It's Only Love

by Mel Curtis

  “Jack wants you to find inner peace,” Blue said.

  “And another man,” Viv whispered, amazed at how just saying it, just acknowledging to someone that the love of her life didn’t want her brought her to the brink of a breakdown. Her insides felt mangled and heavy, heavy enough to drag her under the table – forget sliding!

  Sink or swim.

  Viv had always been a hopeless romantic, a hopeless optimist. She’d always believed Brad Pitt would come to his senses and go back to Jennifer Aniston. Look how that turned out.

  From Viv’s right, Cora spoke again. “We want you to reclaim your power.”

  “And find inner peace,” Amber added.

  “But to do so,” Blue said. “You have to agree to several conditions.”

  Viv bristled. “Screw conditions. Jack’s lawyer gives my legal counsel conditions. Jack shouts out conditions.” Although the last time he’d shouted at her, it was in the throes of climax. Oh, God. Viv, don’t let go. “I don’t want your conditions.”

  “But you love Jack, don’t you?” Cora’s tone was surprisingly compassionate, especially given the reputation of the crowd of young women she hung around. They were in the phase of sex-for-sex’s-sake, not looking for love.

  Suspicion still bound her, keeping Viv immobile, making every breath an effort. She was unwilling to trust anyone when her heart was at stake. “Why should I listen to you, Cora? You almost ruined your brother’s love life.” Cora was the reason Blue’s exes had publicly humiliated him.

  “I wanted him to realize those women weren’t right for him.” Cora smiled fondly at her brother. “And you’ll notice that he’s no longer a shallow playboy. He’s in a committed relationship. And from the smile on his face and the circles under his eyes, he’s in love and getting laid regularly.”

  Blue drew back. “Cora.”

  “I’m a bitch. I make no apologies for it.” Cora ignored her brother. “Contractually, Jack hired Blue to make you happy. Sign a contract with me to regain your power and you’ll be back to living in Jack’s mansion in no time. With him.”

  They were dangling crack in front of a crack addict.

  Still, Viv hesitated.

  “You’ve tried being a pain in his ass.” Cora continued to be understanding. “You’ve tried jealous break-up sex. It’s time to try something different.”

  Vivian knew she was going to regret asking, but how could she not? “What do you have in mind?”

  ~*~

  Evan Oliver was right. Every member of the Flash showed up at seven a.m. at the practice facility’s fitness room Monday morning.

  Trent was impressed.

  It helped that no expense had been spared in the training room. The equipment was first rate. The place was cleaner than most college locker rooms.

  “You work out with us today, Coach?” Ren Du, the seven-foot tall South Korean, placed his Gigantor-sized hand on Trent’s shoulder.

  “Yep.” Trent nodded. He was anxious to see which of his players weren’t going to be on his roster when training camp started in a week and the pre-season in two.

  “Evan’s great at sermons to keep you going, Reverend.” Antoine Watson, the speedy guard, stepped on a treadmill and tried to tread on the Reverend’s image.

  Players claimed cardio machines. Trent got on a treadmill next to Evan. Randy glanced around self-consciously. His left Achilles was taped. His right knee was in a serious-looking brace.

  Ren took pity on him, showing the young coach an open spin bike that would be easier on his knee. No one said anything as Randy got on. The video of his tangled injury during the NCAA finals last March was an athlete’s worst nightmare. Not to mention a coach’s. If he didn’t steel himself, Trent couldn’t look at Randy walk without regret clogging up his throat.

  His father would call that a sentimental weakness: Winners care about nothing but the win.

  His father had claimed this workout was a sissy move. He was back at the hotel, nursing a hangover, clinging to a denial of Cora’s observation that he’d ever faked being drunk.

  “Fuckin’-damn, Parker.” Evan scowled in Randy’s direction. “Don’t embarrass him.”

  “He can take it. He’s a strong kid. And a reminder.” Trent let Evan interpret just who and what Randy was a reminder of – Trent’s willingness to sacrifice a player for a win, or Trent’s need to assuage his guilt for ending a player’s promising career.

  Evan’s scowl deepened as he called, “Five-minute warm up.”

  All chatter in the room stopped. Headphones went in ears. Trent matched Evan’s speed, a brisk four mile-per-hour walk. He was overly-aware of Randy’s slow, steady pace on the bike.

  I did that to him.

  Show no weakness, Archie would say with a threatening grimace – a direct contradiction to the cupcake he was with the ladies.

  A few minutes later, the door to the workout room opened. Vivian strutted in, wearing a skimpy pair of black shorts and a sports bra, and talking to a man with a clipboard. Cora followed, looking more conservative in a pair of black yoga pants and a tank top that molded her breasts.

  “What the hell, Cora?” Evan never broke stride.

  Evan’s sister-in-law shrugged and pointed toward Vivian, who smiled sweetly at Evan. “As part-owner of the team, I have every right to be here.”

  All eyes devoured the two women. Ren waved at Cora. She waved back and greeted several other players. Trent ignored a stab of jealousy. He hadn’t thought about Cora at all since Friday night. At least, never willingly. Sometimes the memory of red lace surfaced, along with an unexpected, unwanted longing. He’d hoped to come to the NBA and bury the Reverend with the best L.A. had to offer. Not only couldn’t he shed the Reverend, but he couldn’t get his mind off of one woman! Nothing was going as planned.

  “This is exactly the kind of shenanigans I wouldn’t tolerate,” Trent grumped. “If I was officially the team coach, I’d boot their butts out.”

  Evan snapped loose a string of profanity that would’ve had Minister Bishop shouting out bible verses. “You’d be wasting your breath. Viv wouldn’t leave. Welcome to the Gordon battlefield.” The Flash’s captain accelerated his pace to a run. “Light it up. Five minutes. No slacking.”

  The whine of machines would have been deafening if Trent hadn’t had earphones. He matched Evan’s speed and cranked up Eminem on his iPhone.

  The trainer led the women in a workout. They slammed soft-sided medicine balls. They swung kettle balls. They did squats on the half-domed bosu. Vivian bent over to stretch. Her shorts rode up high. Every man could see the hollows in her thighs that connected to her twat.

  Antoine Watson fell off his treadmill, which elicited more curse words from Evan and a dark look from Trent.

  This had to be a Dooley Foundation stunt. One more reason why Cora had to go. If Jack was smart, he’d jettison Vivian, too.

  Evan called out, “Five thirty-second sprints!”

  Everyone quickened their pace, including Randy.

  Trent was starting to feel out of shape. His abs spasmed, threatening to stitch.

  Cora stretched on a matt, exhibiting a level of limberness that would’ve made Trent sweat had he not already been drenched.

  “Recover. Thirty seconds,” Evan shouted.

  The team slowed.

  Trent considered the hit his image would take if he quit now. It was barely seven-twenty. No way would Trent earn Evan’s respect if he bailed after less than thirty minutes. And there was Randy, who for some ungodly reason, still admired him. His coaching assistant’s lips moved to the words of a song only he could hear, as he kept up the pace on his bike. Smiling.

  The bastard.

  Too soon, Evan was demanding more sprints. Trent had chosen poorly. It would’ve been easier on a bike. Although, when Trent glanced over at the cycles, every man was dripping with sweat, even Randy.

  The pattern of sprint-recover continued for five more minutes. Then the pace dropped back to a power run. In the
mirror across the room, Trent could see his face was bright red. His breath came in ragged gasps. Someone slid a knife between his ribs. But he was damned if he’d let this team see him collapse.

  More sprints. More power runs. To keep himself from thinking about the slim thread that held his body upright, Trent watched Cora lift weights.

  “You lift like a girl,” he gasped when she walked by.

  “And you run like a hobbit.” She grinned.

  He could swear he smelled vanilla.

  Forty minutes later, Evan called for a cool-down. Shedding wet shirts for dry, the team took water and towels out to the practice court. Vivian and Cora followed. They sat on the low set of bleachers at center court. Cora seemed to be trying to convince Vivian to do something. The owner’s wife shook her head.

  The team ran through a set of scoring drills at moderate speed. Again, Trent joined them. Randy stood on the sidelines, offering words of encouragement and high fives as players passed him. He’d always been a good teammate.

  “Your moves are a little rusty, coach,” Cora said when he jogged to the baseline near where she was sitting. “And slow.”

  “I can still take you,” he wheezed, trying to take the wind out of her sails.

  She smiled. “In your dreams.”

  Exactly.

  He wasn’t going to do anything about his inconvenient lust.

  At Evan’s direction, the team moved on to three-point shots. Everyone, including the big men and Randy, put them up.

  “You’ve been carrying a clipboard too long, Parker.” Evan drained another three.

  “That’s a clown challenge. I can make just as many threes as you do.” Trent hadn’t been. His legs were for shit and you couldn’t shoot long shots without leg strength.

  They played a game of horse. Evan put one up and challenged Trent to make the same shot. If one of them missed, the other scored a point. The rest of the team took a much needed breather to watch. Vivian paced the outer halls, while Cora massaged Ren’s upper thigh, and talked to Antoine. Massage finished, she laughed and hugged the speedy shooting guard.

  Trent’s shot hit nothing but air.

  “Ah, you have a different problem.” Evan’s ball barely moved the net as it passed through the hoop. He glanced at Cora. “I thought you had her number.”

  “The only number I have is yours.” Trent put up a clunker that bounced off the rim.

  At nine o’clock, Cora and Vivian left.

  “Enough,” Evan called.

  “You’re giving up? What about best out of thirty?” Trent was currently losing by seven. But with Cora gone, his luck had to change.

  “We need to run suicides before Kelly has to pick up his kid at noon.” Evan called for the team to line up on the baseline beneath one basket. “You can go to the sidelines, Coach. You did good today. I thought we’d break you during sprints.”

  Trent experienced a fairy tale moment where an NBA superstar had called him Coach. He had no time for fairy tales. “You’re not done. I’m not done.”

  And so he ran suicides with his team. Randy shouted encouragement from center court. Trent ran as fast as his cramped leg muscles would allow. If Cora saw him now, she’d have reason to call him a hobbit.

  Trent didn’t want to be last to finish, but he was. The pain was worth it. The entire team high-fived him as he crossed baseline the last time.

  If he’d been participating as their official coach, he’d have delivered a short motivational speech – one of his infamous sermons.

  Flash office staff delivered sandwiches and salad. The training staff appeared with water, Ben Gay, and ice bags. Muscles were massaged. Randy hobbled over and asked Trent if he needed anything.

  Trent shook his head. “Ice your knee. It must be killing you.”

  “He’s bad luck.” Evan nodded toward Randy when the kid finally sat down in the corner with an ice pack.

  Trent wrestled an unexpected burst of annoyance. Somehow he managed to keep his voice civil. “I thought you said basketball players aren’t superstitious.”

  “We aren’t. But we aren’t blind to signs either.”

  Trent understood. Randy was a neon sign. One that proclaimed winning came at a cost.

  One Trent was willing to pay.

  Chapter 12

  If there hadn’t been Coach Parker and NBA eye-candy as witnesses, Cora might have strangled Viv this morning.

  She’d wanted to tell her, “Reclaiming your power doesn’t involve flashing your hoo-hah.”

  She’d wanted to tell her, “Put some clothes on, skank. This is not how to get your man back.”

  But she’d known women who’d gone crazy over men before and made themselves look like fools. Wildly embarrassing behavior was nothing new. It was simply annoying because as a life coach, the most she could tell Viv was, “It’s time to shower.”

  “I don’t like this,” Viv said as she and Cora walked out of the Flash practice facility in the late morning heat. They’d showered and dressed in jeans, casual blouses, and heels. “Jack didn’t show. He’s always here, from morning until night.”

  Not always.

  “Do you want him back or not?” Cora could almost look Viv in the eye without thinking about sex with Jack. Almost.

  Viv straightened her shoulders. “I want him back. I just wish he’d get rid of this stupid team.”

  Argh! Viv and her one track mind.

  “No negatives about the team. You’re half owner. You co-signed the loans Jack took out to buy the team. You need to claim your half.”

  “If it wasn’t for – ”

  “Vivian.” Cora struggled to hold onto patience. “Let it go. Focus on the positive. You and Jack and a bunch of little Jacks running around.” When Cora agreed to be the one on the ground coaching Trent, Jack, and Viv, she hadn’t realized how frustrating it would be.

  Viv blew out a breath. “You don’t think I’m pathetic? Chasing after Jack like this?”

  “A little.” Cora wasn’t the sugar-coating type. “But it takes balls to go after what you want. And you should never let anyone else tell you what you should want.”

  Viv considered Cora’s words and seemed to approve. “Okay. What now?”

  “We go where you’ll get maximum media exposure. Wicked Tantric.” Hopefully, Jack’s possessive streak would re-emerge if he thought Vivian was honing her sexual prowess and not using it on him.

  Wicked Tantric had been founded by Senge Tenzing as a place to improve one’s sex life. Hollywood had embraced the studio, but more importantly it was a place the paparazzi regularly hung out, hoping to see the likes of Kent Decklin entering – which would be the same as saying Kent Decklin needed help in the sack. It didn’t matter that – according to Amber – Kent Decklin did need help in the sack. The actor would never show up.

  Cora parked in front of Wicked Tantric. Pandemonium erupted when the paparazzi recognized Viv. And then they saw Cora. A swarm of man-sized locusts descended upon Cora’s car.

  “I should have sent you with a friend.” Cora gripped her steering wheel, trying to ignore the cloying sweep of claustrophobia. Bodies jostled her car. Cora barely kept herself from speeding away. “I’m afraid your celebrity plus my being from the Dooley Foundation is going to make this more difficult than I thought. We can circle the block and phone a friend.”

  “I don’t have friends anymore,” Viv said with a quiet determination. “They all thought I should move on from Jack.”

  “Maybe you had the wrong friends.” Cora didn’t like the bitter note in her voice. Portia’s face came to mind. “You need the kind who sticks with you when life gets messy. The kind who won’t stab you in the back or tell you what you should want.”

  Viv stared at her. “I struck a chord, did I?”

  She nodded. “A familiar note, yes.”

  A hint of a smile emerged on Viv’s face, thawing her usually-frozen features. “Who needs those bitches?”

  “My sentiments exactly.” Cora returne
d her smile, wondering at how much they had in common. She wished she could take back having sex with Jack, because the more she got to know Viv, the more it felt like a betrayal. The truth fell upon her, like the paparazzo around her car, scrambling for an opening. The problem was that Viv may look strong, but underneath the veneer her love made her fragile.

  “Let’s do this,” Viv said.

  Together, they braved the swarm of photographers, who had no concept of personal space.

  “Mrs. Gordon! Mrs. Gordon! Are you seeking help because of your disappointment in Blue Rule’s sexual skills?”

  Cora elbowed someone in the ribs.

  Viv was better at this. She laughed and tossed her blond hair over her shoulder, not looking directly at anyone.

  “Are you two ladies attending a naked yoga session?”

  Cora ground her heel into someone’s tennis shoe.

  “Is someone meeting you inside? Jack Gordon? Trent Parker?”

  Cora feigned a stumble, catching her balance with a hand on a large black lens, sending it smashing into someone’s face. “Sorry,” she sing-songed.

  They entered the den of sin to the rapid cacophony of cameras. As soon as the doors swung closed, there was silence, tranquility, and nearly life-size statues in X-rated poses. Lots of statues.

  Cora’s gaze kept returning to one provocative statue.

  Like that’s possible. Trent would have to –

  Trent was off-limits. Grabbing Viv’s arm, Cora approached the front desk and the beautiful, Asian receptionist. “We have an appointment with Senge.”

  They were directed upstairs, where sandalwood burned in side sconces. Their heels clicked over the bare, hardwood floor. There was nothing special here. It could have been a dance studio, except for the dais at the front where Hollywood’s most popular sex therapist stood.

  Senge was a swarthy little man with the kind of smile that swung between creepy and compelling. He wore a long white robe and what looked like a braided friendship bracelet. “Ladies, I have been waiting for you. Come into my office so we can discuss your needs.”