by Mel Curtis
His gaze landed on Cora, on the guarded look in her dark eyes. He pushed trades and players to the back of his mind. “Have a drink with me tonight.”
She barely moved her head in the negative.
“Just a drink and some good conversation.” He tried for sincerity, he really did. But it was hard to sound sincere when you were so close to a woman who made your dick come alive. He needed to quench this thirst.
She rolled her eyes. “There’s too much something-something between us for there to be much conversation. Besides, the Reverend thinks I’m too young and sexy.”
Trent loved her passionate, blunt honesty. “The Reverend isn’t coming along. The Reverend is only involved in team management. The Reverend goes to bed early, whereas Trent is something of a night owl.” And thoughts of her had been keeping him awake at night. Why not have her keep him awake at night?
Yeah, he didn’t expect to be much of a conversationalist.
“I’m curious to see who shows up tonight,” she said, turning her attention to the court. “By the way, Reverend, other than delivering an update on Jack, I’m here to work. Who’s got self doubts today?” She glanced at his package, where her hips had pressed just an hour earlier. “And who’s under-performing?”
“Nobody.” Trent couldn’t get the word out fast enough. “This is my turf.”
“Miss Cora!” Archie waved from where he was rebounding for the younger guards on the other side of the gym.
Her smile brightened. It was the kind of smile that ignored mixed messages from conflicted coaches. “Things must be going well with your dad and Mary Sue Ellen,” she said to Trent, beaming at his two young assistant coaches. “How about them?”
He didn’t want her anywhere near Berto and Randy. “Taken care of.”
She leaned closer, testing his resolve with a mischievous smile and the scent of vanilla. “How about you? Anything I can help you with?”
His dick came to attention, nearly trembling with anticipation. The chirp of shoes on hardwood and the echo of masculine voices filled his ears.
When he said nothing, her smile broadened. “Distractions getting in the way of your focus, Reverend?”
Hell and damnation, yes.
She’d mastered the art of the double entendre. “We’ll talk about ways to shut out the noise tonight.”
He didn’t want to shut out her noise tonight. He wanted to hear the hitch in her voice after he kissed her. He wanted to hear her moan in pleasure as he filled her. He wanted to ride her tight, juicy orgasm until his control burst and his cock burst and his throat burst with a roar the neighbors could hear.
“You need to leave.” Before his Johnson won the battle with his resolve and he dragged her back to the supply closet. “This is my turf.”
“We share this turf.” She held a finger up between them, reminiscent of the night he’d held a salted whiskey finger between them and she’d tongued him clean.
Trent glanced back to the door leading to the closet.
“Oops, gotta run. Ren’s waving me over.” She left him in a click of heels and a sway of hips.
He’d never had so much fun falling prey to feminine wiles. Even if the night resulted in talk, he’d still have a good time with her.
Other players demanded Cora’s attention. She admired Ren’s three-point shot, Antoine’s improved jumper, and applauded Jablone’s refined spin move. He’d seen team doctors with less regard for players than she showed.
Trent didn’t baby his players. He wasn’t much for positive reinforcement on a daily basis either. Guys who wanted to play for him, gave it 100%. But these guys upped their efforts for her. And it didn’t seem like they were showing off.
“That’s a great move,” Cora told Jablone. She reached up to cover his eyes with both hands. “Now visualize doing the move with a strong finish and a score. Create the feeling of that beautiful move. Hold that near your heart, trust the feeling and you can do it again and again. Got it?”
After a moment, Jablone nodded and she removed her hands. He set up for his move and went up strong for a dunk.
It was as if his players were standing in line to speak with Cora. All she was doing was reinforcing the positive, bolstering their confidence in themselves, doing nothing it took any special training to provide. But he was starting to doubt that anyone could walk in off the street and deliver the support she gave.
“My jumper won’t always be pretty,” Antoine was saying to her.
“Not with that attitude,” she gently chided. “Remember that thoughts lead to actions. Tell me how pretty your jump shot is.”
“My jumper is sweet like peach cobbler, baby.” And to prove it, Antoine sent a beauty into the basket.
Somewhere in Trent’s head, a voice offered a tentative, traitorous thought: With training, she might actually be a good sports psychologist.
Annoyance constricted his manhood. “Miss Rule.”
She looked at Trent from across the court with a smile that said she knew what he was thinking, that she was thinking it, too: There will be noise.
Telling himself he moved stiffly because he’d suffered through brutal workouts the past few days, Trent took a couple steps forward and pointed toward the door.
It took her several more minutes to comply.
~*~
“It’s you!” Mimi threw her arms around Cora and pancaked her boobs between them. “Come inside and see Coco’s new sweater.”
“Sweater?” Cora shut Mimi’s door behind her, wishing it was as easy to shut off the thrill of flirting with Trent. “It’s not sweater weather. It’s ninety degrees outside.”
“Winter’s coming.” Mimi danced into the living room in yellow capris and a sleeveless, navy button down.
“She’s been shopping,” her sober companion explained without dropping People magazine from in front of her broad face.
“Gemma took me. She’s a sweetheart, isn’t she?” Mimi did her impression of Vanna White in front of a two story dog house with a tiny pink dog sweater draped over the roof. “Do you like it?”
“Gemma? My Gemma?” Sour-puss, disapproving-of-sex Gemma?
“Is there more than one?” A deadpan voice behind People. Mimi, Coco, and Gemma were in a sidebar picture on the cover.
Gemma was on the cover of People, too? What the hell?
Mimi picked up the dog sweater. “You don’t like it.”
“I do,” Cora hurried to recover. “I was just surprised you’d been shopping. Where’s Coco?”
“Asleep in her penthouse suite.” Mimi pulled Cora over. Together, they peeked into the second story window.
The entire second floor of the doghouse was pink inside. Cora couldn’t help but smile. The brown teacup poodle squinted at them, and then rolled over so her back was to them, like the pampered princess she was.
“I’m so happy here.” Mimi handed Cora the sweater and plopped onto the couch. “At home.”
The yarn used for the dog sweater was soft as mink. “Have you gone out other than with Gemma?”
“Uhm…” Mimi twirled a lock of long blond hair. “No.”
The sober companion lowered People. “Kent Gordon wants to come over for dinner.”
“That’s not all Kent wants,” Mimi said in a voice that was uncharacteristically flat.
Cora recognized an opportunity for a heart-to-heart when she heard one. She sat on the floor near Mimi’s feet. “Is he pressuring you?”
The actress sighed. “No.”
“Yes,” contradicted the sober companion. She was one tough broad.
Mimi shrugged with her entire upper body. “How can it be pressure when we have an understanding?”
“An exclusive understanding?” If so, the actor had been cheating on Mimi.
“No. We make good press together and sometimes do…other things.” She worked to flatten a crease in her capris. “I know he sees other women and I’m okay with that. I see other men.” Mimi blinked her big blue eyes. “That’s okay
, isn’t it?”
It was like looking in a mirror – a woman exercising her sexual rights and experiencing conflicting feelings.
The sober companion harrumphed.
“I’m not going to judge.” Cora sent the sober companion a disapproving look. “I think you have to be comfortable with your life and your choices. If you want to play the field like a man, go for it. And if you want to be exclusive with Kent or anyone else, that’s your decision, too.” The words, once spoken, felt right.
“But I…” Mimi glanced uncomfortably toward her sober companion. “What guy would want to date me? My reputation isn’t…I mean, I…”
“You’d feel uncomfortable being introduced to some guy’s mom? Wearing a white dress on your wedding day?” Fear a man who kissed you like he needed you more than air would be embarrassed to be seen with you?
“Yes.” A full upper-body slump. Not a good look for Mimi. “I’m so glad you understand.”
“I feel that way, too,” Cora admitted quietly, staring at Coco’s pink doghouse. “I guess there’s a man out there for each of us who won’t care who we slept with before he came along, as long as he’s the last person we sleep with.” When Cora looked up, she was surprised to see Mimi extending her hand. Cora took it and moved to sit next to her.
“I wish I would have met you months ago.” Mimi’s grip was fierce. “There was this guy from back home. My high school sweetheart.” She rolled her eyes. “He came to visit. We hooked up and when I wouldn’t agree to be exclusive or marry him, he called me a slut. I’d never…everyone here does it. I hadn’t realized…That’s when I started drinking more.” Her gaze turned remorseful. “I didn’t stop drinking until Cy drove me to rehab.”
Cora squeezed Mimi’s hand. “Next time some dickhead calls you a slut, instead of lifting a glass, lift your hand and slap him.”
Chapter 16
L.A. Happenings by Lyle Lincoln
…The movie trailer for Cat Claws from Hell features Lon Gleason playing against his wholesome, Disney image and possibly against his agent’s advice! What fun!
…Mimi Sorbet and that mystery woman were spotted shopping for pet supplies once more. Mystery glam gal, @GlitterfrostGem, received more Women Crush Wednesday mentions than Mimi this week. How long can this friendship last?
“Damn, son. I wouldn’t have thought you could pull this off with that pious style you have, but you did.” Archie heaved himself out of the Fairlane.
“Coach isn’t religious like that.” Randy climbed from the back. “He’s serious. There’s a difference. You say pious and people expect religion and perfection. You say serious and people understand you’re dedicated.”
Randy’s words settled onto Trent like a perfectly tailored coat. He’d been serious about playing and coaching at religious universities. His environment had dictated his nickname. If he’d played or coached at Harvard, they might have called him the Professor for his determined approach to the game. Randy’s insight also seemed to explain why the press wouldn’t let his track record of injured players go. Other coaches had similar records, but the Reverend’s record made a better story.
Archie flashed Trent a glance that seemed to say the kid was smarter than he gave him credit. “I’m for the bar. Who’s with me?” His dad beelined it through the lobby.
Trent was surprised that Randy followed the old man. They paused at the lounge entrance and looked back at him. He didn’t want to go into the bar. It reminded him of Cora. He was having second thoughts about seeing her tonight. He’d pay for porn and pretend he was with her.
“You go on,” Trent told them.
He turned toward the hallway leading to his room. He passed the elevators, remembering Cora helping him hoist Archie to his room and her amused glance when Archie complained Holy Southern hadn’t wanted to hire him. She wasn’t anything like he expected based on her beautifully cool looks.
Trent’s room seemed cavernous. The slamming door echoed through the empty luxury suite. He needed to add house-hunting to his to-do list. Cora’s condo came to mind. It was small overall, but large where it mattered. The open living room and dining room were perfect for hosting the team. He’d need a place where he could entertain the team and their women.
I’m with all of them.
Cora’s statement from the day they’d met was true. She paid attention to every man on the team.
“For the love of God,” Trent said aloud, emptying his pockets. “Stop.”
He propped himself against the headboard and sent out texts to several candidates for additional assistant coaching roles. He needed experienced position coaches, but men who were open to his coaching philosophy and innovative style. Men willing to take risks. His rate of refusal was higher than he expected. He’d become a victim of his media image. The Reverend wasn’t made of Teflon. Good thing the team was accepting Randy and Berto, but that might not extend to them listening to the youngsters during games.
Consulting the front office, Trent had managed to release two fringe players today, and sent two college draft picks down to their development team in Las Vegas. Evan wasn’t happy that their stock of backups was depleted. If Jack didn’t bounce back soon and the team was injury-plagued in the pre-season, they’d be in trouble.
With Jack still in the hospital and no contingency plan in place for team financial and management decisions, Trent and the team would be hamstrung soon. He needed a few key role players to implement his ideas and their first game was only a week away.
If Trent’s system worked, he’d no longer be the pariah the press made him out to be. He’d be seen as a respected coach. His father would regain credibility as well, just by association. And Randy would have one hell of a resume.
But the system had to work. It had to work. He wanted to be free to live his life the way he wanted, according to his own beliefs, his own desires, his own code of conduct. Without sermons. Without censure. Without gossip. All he wanted to do was coach a basketball team. Why did that mean his life became open to judgment?
He showered, but despite the warm water, his muscles ached. He flexed his toes on the bed. It felt good. Randy’s evaluation of him felt good. Serious, not pious. Trent, not the Reverend.
He knew what would feel better. It wasn’t porn.
He texted one more person.
Mistake. Big Mistake.
She texted him back: You can only come over to talk.
Trent wasn’t feeling much like talking.
He went anyway.
~*~
It had been weeks since Cora’d had sex with anyone but her vibrator.
For some women, that might not be a big deal. And it might not have been an issue with Cora if no man was pinging her ju-ju meter. But no matter what she did, Trent sat at the fringe of her consciousness, like a backseat driver who wouldn’t shut up.
She’d driven past The Ivy and seen a couple exchange a kiss across a small patio table and thought of Trent. She’d channel-surfed past a Lifetime movie, pausing to watch the romantic leads kiss and thought of Trent. She’d sat at Jack Gordon’s bedside, holding Viv’s hand and thought of Trent.
When she’d returned from the hospital that night (and a visit to both Cal’s father and Jack), she’d found Senge’s book on the floor behind the driver’s seat where she’d left it days ago. The steamy content of the book required wine, a rich Zinfandel. The more wine she drank, the more a familiar male face superimposed itself on the illustrations.
She brought out her sketch pad and tried sketching evening gowns. Everything she drew looked like spiky anime, not surprising given all her energy and creativity lately went into life coaching. She switched to creating a garden on the page. Somehow Trent’s name appeared in the shading of a lily leaf.
She’d given up on sketching and had been flipping through the sex book when she received Trent’s text. Her motor was already racing, prepared to go over the legal limit. But Trent was a posted-speed, law-abiding citizen. She didn’t believe his deni
als. He was the Reverend 24/7. Tonight, they’d flirt. They’d talk. They wouldn’t have sex.
She reached for her vibrator, needing to take the edge off, but the batteries were dead. She should have bought some from Senge!
Cora met him at the door, barefoot, in shorts and a camisole. She should have changed into something that covered more skin. He wasn’t dressed for business either – basketball shorts, a Flash polo shirt and flip flops. He might at least have put on slacks and a button down, something harder to yank off.
She had to get sex off the table early, for her sake, not his. “Ah, Reverend. I assume you’re coming over to talk strategy for the team.” She backed into the kitchen. “Do you want something to drink? Whiskey? Wine? Water?”
“Whiskey.” He shut the door, locking it behind him. “Nice neighborhood. I saw two movie stars walking their dog down the block.” He leaned against the kitchen arch, watching her as he had the other night, arms crossed and unavailable. “And it’s Trent.”
She made him a drink and topped off her wine, unable to carry on a conversation when there was clearly sex in the air, no chaperones, and too much wine in her system. “This isn’t a booty call.”
“I said we’d talk.” He accepted his drink and headed for the living room. “What’s on ESPN?”
“College football.”
He sat in one corner of the couch facing the television, gesturing for her to sit in the opposite corner. Brutus, the traitor, hopped into his lap. “There’s usually a classic basketball game running on one of the other sports channels.”
“Why go classic? I have some Flash games recorded.” She punched up a game with the remote, muting the sound. “We could play the drinking game. I’ll drink whenever Evan makes a mistake. You drink whenever anyone else makes a mistake.”
“Why do you get Evan? I’d be too drunk to drive if I had to take shots for the rest of the team.” He gave her that wickedly crooked grin, the one that belonged to Trent, not the Reverend, the one that set off sparks in her from breast to belly.
