by Leslie North
“And how does Tarek disqualify himself from the bet?”
“He has sex.”
The magnitude of the bet dawned in her speckled brown eyes. She rolled her eyes with a magnitude that would have flipped a ferry on the Allegheny.
“You made a celi-bet?”
“You’ve heard of those?”
“Who hasn’t? Biggest load of crap in professional sports. Performance is not tied to sex drive. It’s just a way for athletes with fragile egos to explain away incompetence and push misogynistic blame on the fairer sex.”
Fantastic. A hippie and a feminist. He began mentally subtracting ten grand from his bank balance. No way he was living with this woman. His feet were already headed for the exit.
“Wait.”
Chase stopped short.
“What’s in it for me? Besides getting to see your smokin’ hot body every day?”
Was this girl for real? No filter whatsoever. Still, he felt himself fucking flush.
“How much is the bet?” she asked.
He didn’t want to say. The amount made him feel like an asshole with too much money.
“Ten grand.”
She choked on her gum. Legitimately. Beet-faced and all. For a second, he thought he’d have to give her the Heimlich.
“That’s a lot of underwear,” she finally squeaked out.
“Not as much as you’d think.” He couldn’t help the slight smile that tried to twitch free. “Hold up your end, it’s all yours. This isn’t about the money. I just need someone to vouch for my free time and run interference on women.”
“Groupies?”
Maybe it was the slight, suspicious angle she regarded him with or her devilish smirk. His smile loosened. “Some, maybe.”
“Bitches be crazy, you know. I’ll earn every penny of that ten grand.”
That’s precisely what worried him.
“I value my privacy. We’ll barely get in each other’s way.” He hoped.
“I have a life, you know.”
“I practice here more than anyone. And we have an away game stretch coming up that gets you off the hook. Tarek will cave by then.”
“Who’s his monitor?”
“His mom.”
Willow sucked in a breath through her teeth. Everyone, it seemed, was sympathetic of Tarek’s pain on that one. She nodded and popped another bubble.
“And you went along with me because I’m the least desirable woman you know?”
It was Chase’s turn to choke, this time on her candor. His voice went on injured reserve.
“We’re nothing if not honest, Holbrook. Admit that I’m safe because you’d never, ever have sex with me, and we’ll move on.”
His throat closed. This felt like one of those ghastly verbal snares laid by women to trap men into saying the wrong thing to prove a point. She had nailed the truth, not because he didn’t find her mildly appealing—her nipples and rock-hard ass, after all—but because he would never bed a woman that got under his skin like a bedbug and called him out on everything. He scrambled for something that didn’t make him sound like a bigger asshole than the ten grand.
“Tarek said the arrangement would benefit us both. That’s all.”
There. Diplomatic. Somewhat truthful. And bringing Tarek back in didn’t hurt. Tarek adored her. Everyone who knew Willow apparently adored her. Everyone but Chase.
“I’ll consider it if you help me with something.” She fished out a pair of black inline skates from her bag and began lacing them up.
“Now?”
“Won’t take long.” She stood and tested the rollers with a back and forth shimmy of her legs. “You skateboard?”
“Not since fourteen.”
“Like riding a bike.” She grabbed his wrist and led him up the closest arena aisle, surprisingly adept at rollers on stairs. “You’ll see.”
“Look—I gotta get home.” He tugged back, striving for freedom from the most bizarre, high-energy person he had ever met. Exhaustion burned his corneas. His custom pillow beckoned him. “Think about it. You can let me know in the morning.”
Willow stopped her upward progress and turned. Her smallish lips did a quirky little twist, somewhere between a sexy pout and a frown that telegraphed extreme disappointment. He had already offered her ten grand. What the hell else did she want?
Above her head, a lit marquee scrolled past his field of vision.
…Tarek Johns – 32 points… Chase Holbrook – 34 points… Race to the record books.
Holbrook came alphabetically before Johns, and he had more game points. So why was he listed second? His gut ignited, the same burn that happened at tip off. Chase would win this bet, this record, even if it meant putting up with a whack-job girl in a muskrat costume.
“What do you want me to do?” asked Chase.
Absolute insanity.
He thought Willow had been kidding about the skateboard, but she went to a supply closet and pulled out a wide-deck with crazy pink dots and lime green wheels.
“Used it for a halftime gig once,” she offered, by way of explanation, then shoved it into his hands with a conspiratorial smile. She grabbed another massive, empty cloth bag from the closet and took off. By the time he had looped his duffle cross-body, she had flown around the corner, out of sight.
“Where are you going?” Chase called after her. He tried to launch and failed. “What are we doing?”
“You’ll see.” Her disembodied voice bounded through the vacant hall.
He followed because he believed it to be the closest distance between this moment and his soft, ergonomically-programmable bed. His bag was entirely too heavy to catch any real speed, but the cleaning crew blasting old-school Metallica and the air blowing back his damp hair conspired to push him past his comfort level. Willow had been right—it was like riding a bike. Before long, he had regained enough confidence to know he wouldn’t wipe out.
Coach Perkins’s intestines would drop out through his bowels if he knew his lead scorer was risking injury, flying through the arena’s circular concourse on a skateboard at breakneck speed. Down a straightaway, he caught sight of her at a concession stand, its cage rolled up halfway. She shoved wrapped burgers, boxed pizza slices, popcorn bags and clear take out boxes that contained nachos drizzled with nuclear cheese into her empty cloth bag.
What the hell?
Before he could catch up to her, she blew a kiss to the guy behind the counter, yelled, “I’ll bring the book tomorrow,” and raced off. She stopped at no less than six snack bars, each with a staffer waiting with half-cage anticipation and a wide grin, each supplying her enough food for an entire row of the arena. He trailed her, wordless, baffled, nearly incensed that she would take advantage of the system this way. At the final concession stand, she had run out of room in her bag and started shoving hot dogs in warming sleeves into his hands.
“Favor done,” he declared.
She pointed to the wieners. “That’s not the favor.”
Ohmygod. He was never, ever leaving here. The arena was The Twilight Zone and she was Rod Serling with pigtails. And nipples.
“Willow, I’m done.” Chase shoved the plump foil sleeves into her hands, kicked the skateboard to his hand—impressed that he still had the goods for that particular move—and pulled his cell from his athletic shorts. He started a text to Tarek.
Rather live with your mother. Bet off.
Before he could hit send, Willow called out.
“Typical Holbrook. All talk, but can’t put things away. Lakers, especially. Go then. Battle the broads on your own. Good luck with that.”
Her voice was half-admonishment, half-tease, all irritating. She skated in reverse, her scammed stash like Santa’s pack on her shoulders. Had to be at least the weight of Bolt’s costume, maybe more. Would serve her right if she got a back ache.
“It isn’t what you think, stud. Come on.”
She shoved through the arena doors and disappeared out into the night.
> Chase glanced at the vendor of the Nutty Norwegian Nut Stand, Willow’s words echoing in the cavernous space. Isn’t what you think. Come on…on…on. The round guy in the stained apron shrugged.
“I’m going to regret this,” Chase said.
For a minute, Chase was convinced the blond spoke no English. Then he smiled, rammed the gate closed, and said, “Not likely. Stud.”
Dude laughed and disappeared into a back room.
Menagerie. Chase glanced at his cell screen.
Rather live with your mother. Bet off.
He clicked off the phone and shoved it in his pocket. Skateboard back on the ground, he followed Willow out the arena doors on the sketchy advice of the Nutty Norwegian.
4
“Does it run?” Chase asked, doubtful.
“Of course it runs.”
Willow’s tone was defensive, as if the tan 1971 Vega wagon at the center of the empty parking lot was her first-born, and he had just insulted the shape of its head. The opening ritual for the reluctant passenger door was a show in itself—two well-placed bangs on the outside, a hand-crank window roll from the inside, and a foot shove only a gymnast could appreciate.
“Get in. It’s freezing,” she said.
Not for the first time since the game, Chase questioned his judgment. Being with Willow was like boarding a swift-moving bullet train headed in the wrong direction: powerless to stop once it got going and mildly fascinating in a semi-nauseous kind of way. He expected the car to smell like Julius Erving’s game sneakers after walking through a vat of curdled yogurt. Surprisingly, the air freshener spinning on the brisk wind they ushered into the car whirled up a sickeningly fruity-sweet scent. Until Willow planted her stale snack pack in his lap.
“You have a wagon. Can’t we put this in the back?”
“Not efficient.”
She focused her attention on starting the car. If the old Chevy’s engine had a voice, it would have been an octogenarian with emphysema, gas and road rage all at once. Chase found himself holding his breath, as if his lack of oxygen could somehow inject the right amount of fuel or make him pass out in a bewildering haze of side stream fumes. Once her tongue slipped free of her lips in extreme concentration, the four-wheeled turd growled to life.
“Am I going to pass a random drug test after this?” Legit, he was worried.
“I’ll have you know that this beaut was overseen by John DeLorean, himself. And the Kammback Panel Express edition offers an unparalleled level of privacy in the back.”
“For stealing?” The food steaming his crotch was still impairing his thought process.
“For having sex. So no borrowing while the bet is on.”
“No worries there.”
She pulled out into the traffic streaming by the arena. The Vega hesitated, lurched, and misfired with the aplomb of a 9-millimeter gun.
Chase ducked.
“It does that on cold nights.”
He wanted to tell her that air temperature had nothing whatsoever to do with fuel burning outside the combustion chamber, but he was too busy trying to maintain his post-game power bar in his stomach. Between the sour nacho cheese smell, the blue cloud from the backfire, and her Mario Andretti driving, he barely had the wherewithal to chase a definitive answer to where the fuck they were going.
“Willow, slow down. Cops crawl all over this side of town.” Mostly due to the robberies and murders, but a rampant Vega chase wasn’t outside the realm of possibility.
“It’s good. They all know me.”
He didn’t know what that meant. Did she have a rap sheet? Oh, god. He would be lead story on the morning news: Chase Holbrook, power forward for the Pittsburgh Alloys, wanted in connection with a series of –what?—overnight.
“Willow, let me out. Like, here.” He pointed to a street corner with a store advertising adult videos and peep shows.
She shot him a look like he had asked her to drive with her toes and sing show tunes. “I can’t let you out here. This is not a safe neighborhood.”
No shit. They were four blocks from his childhood turf. Sol’s gym was as far south as he went. He hadn’t been over here in a decade.
“Then why are we here?”
“This is where we make the most impact.” She slowed down and pulled into an alley. “Keep your window up. Sometimes they get grabby.”
And yet, she reached for the driver’s side window crank.
“Grabby?” Strangled from his throat, the word sounded like the bad end of a prostate exam. His stomach went from mildly cramped to sliced and diced. Chase wondered if the code of chivalrous protection extended to crazy women who asked for crime. He checked the door lock. Twice.
“Yeah. They’re just excited. Ready?” She held her hand out to him in expectation.
“For…?
“You didn’t think I was taking the nacho cheese to rub all over my body, did you?”
He had no words. But he realized she eyed the pack on his lap. He reached inside the bag, pulled out a cold, salted pretzel, and handed it to her.
An elderly black man hobbled up to her window.
“Hi Grady. How are you feeling tonight?”
“Little hungry, Miss Bend.”
“We can’t have that.” She motioned Chase for another pretzel and passed both out the window. “How’s that hammer toe?”
“Better with them shoes you got me. Feel like I can dance again.”
“Save a rhumba for me, will you?”
The man beamed. “Sure thing, Miss Bend.”
Chase sank back into his seat. All the anger he harbored in his gut at the food in her stash dissipated on the cold wind spiraling through the vehicle. She was feeding the homeless. She was feeding the goddamned homeless, and it never occurred to him. Not once. Had he come so far from this existence that he didn’t remember any of it?
She drove on, window still down, navigating the side street with care. When a grizzly guy in a Viking moustache and a dress approached her window, she reached her hand out and squeezed his.
“You’re cold tonight, Sam. Did you try the church I mentioned?”
“They wouldn’t let me in.”
She reached for the hot dogs she had dropped beside her on the seat and handed him two. “Fill your stomach with this instead of liquor and there’s nothing they won’t do for you. You promised me. “
“I know.”
“I don’t want to see you here tomorrow. I want to know you went to Holy Cross. They’ve been expecting you. Handsomest guy in a dress in these parts.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Love you, Sam.”
“Love you, too.”
Chase’s throat tightened at the genuine sentiment between them.
Willow drove on. “Sam got a Commendation Medal for valor in Vietnam. He came out to his children when he returned. They disowned him.”
Next up was a woman named Millicent whose spine was so badly deteriorated, she looked only at the pavement. Willow told her how fancy she looked in her pink knit scarf—an item Chase strongly suspected Willow also had something to do with—and passed her a lipstick she had rolling around on her dashboard. “I thought this coral would go well with your beautiful skin color.”
She turned to Chase and indicated a carton of French fries, adding in a whispered aside that Millicent had no teeth. This time, Chase wished Millicent a good night and waved, the first time he had spoken. He found the rush of the old woman’s smile pretty damned close to the rush of a three-pointer.
He and Willow made a game of it—he anticipating a snack based on who came up to her car, always in motion, mostly a crawl, rarely stopping, and her telling an anecdote about each person. If she didn’t know the person by name, she asked then introduced herself and Chase. Instead of using his real name, she introduced him as Magnum.
For once, he felt like someone who deserved that kind of name.
They drove the streets of his old neighborhood until the sack in his lap was empty and the
y had fed upwards of sixty people, many of them young, pregnant mothers or children. Chase stopped caring about his fatigue, his early morning shoot-around, the smells that permeated his clothes from the food and the air freshener. He hadn’t had this much fun with his clothes on—outside of basketball—since that Vegas trip with Marcus.
At one of the street corners, someone with a cell phone snapped a picture with a flash. It broke the spell. If someone snapped a photo, it would be all over the media, come tomorrow. Not that he had done anything wrong, but he had learned over the years that the mantra all press is good press just wasn’t true. Give people something good and most manage to twist it into something sinister.
“I’d like to go back to my car now.”
Willow seemed to sense it, too. For the first time that night, she was compliant and quiet. They sputtered and backfired all the way back to the arena. She navigated the Vega into the secured lot and stopped in front of his Hummer. The odd thought that one of his chrome wheels was probably worth more than the entire Vega crossed his mind. He became trapped in a surreal place between ringing her neck and thanking her for reminding him of all Sol had done to pull him out of his environment and show him he was worth something. He was reluctant to get out of the car. The cold. The fumes. Something.
“How long have you been doing that?”
“About three years.”
“You do it every night?”
“Most home game nights. I petitioned the Alloy’s GM and owner to have the leftover food the vendors would throw away at the end of the night. Told them it would be a great tax write-off and even better PR. They agreed.”
“It’s dangerous, Willow. I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“What do you know about danger? You have security around you 24-7.”
He leveled a stare her direction. “More than you think. That neighborhood was mine once.”
She puckered her lips, brow tight, as if she was assimilating this new information. When her expression eased, her nose tipped upward to the Vega’s ripped roof as if she had exchanged food for haughtiness. “Kindness has no geographical boundaries.”
“No, but crime has a definite zip code.” He shook his head. There was no sense in reasoning with someone who defied reason at every turn. “Just be careful, okay? Might want to get a more reliable car.”
