by Leslie North
She took a healthy bite of the beef taco, which led to an avalanche of sour cream sliding down her chin. He pushed away the urge to lick it off. Instead, he reached for a napkin and swiped away the droplet. She barely missed a beat in the conversation. That they had come to this union, so comfortable, so wholly in-sync was as reassuring as it was baffling.
“Alejandro brought his daughter to the free clinic last year. She was struggling to see the board at school. He thought she just needed glasses, but the volunteer doc that day referred them to a specialist. Turns out Miranda has corneal disease. Without an expensive transplant, she’ll be blind by adulthood. So Alejandro stays open all night, alternating shifts with his son, to make extra money.”
Her story felt like a kick to the nuts. Until Willow, he had become desensitized to his wealth. In the eleven short years it took to journey from destitute to privileged, he had thought nothing of four-figure meals, excursions like helicopter tours and private islands, and pricey sneakers that offered no redeeming features but status. If it hadn’t been for Sol and Irma, though, Chase could be any one of Willow’s charity cases.
Willow must have noticed a shift in his demeanor. “Hey, you okay?”
“Just sucks, you know? I got a haircut yesterday that probably cost more than this guy makes in one night. I feel guilty.”
He couldn’t believe he had just laid that out there. Willow’s unguarded filter, no doubt, rubbing off on him.
“That’s not why I tell you these things, Chase. Don’t ever apologize for who you are or what you have. You’re generous in other ways.”
“Like?”
“Inspiration. How many kids do you think you’ve inspired to work hard, stay on their school teams, dream big?”
“It’s basketball.”
“And someday, it will be something else. It’s a stepping stone to even greater things. People will listen to what you have to say because you were one of the best players the game has ever seen. So make sure you say important things that change the world.”
“You’re amazing, you know that?” Again with the fucking no filter. It was like one of the tacos had been stuffed with refried truth serum. Honesty on his tongue tasted new. “You’re always putting others first. When is it your turn?”
“You sound like my mother—begging me to finish school, finish anything, really.”
“Smart someone.” He echoed the sentiment she had expressed about Sol’s words in an earlier conversation. He knew she caught the reference when she gave his shoulder a shove. Her touch was an oven that radiated heat all over his body.
“I’ve just always had an intuition about people. We all want the same things in life—security, freedom, love. Some just have a more difficult time reaching them. If I can help people get to theirs then it’s a life well-lived. Maybe finishing isn’t my thing. Maybe my gift is helping others start.”
“And where does this infectious optimism come from?”
“My parents, my brothers, I suppose. One joined the Peace Corps. One’s a Jesuit priest. Not everyone is so fortunate to be born into such a great family.”
She had all but gift-wrapped an invitation for him to open up. It was natural, to segue into his family now. Her voice contained the slightest bidding: tell someone, tell me.
“Has Henry told you about Sol?”
“A little, maybe. That you and Marcus and Henry were a few of his success stories.”
“He watched me in a pickup game. Sent Marcus and Henry in before the other guys could kick my ass for hustling all their money. Told me later he thought I had the best natural touch he’d ever seen, but I wasn’t interested in anything past what the game could get me—money. I was a fucking rail. Sol thought I was doing drugs.”
“Were you?”
“No. I learned early on I could get more out of people if I wasn’t strung out. Sol made me a deal: come to his gym when I wasn’t in school, and he would feed me. Three solid meals a day and everything in between. I didn’t care much for boxing and I was freakishly tall, so I stuck to basketball.”
“What about your family?”
“Turns out having a son never took priority over their addictions. When I brought them alcohol or cigarettes, I was their golden boy—could do no wrong. But it never lasted. They’d get it in their head I did something wrong, and I ceased to exist. When I was ten, they were busted for possession with intent to sell. Child protective services gave me to my grandparents.”
“That must have provided some stability.”
“In some ways. But they were old, sickly. They loved me but had no means to provide for me. When they died, Sol and his wife took me in. I saw what they did for Marcus—getting him out, getting him to the pros. I thought maybe they could do the same for me. It was never really about the game. Basketball was always a means to an end.”
“And what about now? What’s your end?”
Chase had no answer for her, so he finished his final bite and looked out across the city. Not once had he stopped to think about what came after his record.
“Want to know what I think?” she asked.
“Somehow, I think you’ll tell me anyway.”
He mentally braced himself. Thought she might tell him that he had never stopped trying to prove himself, to win favor—his parents, his coaches, the fans, the media. Though she’d be right, he didn’t want to hear it because head games like that have no end. When was good ever good enough? Championship ring? Household name?
“I think your end is your true beginning.” She tipped her head to rest on his shoulder.
His throat tightened. He had never told another soul—not even Marcus or Henry that basketball wasn’t his passion. It felt like a secret dirtier than his drug phase at fifteen or that he purposely chose to sleep with women to whom he had nothing to prove. As with everything else in his life, he had simply leveraged basketball to get what he wanted.
Sitting beside Willow, he realized just how different she was. He wanted to prove everything to her—that he was so much more than a player and his money. He wanted to prove that he was worthy to be sitting beside her in the freezing cold, sharing a meal, confessing truths.
“Ready to head home?”
“No.” Her answer streaked by, impulsive, hasty.
He tipped his mouth close to her forehead, close enough to kiss, but he dared not. This time, once he started, he would finish. No more holding back. For now, he still needed things as they were. Superstitious, maybe. Protective, completely. Instead, he rested his chin against her forehead and whispered against her soft hair. “What’s going on, Willow?”
He meant between them, but she took the safe route.
“I have a family thing in the morning. Early. At Eros—that brunch place that overlooks the West End. Wouldn’t make much sense to stay at your place.”
“Oh.” He failed to hide the disappointment in his voice.
“You can come, if you want. It’s just something we do once a month to celebrate things going on in each other’s lives.”
“I don’t do well with family things. Besides, I sleep in on game days.”
“Right.”
She knew that, didn’t she? Still, she sounded defeated.
“Can I drop you somewhere?”
“Sure.”
They drove mostly in silence but for her voice wrapped around quiet directions. He pulled to a stop in front of a house that had seen better days. He wouldn’t have pictured her here—in an old cracker box cottage-style with a broken-down porch swing and peeling paint. The ninety-million-dollar-contract Chase didn’t want to let her out of the car because they were in a subpar neighborhood with rampant crime. The Chase that had bared his soul didn’t want to let her out of the car because, beside him, she felt right.
“No hookups tonight,” she warned. Her first grin in a while—too long—played at her mouth.
“No worries.”
He wanted no other.
“Forty-eight points?”
&nbs
p; She had upped the ante. Apparently, this is what they did—exchange desire for points. At least that’s what he did.
“Forty-eight points.”
Door propped open, she slid from the Hummer. “Thank you for the tacos.”
“Willow?”
“Yeah?”
He wanted to ask her to change her mind, to come back to his place—because he wanted her, because he wanted to be with her in a way that transcended sex. He thought to tell her that he had never met anyone like her, that her gift was in inspiring people to start because he was starting to fall for her. But in the end, his game won out. It was all he had known. For him, acceptance and love didn’t exist without basketball.
“Goodnight.”
She waved and closed the door. He waited for her to enter the house before he drove home, determined to stay in bed and stay focused when brunch time rolled around the next morning.
Eros was not a typical family gathering place. Likenesses of the Greek god peppered the décor, which led to uncomfortable questions from the under-five crowd. Willow’s second cousin, a sex therapist, served up a hearty dish of clinical reality by using the term penis and comparing Eros’s junk to the pigs in a blanket on the buffet, while Estelle used the term willy, which led to confusion on the part of Willow’s grandfather, William Bend, III, who believed she was talking to him each time the subject matter arose.
Estelle—always considered family—found endless delight in the diversion.
Willow settled beside the old woman. Her waffle-sandwich had been crafted to precise specifications: over-easy egg, slightly broken; Canadian bacon, Swiss cheese, and spinach. Never mind that she could barely wrap her gums around her morning oatmeal. Estelle’s taste buds were as ambitious as Willow’s mother’s attempt to crack open her only daughter’s life and scour for shortcomings.
“Sweetheart, the enrollment deadline is in two days. Your father and I wouldn’t be doing our jobs if we didn’t—”
“Push?”
“Encourage. You’ve wanted to be a nurse since you threw up on the subway in New York. Fruit loops all over that nice woman’s camel hair jacket.”
“That wasn’t my moment, Ma. That was your moment once you found out she was Barbra Streisand’s biographer.”
“If it isn’t nursing, it should be something.”
“Why? Why does it have to be something? I’m happy with my life, Ma. I do good things.”
“I know you do, honey. It’s just that your father and I want you to experience greatness.”
“Pretty sure she has that covered,” piped Estelle. She tossed out the term willy again, just in case Willow missed her meaning.
Grandpa turned. “Wha—?”
Estelle giggled.
Willow wielded her fork in a mock threat.
“Something of great prominence,” her mother continued. “Something the magnitude of which transcends everything that came before in your life.”
Estelle choked on her waffle sandwich.
Willow’s mother gave the old woman a hearty slap between the shoulder blades to help her dislodge the offending mouthful. Her mother could not have known that her newfound appreciation for meditation and spiritual enlightenment had the power to give an eighty-year-old woman a coronary from innuendo.
“Dear, go get Estelle some more drink.”
Nothing at all to do with the choking. This was code for another mimosa, stat. Estelle floated through most of their family functions on happy juice. Alcohol had a way of numbing the woman’s sadness at never having a family of her own.
“No need, Willow. I believe there’s a tall glass of water coming.” Estelle flashed her jack-o-lantern smile and pointed toward the entrance of their restaurant alcove.
Willow turned and saw Chase standing in a collared, white button-down and gray slacks, hands in his pockets. He gave her a slight wave and a roguish smile but was commandeered by a gaggle of aunts who hadn’t the slightest idea who he was past the realization he was here to see Willow, who was notorious for never bringing anyone to their monthly gatherings. They ushered him to a choice seat near the head of the table. Introductions flew.
His wide-eyed gaze tracked to her. He was a little like Eros, all whipped-up desire and confidence, until the tempest whirlwinds—the aunts—had him at their mercy.
She wasn’t ready for him to be here, to be part of her family, to be part of her heart—which was her family—but he had sacrificed sleep and game-day ritual to come, and he had never looked more handsome then he did when he shook Willy’s hand.
Willow glanced at Estelle.
“Don’t even think about it.”
Estelle giggled and wrapped her lips around another bite.
Halfway through the family tale about a fishing expedition in which Willow liberated every last walleye from the cooler, Willow’s grandfather asked what Chase did for a living. Before he could answer, they took bets around the table: construction foreman (look at those arms!); fireman; Home Shopping Channel pitchman (have you seen that face? I’d buy anything he’s selling); city councilman; physical therapist (look at those arms!).
Not one of them knew who he was beyond a guy named Chase who came here to have breakfast with Willow and her family. Or if they knew, they didn’t let on. They welcomed him into their conversation, their lives, taking a genuine interest in things about him that had nothing to do with basketball—his hobbies, favorite wines, places he had traveled, the fertile fields of Iowa when he mentioned having attended college there, and his business degree—which most people forgot on the tide of his basketball success. Mostly, they told stories about the practical jokes between Willow and her brothers, and they celebrated milestones—graduations, births, special school honors, even one of Willow’s nephews for starting a donation box at his school for homeless animals. They were warm and funny and grounded. He wasn’t sure what else he expected. An extraordinary woman like Willow could come from nothing less than an extraordinary family.
When the time had stretched long, he excused himself. At a chorus of disheartened awwws, he informed them he had to go to work, which pleased Willow’s father whole-heartedly “after the string of jobless losers she has dated of late.”
Chase couldn’t resist a grin aimed in her direction at that morsel of insight.
He bid them goodbye, taking special care to hug the woman named Estelle who kept winking at him. Certain she knew his identity but kept it under wraps, he decided she was Willow’s inspiration when it came to her unconventional behavior.
Willow escorted him to the restaurant foyer. When they were out of sight of prying eyes, he grabbed her hand and pulled her close. She had traded in her usual gymnastics clothes and Bolt fur for high boots and a slim skirt. Her hair was wavy and twisted in place on the sides with tiny, glittery pins with clear and brown stones, and she wore just enough makeup to allow the real Willow to shine through.
She had never looked more beautiful.
“You came,” she said, as if an entire hour later, her eyes still might be lying to her.
“Your family is great.”
She rolled her eyes. “They’re overwhelming, even for me. But I wouldn’t trade them.”
Against the backdrop of a rainy glaze that had fallen on the city, she radiated an earthy kindness and authenticity and hope.
“Wait for me after the game.”
“Chase, there’s something I have to tell you.”
“After the game, I’m all yours.” He meant it. In all ways, he wanted her. His enhanced performance all those times had nothing to do with celibacy and everything to do with siphoning off those who used him. “I have to go. I’m already late for the team meeting. Forty-eight?”
She seemed to be moving in slow motion. Her smile was languid but tender. “Forty-eight.”
Nearby, a restaurant hostess lingered, her gaze repeatedly returning to Chase.
Acutely aware of the public nature of their conversation, he pulled Willow into an embrace. A hint o
f soft vanilla filled his senses. He wanted to plant a scorching kiss on her, a promise of more to come, but she deserved better than to be kicked around in the media as Chase Holbrook’s next plaything.
He slipped away, but not before his vision caught the snap of a cell phone flash.
Willow stacked her belongings by Chase’s penthouse door. Why had she brought so much crap? Not only had she not waited for him after the game, she was sneaking out like a coward in the night. She had asked Walt to collect the vendor food, as he sometimes did for her, and take it to the precinct around the corner. The graveyard-shift cops always made sure the food got to the shelter when she couldn’t. She told herself she just didn’t have it in her to wait as Chase had asked, that her time as Bolt drained her and Chase would have extra media interviews after he and Tarek pulled within one game of the offensive record. She told herself that every moment she wasn’t with him was one moment closer to his goal and Dylan’s money because she was losing all ability to remain neutral where he was concerned.
But those were all half-truths.
Willow stacked her belongings to leave because she never finished. Anything.
She was just making the judgment call to leave Quetz as a parting gift when she heard keys jingle on the other side of the lock. Her limbs froze; her heart leapt in her throat. Chase, here, now, meant coughing up answers she was unprepared to give. Unable to meet his eyes when he came through the door, her gaze drifted across the darkened foyer to his polished tile floor. City lights from his open blinds spilled across the polished surface like a thousand gemstones spilled in a moment of carelessness.
Not unlike her heart would be if she didn’t get out of here.
Willow Bend, the girl with nothing to her name but empathy, the girl who burned hot on too many dreams but followed through on none of them, the girl who wore a blue muskrat costume because she was afraid to fail as herself, would never, ever fit into Chase Holbrook’s highly focused, high-achieving, gemstone-paved world.
Chase searched the shadows, his movements hurried before he, too, stopped. He straightened to his full, glorious height that nearly eclipsed the moon.
