Helen Liptak
Stef trudged off the court, wiping her face on her jersey. Deafening cheers reverberated through the gym, but not for her. Her single contribution, blocking one shot, didn’t deserve it. Their trainer, Cam, smiled encouragingly and patted her damp back as he passed her. She headed to where her date waited, tapping his expensive shoes. His nostrils flared.
“Congratulations.” Jonathon might sound supportive, but that telltale tic in his cheek proved otherwise.
“Not my best game,” she mumbled. “Playing like that won’t get me into the WNBA.”
He didn’t reach for her as she’d hoped, just laughed off her discouragement. “Dream big, I guess.”
What was that supposed to mean?
“Shall I wait in the car while you change?” He grimaced at her sweaty face and plastered-down hair.
She nodded.
Teammates called out as they went by, throwing envious looks toward the handsome man currently keeping her at arm’s length. If only they knew how high maintenance he was.
She took her time in the locker room. Transforming from sweaty, lackluster player to the flawless arm candy Jonathon expected wasn’t a quick fix. Especially when all she wanted was a trip to the local diner to gobble loaded fries.
“Don’t keep that hottie waiting too long,” Cherri, the long-legged point guard, teased as she curled her hair. “If you leave him unattended, I might just have to snap him up myself.”
Stef worked up a smile. Unlike her, Cherri had played an incredible game and was riding the adrenaline high of a flawless performance. And she was right about Jonathon. He was a shiny trophy women fought to possess, just maybe not her anymore.
She applied minimum mascara, swiped on some lip gloss, and checked the mirror. She’d do. Cherri left, looking like the hot-model-star-athlete poster child for the WNBA. Stef grabbed her gear and plodded after her toward the parking lot. She frowned at the sight of Jonathon leaning against his Mercedes, flirting with Cherri.
Maybe she should fake a stomachache. Headache? Mongolian flu? Seeing them perfectly paired added substance to her not-so-imaginary illness. She’d rather go home than spend another evening feeling less than.
“I see Cherri’s kept you company.”
Cherri winked. “I warned you not to leave such a tasty morsel unattended.”
Ugh. Objectify much? A forced smile was all she could muster as she unlocked the passenger door. She was more than capable of opening her own doors, but would it kill Jonathon to act like he cared enough to help her with her stuff?
Cherri’s hand lingered on his arm as he slid into the driver’s seat. “You and Stef should join us at the club,” she called, backing away with a flirtatious wave.
“We should. What do you say, Stefanie?” Jonathon finally acknowledged her.
She groaned.
He sent her a sour glare. Oh no. He heard that.
“If you want.”
“No, no, we can go somewhere else.” Condescension dripped from every word.
That, right there, was the problem.
“I’m not feeling great. Why don’t you drop me off and go without me?”
“What’s wrong? You won, you should be celebrating. Unless you’re coming down with something.” He leaned away from her.
She faked a sneeze. “Maybe I am. Go. Have fun. In fact, Cam’s headed my way. He’ll give me a ride.”
Jonathon glared at the lanky trainer stowing game gear in his truck. Before he could launch a token protest, Stef opened her door and called him.
Cam ambled over. “Hey, Stef. You okay?”
She smiled, warmed by his concern. “Are you heading back to the complex? I need an early night and Jonathon’s meeting the team at the club.”
Cam raised an eyebrow. “No problem. Glad to help.”
She hopped out, pulled her bag from the back, and waved Jonathon away.
“Feel better,” her date mumbled, shooting them a dismissive frown before driving off.
“Trouble in paradise?” Cam asked as he stowed her things in the back.
She shrugged, unwilling to explain. She could have. Cam was a good guy who shared her dissatisfaction with mediocrity, and he wasn’t repelled when she looked less than perfect.
Cam struggled for words to soften her date’s desertion. “I guess Jonathon doesn’t comprehend the, er, finer nuances of post-game behavior.”
She laughed. “You could say that. He thinks I should be euphoric because we won.”
“Didn’t see your face when you missed that free throw, huh?”
Surprised he’d noticed, she nodded. “Don’t remind me.” She didn’t have to explain how her personal blunder overshadowed a team victory. “My passing was pitiful, too. I’ll never make the big time if I don’t shape up.”
“Sometimes mediocre feels harder than failure.”
“Exactly!”
“If Jonathon can’t see that, you should cut him loose.” He clenched his jaw. “You deserve someone who pays attention.”
Whoa, where was this coming from? “Pardon?”
“That jerk was on his phone the whole game. Didn’t even notice that sweet block you made.”
“My only block.”
“For tonight. Still. He’s all about the optics, not the effort. Why do women put up with guys like him?”
“Or guys like that online reporter calling us the Hottest Team in Division One? I expected the article to praise our winning streak.” Stef gave a weak chuckle. “He compared us to runway models.”
“He wasn’t wrong. You are a good-looking team.”
She recoiled before recognizing the mischief hovering behind pursed lips. She slapped his arm.
“Ouch. Seriously. Guys who don’t acknowledge the sheer guts it takes to achieve your level of play are idiots. I’m awed by your dedication and athleticism. Now that’s hot.”
She studied Cam’s profile as he drove, appreciating his appreciation. Suddenly, she felt much better.
“So. I think I’m cured. Wanna hit the diner?”
“You read my mind. We can talk about the game. Or just chill.”
“And eat carbs.” She leaned across the seat and kissed his cheek. “You’re my new favorite person, Cam.”
He grinned and squeezed her hand. “I’ll take that position and anything else you want to give me.”
Connect with Helen on her website.
Spark Flash Fiction 