Hoops

by Patricia McLinn

  Having the tacit declaration of that public knowledge delivered virtually back to back by the two men who were the closest things to father figures in her life should have really thrown her for a loop. But she’d hardly batted an eye.

  It didn’t reassure him.

  C.J. didn’t consider himself an insecure man. This was something different.

  He told her the team had a real shot at some upsets in the conference tournament, maybe even winning the title and the automatic berth to the national tournament that went with it. Even without the title, the team could get invited to the national tournament as a wild card.

  And he thought about how much he wanted her. All the time. Any time. Never had a woman excited him so easily, so unwittingly. Watching her in the kitchen, finding excuses to brush against her as they cleaned the dishes. Hearing her voice. Just knowing she was in the living room reading.

  He’d lie in her bed holding her, stroking her soft hair. Totally satisfied, yet never having enough of her. His desire for her was a constant pool of gasoline that needed only the tiniest flick of flame from her for a conflagration.

  “Okay, we’ve eaten first,” he declared, grasping her hand and tugging her toward the bedroom. “Now it’s time for seconds.”

  * * * *

  She wasn’t a jealous woman, but Carolyn could be jealous of basketball. A game for heaven’s sake. A boy’s game played by overgrown boys in shorts, squabbling and fighting over a silly orange ball. Good Lord, she even sounded like a jealous woman spitting venom at a rival.

  In the afterglow of their lovemaking, lying naked with C.J.’s warm chest against her back and his arm thrown across her, how could she doubt his feeling for her? She didn’t. But when he talked about the conference tournament and what the team could do, she remembered his ambitions. Ambitions that all led away from Ashton and her.

  What would happen after this season he was making such a success of? Would other schools want him sooner than even his dreams had foretold?

  “Frank got a B plus on that history paper,” she told him, only partially aware of the impulse to remind him that his accomplishments with the team went beyond the court. “I don’t know why the old skinflint couldn’t have given him the A,” she grumbled. Where he nuzzled the back of her neck, she felt C.J.’s mouth lifting up into his uneven grin.

  “Why do I feel like Ward Cleaver learning the Beave just got a good grade? Think I should take him out for an ice-cream sundae?”

  Carolyn reached back to slap at his derriere, but found instead the hard muscle of his upper thigh. “Seriously, you should be proud of these guys. They’re really working hard—in the classroom, too, I mean.”

  “Uh-huh,” he mumbled, feasting more deeply on the taste of the skin at her shoulder. “That’s the guys—Classroom All-Americas.”

  “Well, there is an academic All-America team,” she objected. The unevenness of her voice betrayed the effect of the charges set off in her body by the feel of his muscles and the sensation of his mouth and tongue branding the back of her shoulder.

  “Uh-huh.” The words sounded automatic. His mouth crested the ridge of her shoulder to the front, starting a slow, sensual descent toward another peak, already pebbled. “But no coach. Doesn’t help the coach any to have academic All-Americas.”

  “Some coaches have clauses in their contracts for bonuses based on graduation rates. More and more schools are doing that, so the coaches who keep their players in school are rewarded.” She sensed his heightened interest in her words and felt unaccountably shy.

  “How do you know about that?”

  “Oh, I read it somewhere.” She pressed the flat of her palm against his buttock to draw him closer. His body hardened in delighted response. But the attempt at evasion and diversion seemed to intrigue him more.

  He leaned over her to see her face. “Where’d you read it?”

  “Some magazine,” she muttered.

  He used the simple expedient of pressing her shoulder down into the mattress so that she lay on her back. That way, with his body half over hers, he could see into her eyes. “What magazine?” His grin popped in and out like sunshine behind fitful clouds.

  There was no reason for embarrassment. Still, she felt a little silly. But he wouldn’t let it go. She knew him too well. “Sports Illustrated.”

  He looked into her mildly defiant face and laughed. Amusement, and something deeper, swelled his heart. He dropped back but pulled her with him so that they lay facing each other, side by side. “Professor Trent buying SI in a plain brown wrapper. I can see it now,” he teased, but without malice.

  “I thought I should know more about the players’ interests,” she said defensively. “Their world.” And yours.

  He saw those final, unspoken words in her eyes and experienced a glow, swift and warm, of a deeper emotion calling for a name he wasn’t quite ready to use. He trailed his hand lightly down to her breast, circling the nipple with infinite care. Then he slid one knee between hers and pulled her top leg up across him until it hooked over his hip.

  When his hips moved and she felt the smooth, hard heat of him touch her, her system went haywire. She gasped and arched toward him, instinctively seeking deeper contact. She had just enough rationality left to know he was equally affected. She hardly recognized his voice—only the emotion—when he spoke.

  “You’re quite a woman, Professor Trent.”

  He slid inside her.

  Chapter Eleven

  C.J.’s predictions about the conference tournament nearly came true. The team won its first game easily, pulled an upset in the semifinals and just missed another one against the favorite in the championship game.

  From the first game on Friday until after the championship game on Sunday night when Ashton received an at-large bid to the national tournament, Carolyn was convinced her blood pressure never dropped below a hundred and eighty. She was fascinated, and awed, by the excitement, noise and passion of the conference tournament.

  “I still have the marks on my palms where my nails dug in from clenching my hands,” she told Stewart the next Thursday afternoon in his office.

  Marsha Hortler had called saying Stewart would like to see her, but so far they’d only talked about basketball. C.J. and the team were already at the tournament site just outside Chicago preparing for their first-round game Friday afternoon. She planned to drive down with Stewart and Helene in the morning.

  “Wait until you see the national tournament,” Stewart advised. “The conference is just a warm-up for the nationals.”

  She groaned. “I’m not sure I can take that.”

  “Hope your nerves are steady now because I have some more news for you. Exciting news, I think.”

  Carolyn straightened in the chair. His words said one thing, but his voice said he wasn’t entirely happy with the news, whatever it was.

  “I received a call from England this morning. This year’s seminar organizer contacted me as a professional courtesy to ask permission to approach you about returning there to teach. Permanently.”

  Astonished pride surged through her. They wanted her. One of the most prestigious gatherings of literature professors in the world wanted her.

  Permanently. The word swept in another set of emotions. Live in England. Leave Wisconsin. Leave Ashton. Leave her friends . . . Leave C.J.

  “I could play the heavy if you want.” Stewart offered. “I could tell them no, that you’re contractually bound to Ashton.”

  “Am I?”

  Some of the hopefulness went out of his voice. “Not in any way that would prevent your going.”

  She had a choice to make. She’d make it. She couldn’t decide this by default. “No, Stewart. Thank you, but no. I have to make the decision.”

  “I’m very proud of you, Carolyn. But I would hate to see you leave.” He sighed heavily. “I guess it’s good practice for me. I expect other schools—bigger schools with bigger programs and better jobs—to start calling about C.J. any tim
e now.”

  The reminder that C.J. might not be at Ashton left a jagged pain. “Stewart, please don’t say anything about the offer from the seminar to anyone.” He peered over the top of his glasses at her, and she looked away. “Nothing may come of it, and I’d prefer we kept it between us for now. Just us.”

  “All right, Carolyn, if that’s the way you want it.”

  “Yes. That’s the way I want it.”

  * * * *

  “Can you believe this, Carolyn?” Helene shouted over the noise.

  Sitting right next to her, Carolyn barely deciphered the words. She knew Stewart, on the other side of Helene, was speaking because she saw his lips move. But the flood of sound swallowed his words.

  The arena was under siege from noise. Every decibel in the world was here, caught in the shouts and roars and whistles and claps. It was enough to tear the world apart on this Sunday afternoon in March: Ashton University was on the verge of the biggest upset of the season.

  After reaching the conference tournament final the week before, then winning the first-round game in the national tournament Friday, the Ashton Aces possessed a wide following as a sentimental favorite.

  But this, this was totally unexpected. Leading Bracken State, the number two team in the country, by three points with nineteen seconds left in the game.

  The Bracken State coach called his final time-out as soon as his team gained control of the ball. His players gathered around him while he rapidly diagramed plays designed to prevent the loss.

  Anxiety sent Carolyn’s heart thudding against her ribs. Nineteen seconds. There were so many ways a win could disappear in nineteen seconds.

  A three-point shot would tie the score and send it into overtime. Did Ashton have the endurance for that? A foul at the wrong moment could give Bracken a chance at tying. Or winning. If Bracken got one basket, then stole the ball back for another try . . .

  Her stomach churned with the possibilities as she watched C.J. crouch down, with the Ashton players encircling him.

  Frank, Ellis and Jerry had played every minute of the game so far. All three bent at the waist, resting their hands on their knees and sucking in air as they listened to C.J. Despite the frown of concentration between Brad’s eyes, his mouth couldn’t suppress a wide grin. Holding still was impossible for the rest of the team as jolt after jolt of adrenaline pumped through their systems.

  She saw C.J. look from face to face as he tried to prepare them for the crucible of the next nineteen seconds. She could practically hear the slow drawl that could calm even at a shout.

  Helene’s words came through erratically, like a poor long-distance connection, one faint, one clear, one unintelligible. “They win this and they go to the regional semifinals! Then just two more victories, and it’s the Final Four! I’ve always wanted to go to the national tournament.”

  Want. The word buzzed around Carolyn’s head. Wants conflicted and canceled out. She couldn’t wish for Ashton to lose, but wanting them to win amounted to wanting C.J. to leave. Yes, how could she not want him to get his opportunity, to move on to his dream of the big time?

  She, too, had a chance at a dream. Prestige, honor, recognition in her profession. Hadn’t that always been her dream?

  At that moment she knew only two things that she wanted unequivocally. She wanted the Ashton players—her players—to do themselves proud. And she wanted to put her arms around the tall, lean figure in the red Ashton blazer sending his players back to the court.

  She loved him.

  She held her breath, waiting for a reaction, but there was none. No surprise; it would have been like being surprised that her lungs functioned. No astonishment; it would have been like being astonished that her heart pumped.

  She loved him. And she knew he felt an agony more intense at that moment than his knee had ever caused him. He could do nothing but wait and watch. And let someone else do the doing.

  The Bracken State coach got to his feet and hollered instructions as his team brought the ball in. Despite Ellis’s arms-spread efforts to distract the passer, the ball found its mark. The Bracken State player eluded Brad and dribbled across midcourt.

  Bracken State snapped out two more passes, so quickly that the Ashton players had to scramble to catch up. The third exchange went to Bracken State’s tallest player, in position just to the side of the net. He pulled in the pass, soared over Frank and slammed the ball home.

  Noise became a physical pressure on Carolyn’s chest, pushing out her breath. There wasn’t time to worry about breathing.

  One point. Twelve seconds on the clock.

  Ellis passed the ball to Brad, who immediately sent it back to Ellis. He was the one Ashton wanted to handle the ball. He was hard to steal from; and if Bracken State fouled him, he was steady at the free throw line. Ellis brought the ball up the court with precise care. With a one-point lead the clock was his friend—as long as he held on to the ball.

  Nine seconds. Bracken State tried to hem Ellis in so he’d have to pass the ball or risk a foul for holding it too long. He slipped away just in time.

  Seven seconds. The Bracken State coach stood and screamed at his players to foul. The player closest to Ellis lunged at him, hacking him across the forearm.

  A foul was called, and soon Ellis stood at the free throw line, measuring the familiar distance with his eye. The noise in the arena took on a different quality, undiminished but breathless.

  The ball left Ellis’s hands in a perfect arc. As it curved through the air, time slowed. Carolyn saw Ellis turn an anguished face to C.J. on the bench, saw C.J. rise from the bench and holler something. He clapped his hands twice, then motioned for Ellis to get back on defense.

  The ball touched the outside of the rim and time returned to its usual excruciating pace. The ball squirted to the right, directly into the hands of a Bracken State player.

  “Oh, Ellis,” Carolyn gasped. How long would he punish himself for that miss? But for now he couldn’t allow himself the luxury of blame.

  Six seconds. Bracken State brought the ball up the court as quickly as they could. These players were experienced and confident. They expected to win. All they had to do now was get the ball to the basket.

  Five seconds. The Ashton players spread under the basket, arms wide, trying to form an impenetrable barrier. From up above Carolyn saw the open Bracken State player a split second before his teammate passed the ball to him in the left corner. She tried to shout a warning, but the wall of sound swallowed her words like a single drop in a downpour.

  The Bracken State player gathered himself for the shot. He released the ball from his fingertips. Brad hurtled toward him with arms extended and his body nearly parallel to the ground.

  The ball slammed against Brad’s hands and rebounded to the shooter. But the opening was gone. His balance already regained, Brad closed in to corner him. The shooter passed the ball back to a teammate.

  Three seconds. Ellis shouted something, pointing for Frank to change positions. Carolyn saw C.J., still standing on the sidelines, half reach toward the players as if to move Frank back. His arms dropped abruptly to his side. She saw in every line of his body what control it took to stop the gesture, to hold himself off the court—to let his players play.

  Two seconds. Bracken State made one last pass away from the basket, then sent the ball toward the big player, once more positioned beside the basket. He would need only to reach up for the ball and continue his trip to the net for the winning points.

  One second.

  Frank rose from the players around him like a puff of smoke. It wasn’t a leap; it was levitation. It was a liquid movement that intercepted the pass intended for the Bracken State player, pulled the ball into his chest and guarded it with extended elbows as he floated back to the court.

  It was victory.

  The final buzzer sounded, and Frank flung the ball above his head. The Ashton players, racing from the bench and the corners of the court, piled onto him, pyramiding in ecst
asy.

  C.J. moved more slowly to where Ellis stood alone near center court, head thrown back, arms extended in exultation. He reached out a hand to his player, then pulled him into a hug.

  Carolyn knew she was crying, but couldn’t feel the tears. She could hardly feel the tug on her arm as Stewart tried to keep her and Helene ahead of the wave of humanity surging onto the court.

  Dolph Reems’s bear hug caught her as she came off the last step of the bleachers. He was shouting, but she couldn’t separate the words.

  Out in the middle of the court the players milled around and pounded one another on the back, shouting their joy. Brad draped his arm around Jerry. An upperclassman who rarely played pumped Ellis’s hand unceasingly. Thomas Abbott erupted into periodic whoops of triumph. Frank withstood his teammates’ congratulatory pummeling on his shoulders with a face-splitting grin and a glistening in his eyes.

  From the edge of the melee Carolyn saw Rake enfold C.J. in a hug. When he looked up and saw her, warmth lit C.J.’s face.

  He loved her. He might not even know it, but it was there, in the blue eyes and crooked smile. The wonder of it made her heart want to float up among the rafters and her knees want to buckle.

  Two long strides brought him within range to wrap his arms around her. Her body fitted against his, and C.J. felt complete satisfaction.

  “Coach Draper! Coach Draper! How are you feeling after that tremendous upset? What do you have to say?” The television interviewer’s microphone nearly tangled with Carolyn’s hair as he tried to get it up to C.J.’s mouth.

  “I feel terrific. But all I have to say is you should talk to the players. You can talk to me after we lose. When we win, go talk to the guys. They’re the ones who did it.”

  He gave a last smile, then pivoted away from the camera, still with a secure hold on Carolyn. He’d no more let her go now than he’d give back that one-point victory. He pushed the hair back from her cheek as she looked up and smiled at him.

  “I don’t think I have the nerves for this.” Her voice shook a little.