them as she hovers over me, riding my dick in a slow and torturous manner that would bring us both to the edge.

I force myself to stop thinking about fucking Ryleigh. Not just because it’s highly inappropriate and severely unprofessional, but because the blood coursing south just adds to the excruciating pain in my ankle. Instead I let my eyes drift up. Past her face, the features already memorized in my brain.

Up to her hair. It’s this obscure blonde color; one my mom would call “dishwater.” Her roots are darker than the tips—which are almost honey-colored. She has it pulled back tight into a high ponytail.

I’ve seen it down before. Once. Just before practice started last year. She’d been setting her gear up next to a table off to one side of the court. Large water coolers were on either side and she’d drag a portable ice maker along. The exertion of lugging all that crap must have made her work up a sweat, because she’d tugged violently at the elastic holding her hair up, causing it to fall gracefully to her shoulders where it ended with a blunt edge.

Almost like she’d sensed someone was close by, she’d quickly gathered her hair into a bun atop her head. But the damage was done. I can’t count the number of nights I’ve dreamt of her recreating that scene—only this time in the privacy of my bedroom. Or hotel room when we’d been traveling.

Then, just like now, I imagine what it’d feel like to run my fingers through those silky strands. To tangle my fingers in them, twisting and turning until they’re knotted securely. When I was sure we were locked together, I’d tug—gently at first, and then gradually increase the pressure. Ease her into the pleasurable pain of having her hair pulled in exactly the right manner.

I groan, temporarily grateful for my injury that masks my true feelings. Chancing a quick glance at my lap, grateful, even if just for a moment, for the pain I’m feeling. My brain may not be on board with Project: Stop Eye-Fucking Ryleigh but the signals can’t get past the wall of pain being… well, erected.

. “Yeah, Miss Simpson,” I bite the words out, forcing my naturally grumpy demeanor to rise to the next level. “What exactly are you thinking?”

Ryleigh squints her eyes in obvious irritation. It’s not a look she gives often or to many people. No, it’s one she seems to save especially for me. A sick part of me loves it; that even though nothing has ever happened, nothing ever could, we share something just between us.

She huffs and rolls her eyes dramatically, causing me to smirk at her. The guys don’t read too much into my actions though, since I’m not known as “Mr. Congeniality” on the team.

“I think,” she states, a sharp bite to her words, “that there’s a chance you might be up and ready to go for the first game next season.”

“Really?” I deadpan, this time the irritation in my voice isn’t contrived. I’d secretly hoped that she had better news. An article she’d read somewhere obscure about an athlete who came back from a broken foot in time to finish his season. With only a few weeks left, it was always a long shot; that doesn’t mean I wasn’t hoping for a miracle from the angel in front of me.

“Yeah,” she confirms, mimicking my tone back to me. “Really.”

“Are you serious?” I hear JP pipe up from somewhere behind her, but I don’t turn to find him in the crowd. Instead, I keep my gaze locked on Ryleigh, categorizing her features, learning what each tick means.

“Very,” she replies confidently. “He has the whole summer to work on his injury. If he’s as serious as I think he is…”

“More,” I interject, venom laced in the single word. I hate the small flinch she tries to hide, but I’ve been doubted and mocked most of my life for dreaming of going pro after college. No one in my family supports my dream; instead they actively ignore this part of me that matters more than anything else.

“Good. Then it shouldn’t be a problem getting you back on your feet, so to speak.” Ryleigh squares her shoulders so we’re face to face. Instead of intimidating me the way I’m sure she’d hoped, I feel another surge of desire for her deep in my belly. I bite my tongue to keep the words I want to say from spilling out and embarrassing us both.

“Good.” Doc speaks up, interrupting the moment in a way that I’m both grateful for and irritated by. “Very good.”

Something about Doc’s tone has me finally breaking from the visual lockdown Ryleigh and I are engaged in. My head jerks to look at the man in question; a bit too quickly, apparently, if the nausea and sudden spinning of the locker room are any indication. I grit my teeth and inhale deeply, pulling my stomach tight to keep from losing it all over my teammates.

“Miss Simpson, you’ll be responsible for getting Mr. Lawrence game ready by the first tip-off next year.”

Six months, I think to myself. Six months to get through the cast and boot phase, then spend the summer rehabbing before I can even begin practicing with the team.

“Six months? Sir, I’m not… that’s to say, I think…” Ryleigh flounders for the right words. I’m not sure if she’s worried about her ability to get me ready to play or about spending the summer with me. Either way, she’s clearly unhappy with the prescription Doc is handing us.

“Miss Simpson. Consider it an internship. An invaluable opportunity, so to speak.” Doc’s tone is sharp but not unkind. He levels his sternest glare on Ryleigh and a primal part of me flares. The sensation is made even more strange because if you had asked me to name people I respect most in the world, Doc would be at the top of that list. I’ve never questioned a word he’s ever said but in this very moment, I want to punch that stern look off his face for taking that tone with one of his student athletic trainers.

No. Not just one of his student staff. Ryleigh.

Luckily Ryleigh stays oblivious to the sudden turn in my mood. Instead, she blinks twice and swallows; I force my eyes to remain glued to the small movement in her throat denying the urge to let the drift lower. Nodding once, she shifts her position so she’s angled away from me. My teammates part, showing her the same respect they would Doc or any other athletic trainer.

With her back to me, I feel a sense of ease that this infernal moment is about to end. Without her there, watching my every movement, I drop my guard—and my eyes— blatantly staring at her ass as she makes her way to the locker room door. Where her tits are tempting, her butt is otherworldly. If I cupped her boobs, they’d fit neatly in my palm, but if I grabbed her ass cheeks, they’d spill over the sides of my hand. It’s high and tight, jiggling in time with each step she takes, putting more and more distance between us.

Just as she grabs the handle, she pauses. Tossing a sharp glance at me over her shoulder, her mouth twitches as she fights against the knowing grin I’m sure she wants to hit me with having caught me before I can lift my eyes. Instead she inclines her head once at me.

“Call me in eight weeks, Lawrence.” With that, she pushes at the door and makes her way through. Not bothering to look back, she throws a parting dart at me. “Not a day before.”