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Team Player 2: A Sports Anthology

Page 60

by Paige, Rochelle


  They’re gone now and you’re still alive.

  Sirens sounded in the distance. A knock on the door and then the neighbor’s voice, Mr. Sheraton, calling, “Miss Watson? Are you all right? I’ve called the police.”

  And still I lay there. The police found me on my back in the bed, my fingers aching from clutching the covers, my throat and mouth dry, my eyes stinging from staring at the dark. The relentless dark from which the monsters had appeared, materializing in the room while I’d slept, unaware and unguarded.

  Never again, I thought, blinking at the beautiful, blinding light when one of the officers flipped on the wall switch, illuminating everything, dispelling the shadows.

  Paia, Maui

  present day

  Never again…

  The phone rang, and I blinked out of my nightmare.

  Not a nightmare. Call it what it is, a PTSD flashback.

  Holy shit, it was amazing how that entire horrifying night could come at me full blast, in the middle of a sunny afternoon, and I was forced to sit and watch. Like that guy with his eyelids pinned open in A Clockwork Orange.

  The phone rang again, and I grabbed for the receiver.

  “Maui Reiki and Wellness Center, this is Daisy. How can I help you?”

  “Yes, hi, I’d like to order a hex on my best friend,” said a dry, sarcastic voice. “She up and moved to Hawaii on me a few months ago without giving me a chance to talk her out of it. You do hexes, right? Or maybe there’s a voodoo doll I can special order?”

  I rolled my eyes at my best friend, Jordan Sims, through the phone. “No hexes here, ma’am. A fresh supply of Smart-Ass Essential oils just came in, though by the sounds of it, you’re all set.”

  “Set for life,” Jordan said with a laugh. “Don’t mean to bother you at work, my dear, but I figure this was the best way to reach you since you never answer my texts.”

  “Sorry,” I said, glancing down at the reception desk and straightening the schedule book that didn’t need straightening. “I’ve been busy.”

  “Yeah? How are you?”

  How am I? I’m twenty-two years old and afraid of the dark all over again.

  The oppressive terror of the break-in hung over me and wouldn’t let go. I tried to run out from under that black cloud, out of San Francisco, all the way to the sunshine of Paia, Hawaii, a rustic little town on Maui’s northern shore. Its beaches were full of turtles, tourists, and clusters of young people hanging out under clouds of pot smoke. A perfect fit for a “kale-eating, yoga-doing, earth goddess,” as Jordan liked to tease me.

  I’d found a little apartment above a shave ice shop with ocean views on one side and lush greenery on the other. My parents offered to pay my rent until I got settled, but I refused. Part of recovering from the break-in was reclaiming my sense of self that had been shaken and cracked. I was already too dependent on Keanu. I needed to heal on my own, and the Reiki center had been the perfect place to start.

  “I’m fine,” I answered Jordan. “Great, actually. Melanie has been wonderful. She’s given me a few sessions between her own clients. She’s even started training me in Reiki. Says I have a real knack for it.”

  “Now she’s teaching you that stuff? Lord, she’ll turn you into a minion. When I come to visit, you’ll be wearing an orange toga and handing out pamphlets at the airport.”

  “Orange is a good color for me,” I shot back. “And who doesn’t like to hang out at the airport?”

  “Ha ha.”

  Since I’d moved to the islands a month ago, Jordan’s ribbing about my boss and her profession—which I hoped someday would be my profession—was nonstop. I never engaged or defended. Like many, Jordan didn’t know what Reiki was; the Japanese energy healing technique sounded like quackery or “New Age mumbo jumbo” to her. But Melanie Pomerantz was one of the most sought-after practitioners in the business. Her clients were Big Time. One-name-only kind of Big Time, like Cher, Oprah, Madonna.

  “Some will be skeptical about Reiki or make jokes,” Melanie had told me once. “But it helps people relieve emotional and physical pain, and that’s all that matters.”

  That’s all that mattered to me, too.

  The first week in my new town, Keanu and I passed by the Wellness Center on one of our walks. I’d been intrigued by the description of services. More than intrigued. Needy. Desperate. I couldn’t afford Melanie. I could barely afford rent, but there was a Receptionist Wanted sign on the front window. I figured being close to a place that promised to heal emotional pain was a good start. That Melanie was taking me under her wing—even sporadically—was more than I could have hoped for.

  “How’s Keanu?” Jordan asked in my ear.

  “He’s fine. Amazing as usual.”

  “How is he adjusting to the move from SF? I can’t imagine he’s happy in that Hawaiian heat.”

  “He’s doing great. He loves it here and so do I.”

  My best friends’ voice softened. “That was my next question. How are you doing, hon? Truly.”

  “Better,” I said.

  “Nightmares?”

  “Still happening but not so many.”

  “Isn’t the Reiki shit supposed to cure those?”

  “It takes time,” I said. “And I’m still new at it. Both giving and receiving.”

  Jordan snorted a laugh. “Are we talking about Reiki or oral sex?”

  “We are not talking about oral sex,” I said. Loudly. Just as the front doors of the Wellness Center opened.

  A middle-aged man in expensive-looking clothes and bearing more than a passing resemblance to Kevin Bacon walked in the glass doors and stood on the other side of my reception desk.

  Shit shit shit…

  “I gotta go, Jordan,” I said quickly. “Client. Talk to you soon.” I hung up on her and smiled at the man, my cheeks burning. “Yes, hi, how can I help you?”

  The man looked like he was biting back a smile. “Is Melanie Pomerantz in?”

  “She’s out of town for the next week at a conference in Oahu.”

  “Damn. Do you know when she’ll return?”

  I checked Melanie’s appointment book on the desk. “First week in February.”

  The man’s jaw dropped. “Damn, again. I was hoping to hire her for an extended job. Rather urgently.”

  “Ms. Pomerantz is booked months in advance.”

  He sighed. “I should’ve guessed. They say she’s the best at…whatever Reiki is.”

  I wrinkled my pierced nose and the little gold hoop rose. “You want to a hire a Reiki specialist, but you don’t know what we do?”

  He smiled sheepishly. “That’s how desperate I am. What is it you do?”

  “Reiki practitioners guide the body’s natural healing energy toward the places where it is needed to relieve pain and stress.”

  “Healing energy, right?” the man said. “I’ve read that many athletes have used it to great success and that Ms. Pomerantz is top level.”

  “True on both counts, but like I said, she’s not here.”

  He eyed me up and down. “What about you? Are you a Reiki person? A specialist?”

  “Not quite.”

  “But you can do a session…or whatever they’re called?”

  “I could,” I said. “But I’m still training.”

  “How long have you been training?”

  “A few months.”

  “What about yoga and meditation?” he said. “Do you do stuff like that?”

  “I do both,” I said with a small smile. “Have been for years. But again, sir, I’m really just the receptionist—”

  “Awfully pretty, though. Maybe too pretty,” the man muttered to himself, eyeing me up and down.

  I stiffened and crossed my arms over the bodice of my flowered sundress. “Excuse me?”

  He gave his head a shake. “I’m sorry, just thinking out loud about you and your potential client. I’m Jason Lemieux. Sports agent.”

  He offered his hand. I took it warily. “Dais
y Watson.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Daisy. I apologize for the strange interrogation. Let me get right to it: I represent tennis star, Sikai Solomon. Ever heard of him?”

  “I don’t really follow sports.”

  “He’s a professional. Ranked number forty-four in the world.”

  “Okay…” I said with a helpless shrug.

  Jason chuckled. “It might work better, actually, that you aren’t dazzled by him.”

  My hackles went up again, even as my eye caught glint of the gold Rolex on Jason’s tanned wrist and the expensive cut of his polo shirt and pants. The man reeked of money, and it sounded—if I read in between the lines—like he was interviewing me for a job I hadn’t applied for but might really want.

  My potential client?

  “I don’t dazzle easily,” I said. “And what, exactly, might work better?”

  The man carved a hand through his hair. “I’ll be straight with you Miss Watson. I’m running out of ideas about what to do with Kai. He has the potential to be a Grand Slam champion ten times over. Aside from a mild elbow strain a year ago, he’s in top physical condition. But his head…?” He tapped his temple. “He’s a mess. I don’t know how to help him.”

  “He’s a mess, how?”

  “Hot tempered on the court. Once something sets him off, it’s game over. I need to calm him down mentally before he implodes altogether. Wait, let me show you what I mean.” Jason leaned over the desk and angled his cellphone—the latest iPhone model—to show me the screen. “Actions speak louder than words.”

  He went to the YouTube app and pulled up a video called Sikai Solomon: Highlights (and Lowlights).

  “The first half of this video is Kai at his best,” Jason said. “Having fun. Happy. The second half…” He shook his head. “You’ll see for yourself.”

  I craned my head to watch the video and my eyes widened on their own, as if better to take in the image of Sikai Solomon. To drink him up as fast as humanly possible.

  So much for not being easily dazzled.

  But holy hell, the man was gorgeous. Tall, bronzed, brown skin, longish dark hair that he whipped out of his dark eyes between serves. I didn’t know the first thing about tennis, but while watching a montage of different matches, different surfaces, different tournaments or games, I could see Kai was born for it.

  The muscles in his long legs were cut and defined, propelling him with unbelievable speed as he chased the yellow blurs that sailed at him. His arms were masculine strength and grace as he wielded his racket with both elegance and brutality, slamming shots home so fast the opponent hadn’t a chance at touching them.

  And his face…Dear God, it was almost unfair how beautiful he was. Strong jaw, high cheekbones, piercing brown eyes, and a broad mouth that sneered with determination as he raced for a ball or broke into a rare smile that was damn near breathtaking.

  I swallowed hard and watched a short montage of Kai returning shots with the racket between his knees.

  “’Tweeners,” Jason muttered with a roll of his eyes. “His signature move.”

  He signed autographs for kids and let them mess with his hair. He hit no-look shots that made the crowd roar. He jokingly offered his racket to an audience member who’d heckled him asking, “Want to give it a go, mate?”

  God, an Australian accent too? No fair…

  “I’m not seeing an issue,” I said. “He looks like he’s having the time of his life. Though from what little I’ve seen of tennis, I can’t remember Serena Williams ever hitting a ‘tweener.”

  “No,” Jason said. “She wouldn’t. Most professionals take the game seriously. Kai does not. But that’s not the worst of it. This is the worst of it.”

  The video showed a series of clips of Kai behaving badly. That incredible face of his shut down in anger. Smashing his racket. Flipping off the audience. Swearing loud enough for the cameras to pick it up. He stopped slamming serves, stopped playing; his impossible speed reduced to walking leisurely after his opponents’ shots. One match devolved into a relentless tirade at a judge for a time violation Kai didn’t feel was warranted; muttering, arguing, swearing, until the ump had had enough and ejected him from the match.

  “Wow,” I murmured.

  “Indeed,” Jason said with a sigh as the video ended. He pocketed his phone. “My client was fined $67,000 last year alone for his antics. Add another whopping $24,000 just last week for tanking the Brisbane International. The ATP has had enough. Kai’s now on probation. One more act of bad behavior and he’ll be banned from tennis for life. Naturally, we have the Australian Open in a few weeks.”

  “And that’s a big one?”

  “Like Wimbledon. One of the four Grand Slam tournaments,” Jason explained, his eyes full of fatherly concern. “His entire career is in jeopardy.”

  “Okay,” I said slowly. “But I’m not sure what I can do for you, Mr. Lemieux.”

  “Call me Jason.” He looked at me intently. “I need your help. I needed Ms. Pomerantz’ help, but she’s not here. You are.”

  “I’m just a receptionist. I don’t see—”

  “Kai needs your help and there’s no time to dither.” He blew air out his cheeks. “I’ll be blunt with you, Miss Watson. The reason for all the drama you just saw? It began after Kai’s father died. When he was sixteen.”

  “Oh my God,” I said and rubbed my hand over my heart. “I’m so sorry.”

  “He took it hard, of course,” Jason said, “though he won’t talk about it. Ever. It was his father who instilled the love of tennis in Kai, and it was his death that soured him on it. I need help to get him back on track, mentally.”

  “What can I do?” I asked.

  “We’re renting a huge place on the west side,” he said. “In Lahaina. Lovely place. Lots of greenery. Pool, guest house, tennis courts. The idea is to rest and relax as much as possible until the Australian Open in two weeks. I want you to come every day and work with Kai.”

  “You think he’s going to calm down with some meditation and yoga? In two weeks?”

  “And Reiki,” Jason added. “I don’t even know how that works precisely, but I’m out of ideas.”

  “Does he know what Reiki is?”

  “It’s rehab for his elbow. That’s all he needs to know about it.” Jason shook his head. “I know this sounds crazy, but Kai won’t see a therapist. Won’t talk to anyone. This—you—are my last shot at saving his career.”

  I blew a long, silvery-blonde curl off my forehead. “I don’t know. It’s an hour drive from here to Lahaina, and I only have a bicycle.”

  Jason thought for a second and then his eyes lit up. “You could stay in the guest house! Yes! We can set up a little studio for you. A yoga area…anything you need.”

  Now a sliver of unease settled into my gut. “You want me to live with Kai? Alone?”

  “Not alone, my dear,” Jason said. “There’s an entire staff—gardener, housekeeper, personal cook, and his practice partner will be there. Publicists and physios, in and out. You won’t be alone. And I assure you, as much as Kai can be an insufferable bastard on the court, he’s a good man at heart.”

  That was evident in the video—how Kai’s face lit up with genuine happiness when he horsed around with kids. I bit my lip.

  “I’m not sure I can take that much time off here,” I said. “I might not have a job when I get back.”

  “We are prepared to compensate you for your time,” Jason said. “How does ten thousand sound?”

  I stared. “Ten thousand…what?”

  Jason chuckled. “Dollars, my dear. Per week.”

  “Per…?”

  “Week. Yes. Fair?”

  I kept staring. My head was spinning. Twenty thousand dollars. With twenty thousand, I could pay off some of my debt and have enough left over for taking care of myself.

  “Yeah, that’s… fair. I’ll have to call Melanie though. I can’t just leave—”

  “Fantastic!” Jason said. “You have no i
dea how hopeful this makes me. And if Kai hates it, at least I can say I tried literally everything.”

  “But Mr. Lemieux…” I said, my hopes deflating, crushed by reality. “There are other specialists here more experienced than me. As much as I’d love to take you up on your offer, twenty thousand is a lot of money for…well, a receptionist.”

  He gave me a kind smile. “Kai doesn’t have to know that.”

  “But I know that. I’d hate to let you down.”

  “I’m one of the best sports agents in the business,” Jason said. “You want to know why? Because I get feelings about people. I can sniff out their potential even before they do.” He slid his business card across the desk and headed for the door. “Think about it and give me a call. Today, preferably.”

  “Right. Okay then,” I said, watching him go, feeling as if I’d woken from that terrible break-in nightmare and straight into a dream.

  Slow down. You might fail spectacularly. Kai might reject everything you try to do. You’d be taking twenty grand you didn’t earn.

  But I wanted to try. Not only for my bank account but for Kai. I’d been attracted to the healing arts to alleviate pain. And Kai was in pain. It was obvious, even in a YouTube video. I wasn’t having much luck getting rid of my own but helping someone else was never a bad thing.

  This crazy offer might be the best thing for both of us.

  I sucked in a breath and ran out to the parking lot where Jason was about to climb into a rented Mercedes that gleamed silver in the Hawaiian sun.

  “I’ll do it,” I said.

  Jason beamed wide. “You’ve made my day, Miss Watson.”

  “But if I’m going to live in the guest house, I have one condition. Non-negotiable. The deal-breaker.”

  “Name it.”

  “Keanu comes with me.”

  Chapter Four

  Kai

  “You did what?”

  I whacked the ball coming at me from my practice partner so hard it sailed into the green foliage surrounding the tennis court and disappeared.

  “I hired a naturopath,” Jason said, rocking back on his heels. “She’s like a life coach to help you keep calm. She does meditation, yoga, Reiki…”

 

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