The smile she assumed to keep Mary from asking too many questions hurt. The muscles of her jaw ached from being held so tightly. Mary looked at her a little oddly, but made no objection to Carolyn’s request for the academic records of one of the basketball players.
She opened the folder on Frank Gordon, which Mary had pulled from a drawer in the file room, and started reading reports of his progress at Ashton. She’d seen all this before, but if she was patient . . .
“I’ll be in front if you need me, Carolyn.”
“Fine. Thank you.”
As soon as Mary disappeared down the hall, Carolyn went to the section marked Confidential. These were the personal files compiled before admission—transcripts from high school, reports from counselors, assessments from admissions experts—and any other sensitive material. Access was strictly limited, and the files were shredded with each graduating class.
She knew she should get Stewart’s permission first, but she wanted to have the facts before she faced him with this terrible disappointment. Perhaps some part of her still hoped it wasn’t true.
Frank’s file was easy to find; it was the only one in the long drawer marked with a red tab. Here were the pieces she’d been missing.
The numbers and words on the form stabbed at her. Still, she recognized the careful and clever editing done on the information she’d received. Frank Gordon wasn’t stupid— she knew that from firsthand experience—but his background left him far below Ashton’s entrance requirements.
Carefully she returned the file, wondering who had added the red tab that marked Frank so clearly as a special case.
C.J. Draper had arranged to have him admitted to play basketball. It was as simple as that—with no thought to what it might do to Frank’s confidence to constantly struggle against better prepared students; with no thought to what it meant to Ashton’s long-standing and carefully guarded reputation.
Her voice barely shook when she called the athletic department, but the young secretary seemed to sense the urgency behind it. “Coach Draper’s at practice right now, Professor Trent. But I can send him a message when they’re done at 6:30—”
“Send him a message now. Tell him I want to see him at President Barron’s office. Right now.”
“But they're in practice—”
“Then interrupt practice.”
Mary Rollins stared at her as she slammed down the phone.
“Thank you, Mary. Sorry to keep you so late.” Her voice steadied, but she knew she couldn’t manage a smile.
“No problem. But, Carolyn, you can’t take that.”
She looked down at the academic file she still held crushed against her coat. “No. Of course not.” She didn’t need it. Each item in that file—and the confidential one—was imprinted on her memory. The facts repeated in her mind in the few minutes it took to cross to Stewart’s office.
C.J. had gotten Frank into Ashton despite the rules. C.J. had lied to her. C.J. was doing just what she’d feared.
Her first suspicions about the basketball program were finally confirmed. She should feel vindicated, but she didn’t. She felt angry. Oh, yes, anger strong enough to pump any bitter disappointment out of her system for good.
Marsha Hortler, occupied on the telephone, nodded for her to go into Stewart’s office. The smile that Stewart had begun to form when he glanced up from his desk withered when he saw Carolyn’s expression.
“I’ve sent for C.J. Draper, Stewart. I’m sorry to break in on you like this and seem so high-handed, but there’s a serious problem that needs to be addressed immediately.”
“Carolyn—”
“You’re damn right there’s a problem.” C.J.’s angry voice pulled their attention toward him as he strode in. He was only wearing a lightweight jacket open over his sweatpants and sweatshirt, but a temperature barely into double digits apparently hadn’t cooled his anger. The door slammed behind him, but he didn’t pause until he faced Carolyn in front of Stewart’s desk. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Professor Trent?”
The snarl was like a physical blow, but she refused to recoil. “I’m fighting to protect Ashton and its reputation.”
“Is this how you do it?” He held up a tightly wadded sheet of newsprint. The grooves bracketing his mouth were white with rage. His eyes narrowed in disdain. “A printer at the Tribune brought me this.” He threw the sheet down on Stewart’s desk. “So that’s how Carolyn Trent fights for Ashton—by smearing a kid in the press.”
The words Ashton, Gordon and Admission Irregularities showed in headline type. A flash of pain struck her for Frank. He, too, was a victim in this. She’d find a way to help him, but first she had to protect Ashton.
“If Frank is hurt,” she said, “it’s by the people who cheated to get him admitted to this school. It’s by you, not me. And I won’t allow it.” She faced C.J. squarely, tilting her chin up to trade glare for glare. “You’re so intent on feeding your own ambitions, you’re making Ashton into the kind of school where athletics come before academics, and I won’t sit back and watch it.
“Frank Gordon shouldn’t have been admitted to Ashton,” she continued, “and he most certainly should not be playing basketball. He should be getting extra help to make up for that background you so carefully omitted from the file you gave me. Frank has ability—real ability, the kind of ability Ashton is supposed to develop. That’s the kind of university Ashton always was until you—”
He took a step toward her. Reflexively she stepped back, then stopped immediately.
“If your beloved Ashton’s the kind of place where women like you use boys like Frank Gordon to get what you want—or to get rid of what you don’t want—I don’t give a damn for the place, or you.”
The door he slammed on his way out reverberated into silence before Carolyn turned to Stewart. He sat as he had when she’d entered, seemingly frozen by C.J.’s eruption into his office.
She drew a deep breath. This hurt Stewart, too. He cared as much about Ashton as she did. He also liked and admired C.J. Draper.
“Stewart, I’m sorry you heard it this way, but you must have gathered Frank Gordon shouldn’t have been admitted—”
“Sit down, Carolyn.”
“C.J. must have pulled some strings in admissions. We have to check that so it doesn’t happen again, but the first thing is what to do—”
“I said sit down, Carolyn.”
He’d never used that tone to her. Not in all the years growing up in his house. Not in all the years studying and teaching at his university.
He took his glasses off and rubbed the bridge of his nose with a weary sigh. Then he looked directly at her. “I was the one who oversaw Frank Gordon’s admission.”
The decision to sit or stand was beyond her control. Her knees made the decision for her: sit or fall down.
“I was involved almost from the beginning. C.J. told me about the boy and I looked into Frank’s background carefully. I decided he suffered from poor test-taking skills and a very poor school system. He didn’t lack for intelligence, but he did lack the usual Ashton background. That’s part of what intrigued me so much.”
Even through her astonishment she sensed his excitement. “This school has made great strides, but we’re becoming rigid. If we don’t keep growing, trying new challenges, then we’ll start teaching by rote. And that’s not teaching at all.”
He stood up to come around the desk and sit in front of her. “There are fifteen others, Carolyn. Fifteen other students whose grades and scores didn’t meet Ashton’s standards in some area. But they had something else. There are some gifted musicians, a very promising artist, a brilliant math student, two wonderful writers. And others. We’re tracking these sixteen very carefully, hoping their success will help us launch a permanent program.”
The red tag, she thought. Now she understood the red tag on Frank’s file.
Stewart leaned forward to meet her eyes. “I didn’t do this lightly. I talked to administ
rators at other schools. And I consulted with some of our top people in admissions.”
She hated the pain welling up in her, but she couldn’t stop it. “But not with me.”
“No.” He sat back. Then, seeming to come to some decision, he leaned forward again and took her unresisting hands in his. “I knew your feelings about athletics, and Ashton’s academic standing. I feared you’d be too—”
“Rigid?”
He met her angry look steadily. “If you like. I was going to say adamant. But that was only with the abstract idea. I knew that when you dealt with Frank—or anyone—as an individual that you’d do your best for them. I hoped it would open you to some new ideas, ideas you haven’t had much chance to examine because you’ve moved so quickly up the academic ladder. That’s one of the reasons I wanted you to work with the team. The other reason is that you’re a damn fine teacher, and you’re the best one to help the boy realize his potential. And it’s working.”
His look challenged her to deny it. “Did you listen to what you said to C.J., Carolyn? First, you said Frank shouldn’t have been admitted, but then you said he should be getting extra help to develop his potential—the kind of potential Ashton should develop.”
She remembered saying the words, and being too furious to consider what she was saying. Or to be bothered that she’d contradicted herself. She’d believed in Ashton’s standards, and Frank didn’t meet those standards. But he did have potential. And she’d fight anybody who tried to prevent her from helping him.
“What you just said about Frank’s potential tells me that you want to keep the boy in school. And from what I’ve seen of his grades he’s making remarkable progress under your guidance. Wouldn’t you say his progress is good?”
“Yes.”
“Is he in danger in any of his classes?”
“No,” she admitted. “But he could do better. He’s operating under a tremendous handicap. It’s as if he started a race a mile behind everyone else.”
“I know that. So does C.J.” He stilled her impatient reaction to his defense of C.J. with a raised palm. “And, most importantly, so does Frank. But he made the decision to try to catch up. He’s quite a kid. In all of this his welfare is what should come first.”
Stewart stood up and placed an affectionate hand briefly on her shoulder. “Now that this is out in the open I think you and C.J. should discuss how to handle it from here. Whatever else there is between the two of you—” with his back to her as he returned to his chair, she couldn’t tell if he’d added special meaning to those words “—you both owe it to Frank and the rest of the players to get along. I think you should go talk to C.J.”
Oh, yes, she would talk to C.J. Draper. That she was sure of. He would know just how she felt about his lying to her, keeping her in the dark, accusing her of being underhanded when he’d manipulated her all along.
And she knew where to find him. A gym rat. Shooting hoops.
Both sets of double doors from the foyer to the gym were threaded with steel chain and padlocked for the night. Still, she could hear the distinct bounce of a ball against a hardwood floor. He was in there. She fought down an urge to futilely rattle the doors for admittance. She wouldn’t give him the pleasure. She backed up two steps, staring at the unhelpful doors. He was inside, so there had to be another way. Of course... through Dolph Reems’s office.
C.J.’s office was open and empty. Shrugging off her coat and tossing it aside as she passed through Dolph’s office, she headed for the gym door, held open by a rubber wedge. She kicked it away as she crossed the threshold and heard the faint click of the automatic lock behind her.
The bleachers were pushed back against the walls, all except one partially opened section, the closest to where she stood. C.J.’s discarded sweatpants and a key ring were thrown across the bottom step. The gym was empty, except for C.J. in shorts and sweatshirt, playing one on none.
He dribbled the length of the court toward her, feinting away from imaginary opponents, driving through an imaginary defense. She knew he was aware of her, but he never faltered as he leaped and released the ball on a delicate, arcing path to the basket. The net made a swishing noise as she said, “I want to talk to you, C.J. Draper.”
The ball bounced once, barely reaching knee level before he scooped it up and headed toward the opposite end of the court. Again the ball arced neatly into the basket. Again he scooped it up and headed back. But this time he found Carolyn squarely in his path.
“I want to talk to you!”
He pulled up in front of her, close enough for her to see the sweat glistening on his bare arms and neck. “Get off my court with those shoes.”
“C. J.—”
“Get those shoes off if you’re going to stay here.” He bounced the ball just inches from the toes of her pumps, then drove around her for another basket.
He wouldn’t get rid of her that easily. She stood on one foot to remove a black pump, and threw it with the force of anger. The other quickly followed. The twin thuds pulled C.J.'s head around, first to the shoes lying in the corner formed by the partially opened bleachers, then to Carolyn’s defiant stance in the middle of the court.
One corner of his mouth twitched. He dribbled toward her, slower and slower as he got closer. Then, just as she dived for the ball so enticingly near, he bounced it past her with a quick flick of his wrist, sidestepped her and continued dribbling toward the basket without missing a beat. Her slick nylons on the smooth floor slid her off balance, and she barely prevented herself from falling.
“Better take the hose off, too . . . if you’re going to stay.”
She glared at his back as he lazily approached the basket. She pulled off her panty hose with no regard for their delicacy, jammed them into the pocket of her suit jacket and, with quick, long strides, got close enough to send the flame-red jacket in the same general direction as her shoes.
“You know, you seem angry, Professor.” The lazy drawl of their first encounters was back. “When I get angry, very angry at someone very aggravating—” he shot her a laser look from his blue eyes as they faced each other at mid-court “—I come out here and shoot hoops. Sorry, that’s baskets to you, Professor. Usually I don’t care much for company when I shoot hoops. In fact, I went to some pains to make sure I wasn’t interrupted. But I guess you didn’t get the hint.”
She grabbed for the ball, but he was too quick for her. “Maybe that’s what you need. To shoot some baskets.” He moved to the basket, soaring toward it to lay the shot in. Then he recovered the ball and returned to midcourt.
“I know what I’m angry about, Professor. I’m angry that someone I asked not to do something—”
“Demanded!” she amended as she lunged for the ball.
“Went ahead and did it with no regard for who it might hurt.”
She started a move toward his right hand, and he dribbled behind his back to switch to his left. Too late, he saw it was a fake. She grabbed the ball before he could secure it, then stepped back with her prize. “Now, Mr. Draper!” she said, gloating with victory.
“Now, Professor Trent,” he said, acknowledging her upper hand mildly.
“I wasn’t given the information about Frank Gordon that I needed to do my job.”
Her pride wouldn’t let her point out that she also hadn’t had the information to betray Frank as he’d so unjustly accused her of doing. How could she tell the reporter anything about Frank’s background when she seemed to be one of the few who didn’t know?
“Maybe not. Why don’t you go ahead and shoot the ball? You’re not bad for someone who doesn’t like basketball.”
Absently she dribbled the ball with the long-forgotten movement of high school physical education classes. “The information I needed—”
“Of course, I was forgetting you were a swimmer, weren’t you? Once an athlete always an athlete. Go ahead, shoot.”
“You didn’t trust me. You lied to me.” She pushed the ball toward the basket with a
ll the force behind those words. It came up short, hitting hard against the front rim and ricocheting back to midcourt.
C.J. easily pulled it in and headed for the basket. “Maybe, but you didn’t trust me, either. You were so sure you knew more about everything than I did that you couldn’t believe I would know why a reporter might want to talk to you.”
“You could have told me!”
“I did tell you.”
“Not about reporters! About Frank!”
“Yeah, and you could have raised a stink about it. Look what you did today.”
He put the ball up, but it caught the right rim and squirted away. C.J. grabbed for it, but this time Carolyn was there. She wrapped her arms around the orange leather sphere and twisted away with flying elbows. “That’s because you lied about it.”
“Shoot it, Carolyn. Don’t just stand there.”
Stung, she dribbled from the sideline around to the free throw line and let go with a shot. To her deep amazement—and gratification—it swished through the net without touching the rim at all.
“Not bad, Professor.” C.J.’s voice held genuine praise.
He dribbled out to her at the free throw line. They faced each other and started a fast-footed drill of feint-and-follow.
“That’s how you reacted now,” he said between moves, “after knowing Gordo for four months. What would you have done back in October?” His movements were dizzyingly fast, but she followed every one. “I didn’t know—” his words came out in pants, but the movement never stopped “—if I could . . . risk it. Gordo’s just . . . getting his feet . . . now.”
Her breath came hard, her heart raced, but she wouldn’t give in. “I . . .wouldn’t . . . hurt him.” Lunging, she knocked the ball away. She was a step quicker because he had to pivot on his weak left leg. She got the ball and held it with one hand against her side.
“Not even to get rid of basketball at Ashton—to get rid of me?” he asked.
He thought she’d do that? He thought that of her? “No, not even for that,” she snapped.
She stood with her hands on her hips, the ball tucked casually under one arm. Her breathing lifted her breasts high under the demure white blouse.
Hoops Page 14
