Kitty said to her, “These fine ladies are known as the Wives Association. No one messes with them, not if they want to keep their hair extensions. They’re our Queen WAGs.” At Hara’s raised eyebrow, the woman added, “WAGs. The Wives and Girlfriends. The wives and fiancées rule the kingdom, then the girlfriends.”
“And, of course, there’s always a coupla hoes hanging out, trying to be a WAG.” A woman with cute bleached curls pressed against her mocha skin laughed and added, “We like our men to be good with their balls. But we good with everything else, including managing the money, the families, and their extracurriculars. They have capable hands—”
“Very capable hands!”
“—but we are the ones who make sure they survive. And that those hands and balls don’t get into trouble.”
“Nobody can bounce me like my man. I’m gonna make sure that don’t stop.”
Names were thrown at Hara, but she simply smiled and nodded, her brain on overload. These were the long-time partners of the players. She sensed they were a tight crew.
“Speaking of hoes, you need to get ahold of your girl.” One woman pointed a long, zebra-striped nail at Naomi, still cuddled up to the Fishers’ star player. “You came in with her, right? Tina goin’ to scratch her eyes out. And if she don’t, I will.”
Hara shifted back and forth, worried for her friend. And her own immediate safety. “Tina? I thought I read somewhere they broke up?”
Kitty shrugged. “They break up twice a week. That doesn’t mean Tina is going to be lenient.”
“You son of a bitch!” someone screeched from behind them.
“Uh oh. Too late.”
Charles leisurely glanced over but didn’t move. Naomi, on the other hand, rose from the couch slowly and stood with her feet apart, a firm stance. A basketball stance. Hara almost smiled.
“Baby…” Charles started to say, as if bored.
“Shut your face.” Tina, a famous reality TV star a few years older than Naomi, was hourglass shaped with a dreadlock high bun and perfect wing-tipped eyes. She reminded Hara of her mom, when Hara was young and her mother would still get made up and go out with her father.
“You. You bitch.” The woman poked Naomi in the chest, hard. “That is my fiancé. I’m gonna snatch that Afro bald. You do a sister like this?”
Naomi, big-eyed, looked to Charles. Hara heard her whisper, “I thought you said this was done?” He didn’t answer.
Tina snorted. “Uh huh. That’s what I thought.” She tugged out her earrings—large, dangling plates of ivory—and handed them to the person closest to her. That person was Derek.
Derek raised an eyebrow. “Really, Tina? You’re not on camera. Give it a rest.”
In response, she handed him her stilettos. It was so over-the-top dramatic, Hara looked around to make sure there really wasn’t a film crew taping them.
Derek stepped between Naomi and Tina, thrusting the shoes and earrings back at the raging fiancée. “This girl is here to see me. She was just talking to Charles.”
“Now that Charles is intimately familiar with this little bitch’s bra size, it’s time for the conversation to end.”
Derek grabbed Naomi’s hand and drew the young woman to his side. She slid under his arm, tucked against him, using the rookie player as a shield.
Hara’s heart hammered. Partly because she had no desire to be part of a battle scene. But oddly, it was also because of a surprising spike of jealousy. Derek had his arm around Naomi. They were a perfect fit, a beautiful couple.
One of the WAGs grabbed Tina and whispered something.
Tina swung her head toward Hara and slit her eyes. “Oh, you idiots invited a reporter in here and then didn’t have the decency to squash this shit?” She flipped her fingers at Charles, still lounging on the couch, placid. “Fine.” She turned to Derek. “I’m gonna pretend your heartwarming little story is true, Derek. For now.” She grabbed back her shoes and earrings. “But I’m gonna ask you to get outta my face.”
Derek shrugged, unfazed.
Naomi, with a hint of the shakes, said, “Let’s get a drink.”
Tina cursed at their retreating backs, and then dropped onto the couch next to Charles. Hara winced when the angry woman dug her pointed nails into the man’s leg. He yelped in pain; she dug harder. The crowd busied their attention elsewhere.
The reporter joined Derek and Naomi at the bar.
Naomi had been enjoying her affiliation with the WAGs. And with the men. Now, the beautiful clothes designer leaned against Derek, despairing over her jeopardized access to Charles and to the behind-the-scenes life she loved. When the ballplayer remained politely quiet, Naomi shifted to describing the many ways in which Charles deserved better than an unhinged drama queen. Her naive rambling was hard to listen to, but Derek, surprisingly patient, said nothing.
With eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed, he drank his beer and occasionally patted the babbling girl on the back, probably getting ready to tap that himself. Hara cringed but then found that her eyes were constantly drawn to his flexing shoulder muscles despite herself.
Everyone around her was in conversation. It was like she was back in high school, sitting by herself in the library.
Catching her reflection in the mirror behind the bar, Hara frowned, seeing a young woman in glasses, alone in a crowd of people under throbbing colored lights. Her wavy black hair fell over the fancy lace ruff and her bare shoulders; high emotions added a flush to her cheeks and deepened the blue of her eyes, vivid even from behind her glasses.
Well, I did what my mom wanted. I’m dolled up, surrounded by rich men.
A thirty-something in a suit sat a few feet down the bar, his hair brushed back in a hipster pompadour. He caught her eye in the mirror and smiled. Hara, startled, quickly flashed her gaze down, breaking eye contact.
She took a deep breath. As deep as she could, anyway, wearing the old-fashioned binding corset. Then, ready to engage, she looked back up.
He’d turned away.
CHAPTER 8
… She cannot be too much guarded in her behavior towards the undeserving of the opposite sex.
—Pride and Prejudice
On either side of the massive bar mirror, there were backlit glass shelves reaching from the counter to the high ceiling, with a wooden ladder on a ceiling rail providing access. The soft, dreamy light shone through the liquor bottles.
Hara spotted one of her favorite whiskies and ordered a glass of Angel’s Envy rye, neat. Waiting, she tried to decide if she was going to stick it out a little longer or head back to the O’Donnells’. Her flight didn’t leave until the following night, so she could sleep in tomorrow. Or she could pretend she was good at adulting, go back and pack, and have time to tour a few historic sites in the morning.
Her opportunity to speak further with Charles was blown. Sure, she could write about what she’d seen tonight, that Charles Butler was as much a dog as everyone suspected, but that wasn’t news, or even remotely unusual in the world of sports.
She had nothing to feel bad about. The young reporter was going home with a solid interview under her belt. Life was good. But, Hara had started the day adamant she was going to dig out some story that would end up going viral, setting her up for life. Could she still make that happen?
Taking a deep, calming yoga breath, she winced. The corset’s ties dug into her back.
The bartender placed the glass of amber liquor in front of her. Calm now, she settled onto the stool, letting the heat of the whiskey slide down her throat, warming her to the tailbone.
Derek was suddenly next to her, ordering a beer. His muscular forearm was so close that she could feel his body heat, and his spicy smell had her pheromones in a twitter. It made Hara’s arm hair raise and, swear to God, it felt like the hair was reaching for him. Her body continued to respond to him even when her logical side did not.
He held out his bottle. “Cheers.”
She clinked, warily, but allowed herself t
o smile. All right. Friendly is as friendly does. “Where’d Naomi go?”
“I believe she went to the restroom.”
“What you did for her was nice.”
“I did it for the team.” His eyes burned into her. “We don’t need the bad press.”
Hara maintained eye contact, refusing to squirm. “Listen, I’m not here to catch a man, nor am I in search of gossip. I don’t write for a rag.”
“Glad to hear it. Charles is a good guy, he just forgets to show it sometimes.”
Pot, black, buddy. “You guys are close?”
“I’ve been friends with Charles since we were little kids. He’s the reason they didn’t cut me this season, after being a waste of space last year.”
“Ah. How’s your meniscus, by the way? You seem strong now.” She flushed slightly, hearing herself.
“Uh, thanks. Yeah, I’m a hundred percent.”
“How was the bench? That had to be pretty boring.”
“You have no idea. My biggest thrill was getting away with sneaking Skittles onto the floor in a water bottle.”
She laughed, warmed by this small, human detail. “So, I have to ask, why stick it out? If I can believe the interwebs, your family owns half the East Coast. You could have paid back your contract and gone on your merry way. Why play ball, anyway?”
“Oh God. Here we go.”
Hara sighed, the warmth dissipating. “Fine. We can sit here silently, I guess.”
“It’s not like you’re trying to engage me in conversation. No, you’re diggin’ at me so you can get a byline.”
Hara shrugged. “Whatever.”
Charles saved her.
“Hey, Derek!”
Twisting in her seat, Hara saw Charles coming toward them, parting the crowd, some of whom reached out to touch his arm or back. He ignored the hands, stepping closer. “Bro, you drove, right? Can you give me a ride home?”
“Sure.” With no hesitation, Derek stood up. “Let’s go.”
“No. A half hour. My boys are hooking up, and Tina left me here, she’s pissed. Now that she’s gone, I wanna make sure poor Naomi is going to be okay.”
“I don’t think—”
But he was already making his way to “poor” Naomi, who was returning from the restroom. Charles stopped next to the girl, ignoring the small clutch of WAGs who had moved closer, holding Louis Vuitton and Hermès bags like possible beating tools. The women stared at Naomi, who was now rigid and nervous, flicking her eyes back and forth between them and Charles.
Hara shifted around to face the bar. She felt sorry for Naomi. Sort of. The girl could leave if she wanted to avoid escalating the drama. Slugging back a gulp of Angel’s Envy, Hara thought, I should go. This is so not my scene.
Next to her, Derek exuded frustration, grumbling under his breath and drumming his long fingers on the bar top. Loudly.
She was about to text an Uber when the basketball player said, “I’ve got time to kill, I guess. Any possibility you’ve got anything interesting to say?”
“Wow. You really are a dick.”
He narrowed his eyes at her but said, “You’re right. I don’t need to take this out on you.” He took out his phone.
“Fine,” Hara said. She swirled the liquor in her glass. “How about if I swear everything is off the record?”
He twisted to stare at her but then sat, and said lightly, “Pinkie swear?”
That surprised another laugh out of her. Hara crooked her finger and offered it to the professional athlete and multimillionaire hulking on the stool next to her. Even his smallest finger felt like an iron bar.
He held her finger for a beat and then let go. “How about I answer your question about why I play, and then I get to ask you a question.”
“What, are we in third grade?”
“You got something better to do? Gonna go follow the Paul Revere Trail?”
She tipped her glass at him. “I was thinking about it.” She paused. “So … then … okay. Why did you stick with the game?”
He nodded, took a sip of his beer and put it on the bar in front of him. “You see a player out there, and he’s taking a charge, skidding across the floor, or running up and down the court until he’s about to stroke out, and it’s easy to think, ‘Jeez, it’s just a game, dude, take it easy,’ but I don’t see it that way. I’m not sayin’ it’s life or death … except, maybe I am. But not in the way you think. It’s not about the winning or losing for me. It’s about the fact that for two hours, I have a very specific job to do, with a very specific goal. I know exactly what is expected of me and, for the most part, I get it right. I’m good at basketball, a game that has rules, and a beginning and an end.” He took a slug of beer. “I earned my spot on this team. My money or family didn’t get me here. I did.”
“You know, I overheard your phone conversation with your dad yesterday, before the game—”
“You mean when you hit your head, after listening in on a private conversation?” He said it in a friendly tone, though, and with a slight smile.
Hara pushed her glasses up her nose and tried to look dignified. “Um, well, okay, but to be fair, I did try to roll up the window. You’re the one who chose to stand right next to the car. Anyway, I could tell your dad was being hard on you. And I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I swim in a much, much smaller pond, but I can empathize—my mom hates what I do. But you’re so obviously good at basketball, I don’t get why he’d have a problem with it.”
“Yeah, well. My father is a wealthy, powerful black man who is embarrassed that I’m embracing the ‘stereotypical African American’s role, as entertainment for the masses,’ as he says. An elitist accusing me of being a stereotype.” His voice had started to rise, but he calmed himself. “You know what my family does? We buy up homes and city blocks and turn them into commercial property. My whole life, we’ve taken from others to make a profit. My father would make me go with him to clear ‘sites’—we were clearing away run-down apartments or row houses, places people still lived. As a child, I watched other kids lug Hefty bags of their belongings down the street as their homes were razed.” He took a short, hard drink of beer, his eyes closed. “My father doesn’t play by the rules. No one ever sees what’s coming. I don’t play like that. Like I said, I earned my way here, not just with talent, but hard work and playing by the rules. I almost lost my spot on the team last year. Now, I need to prove to people, and to myself, I deserve to be here.”
Hara tried hard not to gape. Was he for real? “Why are you telling me this?”
His face shuddered. “Sorry.”
“No, no, I’m sorry, that came out harsh.” Conciliatory, she laid her hand on his arm. He’d been honest and open with her, in a way that made her feel like she was seeing past a public facade, and she appreciated what he was giving her. She hadn’t meant to shut him down. “I just … you haven’t seemed like the type of guy who likes to share.” She was struggling with the dichotomy between this thoughtful, deep man and the sullen, righteous jerk from earlier. She removed her hand but put her arm back on the bar, close to his. It was true what she’d said, and she’d forgotten he was human, too, struggling with family just as she was.
“I’m not good at small talk.” Derek set down his beer and put his square chin in his hand, peering at her through half-lidded eyes. “To be honest, I’m not good at talking with people in general. I never seem to be able to say the right thing, so I usually don’t try.” He shook his head and sat up, like he was shaking away his thoughts. “Anyway … it was a big night, right? I made some mistakes, but I did all right, don’t you think?”
He was seeking approval? From her? “Not that my opinion counts, but you did prove yourself. It’s just that you’ll have to keep doing it. And maybe win a game.”
“Funny girl.”
“It’s not like you’re going to get fired. You’re contracted. You’ve got all season to make your mark.”
“You’d think so, but I have no desire to ride
the bench again. There’s a lot of talent on my team, I’ve got to find a way to stand out.”
“Is that why you went for so many buckets tonight?”
“That’s right. I’m gonna be a double threat, dammit.”
She nodded. “Smart.”
He cocked his head and smiled, an honest smile. “You know, you’re not bad. For a reporter.”
“That’s not what you said last night.”
“Hmm?”
“I heard what you whispered behind me during the interview.” And outside the library. “You said I wasn’t very good. Just so you know, I wasn’t allowed to ask any follow-up questions, per an agreement with O’Donnell.”
“Oh. I was joking.”
“How would I know that?”
He didn’t apologize, only pursed his lips, appraising her. After a second, he said, “By the way, I like you in glasses.”
She blushed. “Umm. Thank you.” Hara pushed them up. “You must have noticed yesterday, my contacts were driving me crazy.” There, now he knew, she was not just some weird blinker.
“All right. I get to ask you a question now.”
“I’m an open book.”
“Where are you from?”
“Where am I from? Come on, I thought you big-city folk were a little more cultured.”
“I’m not sure—”
“I mean, does it matter? You have brown skin, do people ask where you’re from? I grew up out in the sticks, eating peanut butter sandwiches and watching reality TV, just like most of America. Is that good enough?”
“Hara, I meant, where are you from, as in, where do you live?”
“Oh.” She took a swig. “Just outside Portland, Oregon.”
“I guess I hit a nerve. Not really an open book, are ya?”
The Wrong Mr. Darcy Page 9
