by Mel Curtis
Amber couldn’t get her father’s laughter out of her head.
“Mr. Gordon.” Amber jerked around toward the bar. “The Dooley Foundation – ”
“Is no more. Yes, I’m sorry for your loss. If there was one thing I could count on, it was your dad.”
“My…?” Surely he didn’t mean Amber’s father. Dooley Rule was the biggest embarrassment who ever walked the red carpet in L.A.
“Do you have papers you want me to sign, terminating the agreement?” Jack gestured with his glass to Blue. From this angle he appeared to be digging in his bag when he should have been leaping toward Jack to stop their futures from spiraling down the drain.
“No!” Amber clumped within the devil’s reach, feeling frumpy and awkward. Damn sweater. “No. We’re here to assure you that the Foundation is alive and well.” Even if its founder was six feet under and the Foundation itself was teetering on the brink of bankruptcy.
“We haven’t used The Rules since last season.” Jack gave Amber a once over, from her carefully straightened long auburn hair to her red Italian heels, hardly noticing her offending blue sweater. No doubt he’d seen her father wear more hideous outfits.
Down on the court the fans booed again. Jack poured himself another drink. “Your father breathed life into the Rules. I don’t believe any of that crap, but my players do. Or at least the ones we had last year did.”
A buzzer blared just outside the suite, startling Amber.
Jack reached across the bar to steady her with a firm grip. His midnight eyes looked haunted, almost human, as he released her. “End of the third quarter. Tell me we’re behind by less than ten points.”
Ninety-five to sixty-nine. The Flash stood in a defeated huddle around their coach.
Amber tried to smile. “Sorry.”
“At this rate I’m never going to be able to buy her out.” Jack’s gaze burned into Amber’s, as if she were the cause of his dilemma and would pay dearly.
Blue stopped Amber from backing up again with a hand on her arm. “We could help; work with some of the team.” His bag rippled and he slid it behind him, ignoring the muffled growl.
Jack didn’t seem to notice.
“There’s only one player of NBA star caliber – Evan Oliver. We picked him up last week. I was hoping he’d bring the team together, but he sucks.” Jack passed the tumbler back and forth on the obsidian bar between large hands. “Look, I’m desperate enough to try anything. If you turn Evan’s game around, I’ll renew your contract for another two years.”
Two years? Amber exchanged a desperate look with Blue.
“Well, what are you standing around for?” Jack glared at Amber, bellowing above the noise. “Get down to the court and talk to Oliver. Can’t you see we’re losing?”
Blue moved toward the door, but Jack stopped him. “Not you. Her.”
Amber’s mouth hung open. This was Blue’s gig, not hers. Blue was the one with business skills, the one who’d been studying up on the Rules – reading her father’s books, watching his DVDs, while Amber searched the office, trying to uncover any hidden secrets and find the blueprint to Dooley’s life coaching philosophy. Amber may be able to recite the Rules, but give someone advice on how to put them into practice? Nope.
Blue scowled as if he could read her mind. And in that moment, Amber could read his: They were doomed.
“He…he’s got to come with me,” Amber blurted to Jack’s broad back.
“Fine.” Jack tossed Amber a dark look over his shoulder. “But I’m only offering the deal to you.”
The burgundy jacketed attendant escorted Amber and Blue into an elevator, leaving them no time to talk alone. Amber trembled and started to sweat. Jack Gordon was going to crucify her in the press when Evan Oliver’s game didn’t change. She unbuttoned her sweater and fanned herself with the open sides, and then gave up and took it off, threading it through the strap of her navy Kate Spade baguette purse.
They reached the floor level and headed into a dimly lit corridor. The noise of the crowd grew.
Mr. Jiggles poked his scraggly head out just as a pair of tall, burly security guards marched into the tunnel.
“No dogs on court level,” the wider one growled, stopping Blue with a hand the size and color of Grandmother Orla’s Sunday pot roast.
“But…Mr. Gordon sent us. Ask him.” Blue pointed at their escort, who only shrugged and left.
“You can’t take Blue away,” Amber protested.
“Mr. Gordon doesn’t own the Forum. And by the looks of things, he ain’t gonna own the Flash much longer either,” Pot Roast said. “Let’s go.”
The pair grabbed Blue by the arms. Blue was a couple inches over six foot and sturdily built, but he was no match for those two. The toes of his Bulgarian loafers made skid marks in the linoleum as Mr. Jiggles’ bag banged against his hip.
Amber clutched the strap of her purse.
“Wait. My sister can’t go out there alone.” Blue found his footing. “She’s a mess.”
Without breaking stride, the taller security guard looked back over his shoulder at Amber’s breasts and flashed her a gold framed toothy smile. “Your sister is fine.”
Blushing, Amber glanced into the arena and then back at Blue, who was still arguing.
“I can’t leave her alone. She…she…has a condition.”
“What?” Amber stiffened.
“Is she contagious?” Pot Roast demanded.
“She’s crazy. Can’t you tell?” Blue said, tossing Amber a look that encouraged her to go along with it.
“Shit, man,” Pot Roast grumbled, leading Blue away. “Crazy’s in L.A.’s water.”
“There’s nothing funnier than a fatso doing something stupid,” Cora said.
Fourteen year old Amber walked into the media room at her father’s house during Easter week to find Cora and her stick figure friends watching the 60 Minutes segment showing Amber’s weight loss the previous year.
Without taking his eyes off his Game Boy, Blue laughed. “She’s fat and crazy, just like dad.”
Her mother had never let Amber watch the program, had even called last weekend from Florida to warn Amber that the piece was going to rerun again on 60 Minutes because of Dooley’s death. Nadine said the documentary was mortifying. Amber hadn’t really believed her mother until that day all those years ago in the media room.
Amber sucked in her gut as the painful memory receded, as annoyance with Blue’s prima donna attitude pumped through her veins. Brothers were supposed to protect their sisters, not throw them under the bus.
Amber drew herself up as tall as she could, considering she was only five foot four. Well, five nine in these heels. “You might want to check Blue for drugs while you’re at it. He may need a cavity search.” She spun purposefully toward the arena floor.
“Amber! Am-ber!” Blue’s voice echoed oddly. “You can’t do this without me.”
Maybe not. But Amber was crazy enough to try.
Monster-sized men strolled toward the center of the court. A tall god with sculpted muscles and sweat soaked dark hair stood apart from the others, his back to her. His jersey proclaimed him to be Oliver, number thirty-five. He wasn’t the tallest or the most muscular player on the court, but there was a weary set to his spine that spoke of insurmountable odds and unexpected setbacks.
Whistles blew and the giants ran faster than she’d seen anyone go before, cameramen beneath each basket capturing their every move, ready to capture hers in still life and on digital film.
Cameramen.
At the tunnel portal, Amber hesitated, a tidal wave of survival adrenaline roaring in her ears.
The girls heard the media room latch click into place and turned to stare at Amber, which was good since they missed chubby Amber on screen so enraptured with an ice cream cone that she’d fallen into her father’s pool, cone and all.
Amber’s limbs shook. Where there were cameras, there was misery and embarrassment for fat, stupid girls. But even a
s every fiber of her being drew back, Amber’s feet wouldn’t budge.
Now that Blue was committed to the Foundation, he didn’t need her. He’d go on without her if he could.
She didn’t owe her father anything. The Rules could just fade into oblivion.
Of course, without those royalty checks from infomercial airings and book sales she’d have to get a job. Probably companies hired empty resumed candidates like Amber all the time. This was L.A. after all. If her name couldn’t get her a job, her cleavage probably could. Because if she’d learned one thing from that rat bastard Kent Decklin, it was that physical attributes could open doors and influence people. She was drawing the line at porno queen though. She’d aim high.
Something like a Starbucks barista.
The men careened back to Amber’s end of the court at warp speed. A television cameraman adjusted his lens. Evan Oliver missed a pass. Someone in the stands shouted obscenities at him. One of his teammates told Evan to get his head out of his ass. The coach screeched his scorn. Amber was certain Jack was pouring himself another whiskey. And all the while Evan stood staring at the ball with his hands on his hips as if trying to ignore it all.
Amber’s fingers gripped her skirt. She knew what it was like to be ridiculed and an outcast. She knew what it was like to pretend something catastrophically bad hadn’t just happened, something that was totally her fault. So did Evan Oliver.
There was an empty chair at the end of the Flash’s bench. While the cameras stayed on the players, Amber could sneak out there and talk to Evan when he took a water break. She could use a bit of water herself. They could bond over water. Chat about the power of positive thinking. Recite the Rules.
Straightening her shoulders, Amber stepped out of the tunnel. Immediately, a cameraman swung his lens in her direction. Amber’s breath hitched, her knees buckled and her brain froze. She’d do anything to turn the camera elsewhere.
Lacking a water pistol, Amber went for her next best defense.
She ran.
Chapter 7
“Evan Oliver is really struggling.” Brock Hamilton sounded almost happy as he spoke into the mic for the radio broadcast of the Flash-Warrior match up during a time out. “He’s missed all but one shot he’s put up.”
“Jack Gordon has got to be disappointed with Oliver,” Pablo Alvarez, the Flash’s color commentator, added, raising his voice to be heard above “I want Candy” bleeding through the Forum’s loudspeakers. “Last year they were the Cinderella team, making it to the playoffs with untested talent and aging free agents. Now that Zee Johnson is injured and the rest of their experienced players didn’t renew their contracts, the Flash has to make things work with what they have.”
“The Flash has the ball again. Let’s see if they can redeem themselves in the fourth quarter.” Brock didn’t sound like he believed it was possible.
Evan asked for the ball. Ren Du, the seven-foot tall Korean, wouldn’t pass to him. Not that Evan could blame him. Not only had the level of play deteriorated to every man for himself, but Evan would probably just miss the ball if it was thrown at him. He was playing that shitty. But damn it, Evan wanted the ball. He scanned the action, looking for an opening, half listening for a voice in his head to demand Evan take the ball to the hole.
A miniature woman ran alongside the court just feet away, bountiful boobs bouncing with each step, threatening to pop right out of her low cut, short blue dress. “Evan! Evan! You’ve got to believe!”
She was like no bible thumper he’d ever seen, although she had a booty a man could get a grip on to go with that fine pair of tits. Long hair the burnished red-brown of a well-loved basketball flew off her shoulders.
“Evan! Evan!”
But he wished she’d shut the fuck up. His game was bad enough without another distraction.
A miracle happened. Ren Du passed the ball and Evan caught it.
He dribbled past her, eye on the basket, trying to spot threats in his peripheral vision.
“Evan, you can score!” She was practically on the court with him.
What the hell? Evan plowed into his defender, Calvin Hobbs, sending them both crashing to the ground. A whistle pierced Evan’s eardrums and cued the crowd’s wrath.
“Yo’ Mama teach you how to dribble?” Hobbs snapped as Evan helped him up.
“Nope. Your Mama did.” Evan bumped Hobbs with his shoulder as he passed.
She was still hovering at the end of the bench a few moments later when Evan stole the ball and passed it up-court to Ren Du. Evan raced to get open across from Ren, aware that he was drawing the eye-popping woman in his wake. Where was security when you needed them?
Harried by a defender, Ren was trapped on the weak side of the court. He managed to pass to Payton Jablone up at the top of the three-point line and then crossed the rectangular painted key, asking for the ball back. One arm in the air, Evan was open and closer to the basket than Ren.
“Evan!” Out of the corner of his eye, Evan saw the spike of the woman’s fire engine red heel snap off. His only fan in the stadium went down on her finely curved ass right in front of the line of seated plastic cheerleaders, who burst into laughter.
Jablone passed the ball to Antoine Watson, damn him. Dribbling, Watson led his defender in circles. Watson was no turtle, but quickness didn’t count for shit when you couldn’t score.
Something red skittered out on the court beneath Watson’s ill-placed foot. He wobbled and dumped the ball in Evan’s direction – a last ditch pass, way off. Evan would have to hustle to catch it. But he could. He’d have to –
“Evan.” She’d crawled within a foot of him on the hardwood, had risen to her knees.
The ball hit Evan in the face and he went down on top of her, trying to break his fall with his elbows, which burned as he skidded across the polished wood, sliding with her beneath him. Evan didn’t care. His chin was pillowed in her breasts. Her thighs embraced him. There might have been a whistle. Evan couldn’t hear. The crowd’s reaction was deafening, demanding.
His gaze slid up those bountiful mounds to her plump cherry lips, further up to a pair of rich chocolate eyes. She was a treat, begging to be tasted.
“You can score,” she whispered, a shell-shocked broken record.
“Baby, I plan to.” And he branded her as his with a quick, hard kiss. But there was no time to savor the way her soft lips fit against his.
Stan Smith, the head referee, blew his whistle above them. “If you continue to delay the game, Oliver, I’ll charge you with a technical foul.”
Amidst catcalls and whistles, Even leapt to his feet, feeling better than he had in the few days since he’d been on the Flash’s payroll. A moment later, he took an in-bounded pass and sent the ball on a beautiful shot that hit nothing but net as he scored.
Now there was a woman who was good for what ailed him.
Evan glanced over to the sidelines, but his good luck charm was nowhere to be found.
“Oliver! In my office. Now.” Coach Spinks’ gravelly voice cut through the already quiet locker room after their thirty point loss to the Golden State Warriors.
This was only his first appearance in the NBA, but Evan expected a meeting in Coach’s office. His game tanked. He could blame it on the other players, who’d stepped out on the court and forgotten every play they’d gone over at practice. But they were just as desperate as Evan to prove their worth and score some points.
Was this the end?
It couldn’t be. Evan had a contract through the end of April, still a few weeks away. And nine games in which to lead the Flash to six wins.
Evan took the time to tug on a clean black polo shirt with an AND1 logo and ran his fingers through his damp hair on the off chance that his auburn-haired lucky charm was waiting for him outside in the parking lot. He wasn’t normally into groupie sex, but he’d make an exception tonight.
Spinks was all bluster. A Harlem baked creampuff. He wouldn’t cut Evan’s contract short. He couldn’t
. Not when Jack Gordon had made the deal.
“He will tell you what a nice shot you made at the buzzer,” Ren said kindly in his stilted English from the locker next to Evan’s. The seven-footer didn’t have a mean bone in his body and didn’t seem to care much when the Flash lost. “Think you not?”
“And pigs do fly,” Evan muttered, leaving Ren hollowly repeating his words as if they were a puzzle. At Spinks’ door Evan paused, taking pity on the Korean. “It’s an expression, Ren. It means impossible.”
Comprehension dawned in the Korean’s long face. He pointed at Evan and shook his head. “You will see.”
Evan opened the door to Spinks’ office without knocking. Spinks sat behind his dinged up, cheap wooden desk.
Jack Gordon leaned against the far wall with a dark look directed at Evan. It took Evan a startled two heartbeats to shut the door.
Evan had grown up fighting his way out of tight spots. He didn’t shy away from confrontation, physical or otherwise. But there was something wild and unpredictable about the Flash’s owner that made him wary, something behind his boss’ dark eyes that indicated he’d broken more than a few laws to get this far and wasn’t averse to breaking more to get further.
“How are you feeling, Oliver?” Gordon asked.
“Fine.” Evan came as far into the room as he could without sitting. Sitting acknowledged the power behind the desk. Evan may be on the payroll, but he wasn’t bowing to anyone. He put a casual hand on the shoulder of the guest chair.
“That’s funny,” Jack said. “The only time you looked fine out there tonight was after you jumped Amber Rule.”
The owner of the Flash knew who Miss Good Luck Charm was? Evan tucked her name firmly into his memory.
“Oliver!” Spinks growled from behind his desk. “Quit prepping for a wet dream.”
“Let him. I want him to see Amber Rule,” Jack said. “Maybe she can teach him to focus.”
Evan’s hackles came up. He lived life on his terms now.
“I’ve hired Amber to turn your game around.”
