CHAPTER 82: ONE SHOT INSIDE, ONE SHOT OUTSIDE

The second quarter tipped off, the noise in the hangar turning into a roar. Everyone felt it, the Skull Diggers had prepared the big guns.

The woman walked onto the court like she was stepping onto a stage. Dark hair pulled back with a bandana, big glasses framing sultry eyes, lips painted with a teasing smile.

Her body was built to draw stares, thick thighs, swaying hips, and a chest that strained against the jersey with every stride.

The crowd erupted, shouting her name, phones flashing, because everyone knew her: Salida Cheikira, the Diggers’ weapon.

Not just a player, but a specialist who conquered men on the court, turned their focus to joke, and left them drained.

One of the commentators muttered into his mic.

"It looks like the game’s about to heat up. They’ve sent in the infamous Salida."

She went straight to Nash. He barely glanced at her, focused on the game, until her curves brushed his arm.

The smell of perfume cut through the sweat and resin, making him flinch. She tilted her glasses down, lips curling.

"Hey, nice to meet you. I’m Salida Cheikira. But you can call me whatever you’re gonna scream later." Nash raised an eyebrow, shaking his head.

"...The fuck?"

Blacklist moved, Nia quick on the wings, teasing defenders, Alicia sliding into Mac’s spot, rougher, mean screens, snarling.

The team buzzed with new energy, the two fighting more than ever before, as if they had something to prove... or rather, a wholesome night to earn.

Jaz boxed out, grabbed a rebound, kicked it down. Drex cleared space, feeding Nash at the arc.

Then Salida met him for real. She was sharp, reading every step. He crossed, she mirrored. He spun, her hips brushed his thigh, slowing him down.

He pulled anyway, swish. She was right back on him, smirking.

"Damn, that stroke... imagine it tearing me open."

Nash’s hand twitched. His face stayed blank, but for a second , he lost his focus.

His dick sent him a warning, but thankfully he had now the ability to control it. The state, at least, it wasn’t building a tent, but definitely full in his pant.

Next play, Salida went harder, hip check, chest bouncing into his shoulder. Then she tugged her neckline low, flashed him.

Her breasts spilled free, heavy, nipples dark and hard. She leaned so they bounced, proud and obscene, formidable curves.

"See something you like, king?" she purred.

Nash gritted his teeth, forced past. Disorder shot, jagged, awkward, still in. The crowd roared. Her smile widened, eyes sparkling.

Every possession, she shadowed him, hips rubbing his groin, nails dragging his arm. On a screen, she rubbed her ass against his crotch, slow grind.

The crowd caught it, laughing, pointing. This was Breakball’s ugly edge, legal here. It was common, Nia was Blacklist’s seducer, but Salida played it dirtier.

Nash’s heart pounded. He could control his body, but his brain burned. Each breath filled with her perfume, each touch teasing him to the edge.

He scored again, 41–37.

Then missed. Then another miss. By mid-quarter, the scoreboard was tightening: 43–41, then 45–45.

His disorder shots started to falter, his rhythm was broken.

His teammates shouted for the ball, but the trap was set: block Nash, and no one else would score as much.

They would win over time.

On the Skull Diggers’ bench, a player muttered like a narrator.

"She’s really good... She’s not even scoring, just breaks him down and we’re winning."

The coach crossed his arms, satisfied.

"That’s the consequence of a one-man show. Stop him, the rest crumble."

Daliah frowned on Blacklist’s side.

"Why are they worse now?"

Mac barked back, angry.

"Because you listened to him! Shouldn’t have sent me and Jinzo off!"

The worst part was that it was true. Nia and Alicia were benched first because Jinzo and Mac were both better.

And now they’d got their revenge.

Back on court, Salida pressed harder. On an inbound, she leaned in, lips brushing Nash’s ear. "Miss the next one. Give us the quarter. You do that, and I’ll fuck you stupid during the break. Imagine, me, dripping on your cock until you can’t walk."

She laughed softly, friendly, almost sweet about it, like they were partners in crime.

Seconds ticked down. The ball swung to Nash again. The arena howled. His teammates screamed: "Shoot!"

But the Diggers hung back, confident, smiling. They were waiting. Waiting to see if he’d fold.

Salida tugged her jersey down just enough, letting one heavy breast spill free, nipple stiff and dark, pointing at night like a finger judging him.

Her gaze hooded.

"So? One shot for the win... or one shot inside me?"

Time slowed. Nash felt everything, the sweat, the roar, her body heat clinging to him. His heart jackhammered.

He whistled, rose, disorder shot twisting off his fingers, jagged arc.

Salida smirked, turning away.

"See you in the locke—"

CLANG, rim, then swish.

The buzzer screamed.

Score: Blacklist 47 – Skull Diggers 45, end of the second quarter.

Salida stared at him, like she’d stepped into a parallel universe. The shock on her face was priceless.

She’d watched plenty of dudes lose their cool, some even begged, but Nash? Nah, this man was built different.

He started popping his knuckles, slow as hell, like he had all the time in the world.

His eyes narrowed, all wolfish.

"You think I’m stupid or something? Please. I’ve slept with more women than I’ve eaten meals lately, you really think I’m gonna freak out over a quick fuck?" He cocked his head, almost laughing. "Sure, you look good. Top seven this week, at most. But that’s nothing. Not enough to throw me off."

People in the crowd were still losing their minds, but the real show was right there between the two of them.

Salida’s little grin wobbled, and she sucked in a breath. Nash stepped in closer, dropped his voice low.

"You’re not getting in my head. Not anymore. That shit’s over."

Then he just stared, dead serious.

"Cause if this was your big play? You and your crew are toast."