MacKenzie Decker’s arrogance is tailor-made, draped over him like one of his Armani suits. Fitted to his shoulders by years of fawning fans. Tapered to the broad, muscular back through myriad accolades, trophies, titles and championship rings. Perfectly fit to slide along the muscled length of his legs when he strides into SportsCo like he owns the place.

He could own the place. His net worth is no secret thanks to year after year on Forbes Highest Paid Athletes list. Most of his money comes from endorsements, not the lucrative NBA contracts he netted for twelve seasons. That smile. Those eyes. That body. His charm. Fifth Avenue served him up and Main Street feasted, making him a household name practically from the moment he was drafted.

He definitely doesn’t need this job. Maybe that’s what bothers me most.

He doesn’t need this job. I do.

He didn’t have to work to get here. I did.

Graduating at the top of my journalism class from Howard University, paying my dues on crowded sidelines, discarding modesty in locker rooms of naked men—I did whatever it took to get my own show. He just walks right in fresh from retirement like the party should start now that he’s here. My show is just a pit stop between his storied career and the Hall of Fame. It grinds my teeth that he sits in the seat across from me like it’s a throne. Like this is all his due and his kingdom. Like I’m his subject.

Yeah. That’s what bothers me.

It better not be the way his presence sizzles in the air like hot oil tossed into a frying pan. It better not be his scent, clean and male with an undercurrent of lust. Or his amber-colored eyes surrounded by a wedge of thick lashes. It better not be any of those things because I had a talk with my body this morning, and we decided by mutual agreement that I would not respond physically to this man.

“Decker, welcome!” Sadie says, her smile unusually bright and her eyes slightly dazzled. “We’re so glad to have you.”

That slow-building smile starts behind his eyes, quirks his sinfully full lips and creases at the corners. We’re roughly the same age, so he must be thirty-four, thirty-five by now, and the years have been oh so kind. If it hadn’t been for a career-ending injury last year, he’d still be balling.

“I’m glad to be here.” The voice, modulated and slightly southern, is that graveled rasp typically only earned by a few packs a day, except Decker is famously fastidious about what goes into his body, temple that it is. Nature just granted him that voice. I remind myself not to inspect all the other things nature awarded this man.

“You know Avery of course.” The look Sadie turns on me holds a subtle threat in case I’m feeling froggy this morning. Lucky for her I had my cold brew coffee. That stuff keeps me out of jail. I’d hate to meet me without it.

I extend my hand, which he immediately enfolds in his. It’s warm and huge. You forget how big these guys are when you watch them on television, but standing here in the well-toned flesh, Decker towers over me by at least a foot. He makes me feel small and delicate. I love feeling small and delicate . . . said no self-respecting sports reporter ever. Add that to the ever-growing list of things he makes me feel that I don’t like.

“Good to see you again, Avery.” He looks down at our hands still clasped.

“Yeah, you, too.” I wiggle my fingers for him to let go, and for a moment mischief breaks through his neutral expression, before he releases me and sits at the conference room table.

“Thanks for stepping in, Deck,” Sadie says. “How’s the penthouse suite?”

SportsCo has a great relationship with the luxury hotel across the street, often holding events and putting up guests there. I’m assuming Deck is staying in the penthouse while he’s with the show.

“It’s great,” Deck says. “Glad I don’t have to commute from Connecticut every day.”

“Well we wanted to make it easy for you. Let us know if you need anything.” Sadie hands us both folders. “Now did you guys get my email with the rundown of today’s show?”

When we both nod, Sadie dives into the details. I was prepared to be unimpressed. So many athletes assume because they played their sport, they know all sports and can just hop in front of a camera and it’ll be fine. Deck obviously didn’t make that assumption. He’s prepared. And I’ve seen him commentate since he retired. He’s good.

There’s a studied ease to him, a carefully cloaked intensity. People can’t always handle the passion it takes to do great things. I’m allergic to average and abhor mediocrity. That leaks into every aspect of my life. Type A. Driven. I’m not sure what you’d call it, but it’s all over Mack Decker, too. He was renowned for it on the court, the alpha dog leading his pack to victory by any means necessary. As we review the elements of today’s show, I look up more than once to find all of that intensity fixed on me. The dark gold stare pins me to my ergonomic leather seat. I make sure not to squirm, though it feels like, with nothing more than sex appeal and quiet tenacity, he’s holding me hostage.

“All good?” Sadie looks between the two of us once we’re done, but her query targets me. I know this because I know Sadie. I didn’t want Decker stepping in, but even I can’t deny his professionalism and competence. And obviously he’ll be catnip for our viewers. Every excuse to not want him here keeps melting away. Eventually I’ll have to deal with the real reason I’ve resisted him as a guest host.

But not yet.

“Yeah.” I scribble nonsense on the pad in front of me, one of the many ways I exert my abundant nervous energy. “All sounds good to me.”

Decker glances at the papers in front of him. “I’ll try not to lose my shit in the last segment when Magic Johnson comes on set.”

“What?” The word rides a laugh past my lips. “Are you serious?”

“I’m not allowed to lose my shit over the greatest point guard to ever lace up?” He leans back, lips twitching and arms crossed over the expanse of chest hidden beneath his crisp shirt.

“I’m glad you qualified point guard, not shooting guard, because we’d have a problem if you don’t acknowledge Jordan as Almighty Guard.”

Decker’s deep-timbered chuckle moves the muscles of his throat and slides over me like a lasso, roping me in and tugging me closer.

“I’m not having the Greatest of All Time debate with you, Avery.”

“Good because there’s no debate about who the GOAT is.” I toss my pen on the table like a gauntlet. “You tell me anyone other than Jordan, we got a problem.”

He expels a disdainful puff of air.

“Then we got a problem.” He holds up three fingers. “I got this many ahead of him.”

“Heresy.” I lean forward, salivating for a good debate with a worthy opponent. “Who you got?”

“Wilt, Kareem and Russell.”

“Three!” Outrage propels the word from me. “You got three dudes ahead of Jordan? Him at number four is just . . . I . . . I . . . just . . .”

“While she tries to gather her thoughts,” Sadie interjects with a grin and a glance at her phone. “I gotta take this. Thanks again, Decker. Let’s have a great first show.”

When Sadie leaves, there’s no buffer between me and the wall of fine ass-ness that is MacKenzie Decker. It’s the first time we’ve been alone since he faced me naked in a roomful of laughing men a decade ago. I clear my throat needlessly since I have nothing to say. I felt safe with Sadie as our chaperone. Now that it’s just the two of us, I can’t remember what we were talking about with so much ease.

“You were saying?” Decker watches me expectantly.

“Huh?” I stall and blank-face him. “What was I saying?”

“Greatest of all time?” he prompts, anticipation brewing in his eyes.

“I’ll have to school you later.” I force a smile, gathering the papers in front of me, tucking them into a neat stack and pressing them to my chest. “I need to review some tape from last night’s games before the show. See you on set.”

I walk to the door and wave over my shoulder.

“I never got to apologize properly for the towel.”

His words, injected seamlessly into our conversation, stunt my steps. We were doing just fine until he had to go there.

“What?” I turn to consider him warily, half-hoping he’ll let it go, but there’s no going back now. The polite façade has fallen away, baring his curiosity, his determined frankness.

“I said,” he pauses deliberately to make sure I’m hearing him clearly this time, “I never got to apologize properly for the towel. I know there was some teasing on the circuit afterwards.”

“It was a long time ago,” I reply stiffly. “It’s fine.”

“I reached out, but I wasn’t sure if—”

“I got the messages you left at the station.” I keep my tone neutral and project confidence. “Thank you.”

“But you never . . .” There’s a trail of silence after his incomplete thought.

“I was reassigned.” I shift my feet and glance into the hall beyond the conference room, signaling that I’m ready to be done with this conversation. “I knew we wouldn’t see each other much, so . . .”

I leave a trail of my own, shrugging and hoping we can conclude this.

“Your hair used to be curly.” A grin accompanies yet another abrupt shifting of gears. “We haven’t had a one-on-one conversation in a long time, but the last time we talked your hair was curly.”

“Yes, well—”

“I liked it,” he cuts in, stuttering my heartbeat and drifting a glance over my hair. “It’s still beautiful this way.”

He locks his whisky-tinted eyes with mine.

“You’re still beautiful.”

“Um, well, I—”

“We should grab a drink,” he says, further disconcerting me. “Or something.”

He drops his words from that night on me, when he wore nothing but a tiny towel and super-size bravado.

Humor and irritation war inside me at the shared memory before I get them both under control.

“Look, Deck . . .” I shake my head and trap my bottom lip in my teeth before going on. “It’s still a no.”

He opens his mouth as if he has more to say, but my rigid expression must convince him he really shouldn’t.

“Well, glad that’s all behind us.” The sorcerer smile, the one he must use to put people at ease, reappears. “I’ll let you go prepare. See you on set.”

I nod and turn on my heel, making sure to keep my steps steady and measured, even though I want to run back to my office before he decides to press the advantage I don’t want him to know he has.