Page 15 of Playing Dirty
Gone.
Blank.
Exhausted.
Not dramatic exhausted.
Not athlete tired.
Something heavier.
Then he noticed me watching again.
And just like that, the mask slid back into place.
Weird.
Practice finally ended twenty sweaty years later.
Players scattered toward the locker rooms while managers cleaned equipment around the court.
I started organizing my notes when someone dropped into the seat beside me.
Mason.
Sweaty.
Annoyingly attractive.
Breathing hard.
“You know,” he said, grabbing a towel from around his neck, “most journalists try not to publicly assault the people they’re covering.”
“I used one finger. Hardly assault.”
“Still hurt my feelings.”
“You seem resilient.”
He laughed quietly, rubbing the towel over his face.
Up close, he looked exhausted.
Not in a normal way.
There were dark circles under his eyes I hadn’t noticed at the party. Slight tension in his jaw like he was clenching his teeth constantly.
“Practice always this intense?” I asked before I could stop myself.
Mason leaned back in the chair beside me.
“You asking actual basketball questions now?”
“Don’t ruin it.”
“Coach gets worse before conference games.”
“That seems healthy.”
