A Cop's Second Chance

by Sharon Hartley

  “So you’re here every Saturday?” Sean asked.

  “Most weeks,” she replied. “This is what we do here.” She swept her arm toward the players.

  “Play basketball?”

  “Provide a safe place for kids to come rather than hanging out on the streets with nothing to do but get into trouble.”

  “What about at night?”

  “We have activities in the evening, too. Classes, lectures.”

  “Oh, I bet those are popular.”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  “I’m already surprised.”

  She grabbed a whistle on a lanyard that was hanging from a hook and blew shrilly until the games came to a reluctant halt and the sweaty players gathered, complaining about the interruption. Sean spotted Cyrus, the kid from yesterday, among the throng, sitting on a basketball, chin in his hands, looking bored. The one Aleta called Hot Shot hovered over Cyrus protectively.

  “What’s going on, Aleta?” someone asked. Sean knew he needed to learn names.

  “Sorry, guys, but I need to introduce you to someone,” she said. “This is Father O’Malley.”

  Thirty pairs of eyes focused on him. Some whispered no doubt unpleasant comments to their buddies. All looked unimpressed. Hot Shot bounced the ball he was holding.

  Sean noted a couple of girls in the group, one of whom muttered, “Hey, Father.”

  “Father O’Malley is going to be helping out around here,” Aleta announced.

  “In the gym?” someone asked dubiously, a ball lodged under his right arm.

  “That’s right.”

  “Why?”

  “Father Mac thought you guys might want a guy to talk to sometimes rather than me.”

  Sean observed a lot of rolling eyes. A lot of whispered comments. Oh, yeah, no way these kids would seek him out for counseling.

  “Yeah?” Hot Shot asked, cocking a hip. “He got game?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, focusing her brown eyes on him. “Can you play basketball, Father?”

  Sean recognized a challenge when he heard one. She raised her eyebrows in a manner that told him she didn’t believe he’d accept her dare. I got game, girl. And he’d put on sneakers this morning in anticipation of their walking tour. Good. Nothing worse than a scuffed-up gym floor.

  “Well, it’s been a while,” Sean said. “But I can give it a go.”

  “One-on-one,” Hot Shot declared, and tossed Sean the ball. He grabbed it, squeezed it between his palms to gauge its inflation, enjoying the feel of the rough surface. He met the kid’s stare, shrugged and dribbled toward the closest basket.

  The throng of young people whooped and stepped aside as Hot Shot joined Sean on the court.

  “Shouldn’t you warm up first?” Aleta called, her condescending tone indicating he was some kind of old man who couldn’t keep up.

  On the run, Sean aimed, hoped for luck and neatly sank a layup shot.

  The crowd remained silent. Sean nodded grimly.

  Wearing a huge smile, Hot Shot grabbed the rebound. He dribbled to the free throw line, pivoted, evaded Sean and sank his own shot.

  The kids cheered. Certain he heard Aleta’s whoops somewhere in the clamor, Sean snatched the rebound.

  Before he had time to think, he was caught up in a fast game with Hot Shot. Sweat soaked his shirt since his too-tight collar didn’t allow body heat to escape. The usual rules didn’t permit a time-out, so he’d have to give up points to cool himself off.

  Aleta was right about the kid. He was good. And quick. To keep the score even, Sean had to seriously hustle. And the kid played fair, calling a foul on himself and tossing the ball to Sean.

  Sick of the restrictive clothing, Sean threw the ball back to Hot Shot and yanked off his shirt and collar. He heard whoops behind him as Hot Shot raced to the basket and scored. Restored by the cool air that met his damp flesh, Sean jogged back onto the court and snatched the rebound.

  The score was now twelve to ten. He was two points behind a fourteen-year-old kid.

  He intended to let Hot Shot win, but needed to make a good showing. If he was going to get anywhere with these hoodlums, he needed to earn their respect.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ALETA BLINKED AT the sight of O’Malley’s bare chest and flat abdomen as an inappropriate and unwanted tingle of arousal tugged at her. She swallowed. Had he really removed his clerical collar? Were priests allowed to do that?

  This dude was seriously ripped. Priests didn’t work out, did they? No way was he a priest.

  But he did have game. No question about it. O’Malley raced around the court and kept up with Hot Shot as if he were a pro.

  When she asked if he could play, he’d said It’s been a while. Whatever he did in his life before coming to St. Theresa’s, he’d played a lot of games.

  She was proud of Hot Shot for following the rules, couldn’t deny a surge of satisfaction, certain her influence and coaching had nudged him in the right direction. Too often when her kids committed a foul, they argued and refused to admit the error.

  After Hot Shot sank a three-pointer, O’Malley yelled, “Good one, kid.”

  Hot Shot grinned, obviously enjoying himself. For the first time in a long while, he had an opponent who offered actual competition. Maybe having O’Malley around would be good for some of the kids.

  Ten minutes into the game, murmurs shot through the watching crowd. Intent on the action, Aleta vaguely noted the kids shifting, darting looks toward the door. She switched her focus from the court to discover Ice Pick swaggering in. She stiffened. As he had yesterday, he wore red and yellow, the colors of the Devil’s Posse.

  She shot a glance back to the game, but O’Malley remained so intent on blocking Hot Shot that he hadn’t noticed Ice Pick’s appearance. Maybe she could get rid of him before what was certain to be spontaneous combustion fueled by too much testosterone. The last thing she wanted was for her kids to witness violence here. This was a safe place, a refuge from the turmoil they faced elsewhere.

  She marched toward the gangbanger, but the jerk had already engaged Cyrus in conversation, no doubt still trying to lure him over to the dark side.

  “Hey, beautiful,” Ice Pick said as she approached, flashing his gold teeth.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

  “I came to talk to you.”

  “What about?”

  “I heard some thangs about you, girl, from my homie Marco.” The gangbanger checked out her body with an insulting sweep of his eyes. “Word is you used to wear some colors your own damn self.”

  Aleta glanced at Cyrus, who watched their conversation with rapt attention.

  “Excuse us, please, Cyrus,” she said.

  “Ah, come on,” the kid complained.

  She moved toward the corner of the gymnasium. As she’d intended, Ice Pick followed her.

  When she looked back, Cyrus threw her a hurt look. She sighed, but it was better the kid not hear this exchange.

  “You’re trespassing,” she told Ice Pick. “I want you to leave right now and don’t come back.”

  “That’s not such friendly talk,” he said, shaking his head. “I heard you used to be real friendly back in the day when you were a member of the Street Sisters.”

  She sucked in a quick breath. She hadn’t heard that name in a long time. “Don’t believe everything you hear.”

  “I’m wondering if your bosses at Sunshine Center know about your not-so-sunshiny past.” He made squiggles in the air.

  Was that motion supposed to represent sunshine? Please.

  “Wonder all you want,” she said. “It’s none of your business.”

  “Maybe I should tell that badass priest over there that you were a gang girl.” Ice Pick motioned toward the court with his chin.

  Aleta
stared at him. “Are you threatening me? Really?”

  “Just giving you a heads-up, bitch.”

  Before answering, she focused on the pockets of Ice Pick’s baggy shorts, the only spot on him where he could hide a weapon. Was this jerk packing a gun? Or a knife? She shivered. Or an actual ice pick? The thought of being stabbed scared her far worse than getting shot.

  “Do you want to know something?” she asked.

  He laughed without humor. “I already know plenty.”

  “I promise you, you don’t know this. Since I got out of that life, I’ve lived believing one thing.”

  Ice Pick narrowed his eyes. “What you going on about now, girl? And why should I care?”

  “I believe everyone deserves a second chance, and that includes you.”

  He leaned toward her. “You’re bat-shit crazy.”

  “But you have to earn that second chance,” she continued, standing her ground. “You have to want it.”

  “I’m golden. I don’t need no second chance. I don’t want nothing from you.”

  “Come on,” she urged. “Don’t you want to learn how to play basketball? Isn’t that why you’re here?”

  Ice Pick shot a glance toward the game in progress. “I know how to play b-ball.”

  “Then why not prove it?”

  “I don’t have to prove shit to you, girl.”

  “What are you afraid of?”

  Ice Pick balled his hands into fists at his sides. Afraid he might strike her, Aleta stiffened and prepared to duck.

  But he relaxed his stance. “Ice Pick ain’t afraid of nothing in this world.”

  “Yeah? What about in the next world? Are you afraid of anything there? Have you thought about that?”

  His eyes went so cold, so hard, that Aleta almost took a step away. Ice Pick must have taken her comment as disrespect, the worst possible thing for these proud but clueless young men. She considered yelling for O’Malley. The gangbanger must have sensed her thoughts because he glanced toward the game.

  He refocused on her. “You are one crazy bitch.”

  “Is that so?”

  “I’m telling you, you better watch your ass. There’s people who know who you are, and they be watching you.”

  “No kidding?” Aleta folded her arms. “I’ll bet there are people who know who you are, too.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You tell me.”

  Ice Pick waved an arm in disgust. Shaking his head, he turned and jogged toward the exit.

  Apparently, she’d confused him.

  Aleta released a long slow breath and followed Ice Pick to the door. She watched as he slid into his bright blue muscle car. He gunned the engine, backed up and slammed on the brakes with a screech. She relaxed when the vehicle sped away. She’d done it. She’d gotten rid of the recruiter before O’Malley spotted him and an all-out battle ensued.

  What if Ice Pick had been carrying a gun as O’Malley alleged? What if the gangbanger shot him? Oh, God. She closed her eyes against the thought of bright red blood spreading onto the court.

  She hated the idea of metal detectors and walls to keep people out, but she hated the idea of a killing even more.

  Okay. So some gangbanger named Marco knew her from her days as a Street Sister. She’d always thought everyone from that part of her past had disappeared or died. But maybe she was wrong. After all, she’d survived, if only just barely. Why couldn’t someone else?

  Ice Pick claimed mysterious people were watching her. A trickle of unease hopscotched down her spine. No one besides Bubba would care what she was doing, and he was safely in prison for the rest of his life. Exactly where he belonged.

  Bubba Burnett was the only ghost from her past that she was afraid of.

  Father Mac knew all about her pathetic life as a gang member, and he’d forgiven her for everything she’d done.

  Now if only she could forgive herself.

  With a sigh, she turned to reenter the gym and bumped into the bare chest of Father Sean O’Malley.

  “Was that Ice Pick?” O’Malley blotted sweat from his ribs with one of the towels she kept for the kids as he stared in the direction of the retreating taillights.

  “I got rid of him,” Aleta said, stepping backward, away from the pure male essence of the man. She needed to look away from him. Why couldn’t she look away?

  * * *

  SEAN SHIFTED HIS gaze from the disappearing muscle car and focused on Aleta. Her pretty face was uncharacteristically pale, her luscious mouth tight.

  “What did he say to you?”

  She shrugged gracefully, as if the encounter had been meaningless. But she refused to meet his gaze, which told him something else.

  “Nothing important,” she said.

  “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “You were busy. I handled it.”

  “That was foolish, Aleta. Ice Pick is dangerous.”

  “I know what I’m doing,” she said.

  “It doesn’t appear that way to me.”

  “Look, O’Malley,” she said. “You just got here. I’ve been dealing with these young men for a long time.”

  “Young men?” Sean used the towel he’d grabbed to mop sweat from his face. “Ice Pick is at least your age, maybe a few years older.”

  She shook her head, then glanced over his shoulder toward the court. “Is the game over?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who won?”

  “Hot Shot.”

  “Because you let him win.” She darted a look at him, but quickly looked away. She was hiding something. What?

  Sean folded his arms. “Like you said, the kid is good.”

  “Yeah, he is.” She released a huge sigh. “I just need to keep him out of trouble.”

  From the yelling and sounds of dribbling behind him, he assumed the kids had restarted their games.

  “Look,” he said. “You know that Father Mac brought me here because he’s worried about a situation with gangs and theft. Do you really think those aren’t problems?”

  “Let’s go into my office to talk.”

  “Good idea.”

  She started toward her office, but turned back and held up a hand.

  “Would you put your shirt on, please?”

  Sean grinned. Was his bare chest the source of her unease?

  “Of course, my child,” he said with a slight bow.

  He retrieved his shirt and shrugged it over his shoulders as he followed her into a small office cluttered with athletic equipment of every kind, although her desktop contained neat stacks of paper. She removed a deflated basketball from the visitor’s chair and he took a seat, fastening his shirt buttons.

  She sat behind her desk, folded her hands and leveled her gaze at him. “Thank you for clothing yourself, Father O’Malley.”

  “You’re welcome. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

  “You didn’t.”

  But he knew she was lying when she picked up a pencil and began tapping its eraser on the desk.

  “We need to set some ground rules,” she said.

  “Ground rules?”

  “All games have rules.”

  “I don’t consider my purpose here a game.”

  She blinked. “Fair enough, but the kids are required to wear at least a tank top on the court.”

  “I apologize,” Sean said. “In the future, I’ll make sure I’m wearing a T-shirt. I got overheated.”

  “Because you’re not used to wearing a collar?” she asked with a sly smile.

  He shrugged. Now they were playing a game. Its title was Who Is Father O’Malley? Aleta’s favorite sport.

  “Tell me about your rules,” he said.

  “I meant how you and I are going to work together. You appa
rently know your way around a basketball court.”

  “I played in school.”

  “You mean in seminary?” she asked pointedly, cocking a brow.

  Again Sean shrugged. He couldn’t stop her from probing or thinking what she wanted, but for some reason didn’t want to lie to her.

  “So you could help coach a team?”

  “Sure,” he said.

  “I’m thinking about starting a tournament. We’d divide the kids into two teams and each work with one.”

  “Not a problem.”

  “But I want to give everyone a chance to play,” she said. “I hate it when the little ones like Cyrus don’t get to participate. Are you okay with that?”

  Sean smiled. He’d never met a more bleeding heart do-gooder than Aleta. “Very democratic, but the more skilled players won’t be happy.”

  “They need to learn teamwork.”

  “That’s not my definition of teamwork.”

  “I don’t think I want to know your definition.”

  “Too bad,” he said. This woman had game of her own. He’d like to play one-on-one with her. Preferably in a bed.

  “I’m going to put Hot Shot on your team,” Aleta said. “You can probably push him better than I can.”

  Sean nodded in agreement. “Shouldn’t my office be here in the gym rather than next to Father Mac? If the kids ever do seek me out, I should be closer.”

  “Yeah, you’re right about that.” She bit her lip, obviously considering. “Too bad there’s only one office.”

  Sean surveyed the messy space. Plenty of room for two in here.

  “We could share this one,” he suggested.

  “Oh. Well, I don’t know about that,” she said, also glancing around. She frowned, apparently not liking what she saw.

  “I’ll help you clean up,” Sean said. “It shouldn’t take more than a day or two.”

  “It’s not that bad,” she protested.

  “And I’ll bet Father Mac has an extra desk somewhere for me so I won’t encroach on your space.”

  “I suppose.” She drew the word out as if searching for another solution.