Fast Courting

by Barbara Delinsky

  Her mind wandering, Nia recalled the hullabaloo surrounding the stadium’s construction ten years before. She had been a sophomore at Radcliffe then and had just met David. He, for one, was ebullient in anticipation of a new sports showcase. Others were not as enthused. The local residents feared the regular and repeated invasion of an unruly army of sports fans. The sports fans themselves temporarily resisted their peremptory ousting from downtown Boston. The entrepreneurial interests spoke of free access, easy parking, increased capacity, greater profits…and won.

  She and David were a regular twosome by the time ground had been broken in March of that year. By May, when they broached the topic of marriage to her parents, construction was under way. By June, the site was a mad array of steel and concrete in action, while Nia carried on weekly long-distance arguments with her parents in attempts to convince them that she loved David, that their fifteen-year age difference was inconsequential, that her marriage would not disrupt her education. By July, when they eloped, the outline of the arena had begun to take shape. There were the inevitable delays, the complications and hints of cost overruns that plagued the project; through it all, their fledgling marriage reflected similar growing pains. It wasn’t, however, until October of the following year, well after Nia and David celebrated their first wedding anniversary, that he covered the gala opening and the maiden game played by the Breakers in this, their new home.

  A tractor-trailer passed on the right, then veered into the middle lane directly in front of Nia, tearing her thoughts from past to present as she hit her horn. Slowing to let the truck move away, she was grateful for the distance and the return of wide open space on all sides, and let her thoughts drift to her current assignment.

  Paul Kiley had been a pleasant surprise. He had seen her right on time, had been polite and relaxed once she had explained her objectives, which she, in turn, was able to do with an astounding degree of conviction considering her original reluctance. What she had planned as a thirty-minute introductory interview had swelled into an hour and a half. Kiley had given her the time, excusing himself only to take the occasional phone call that came through. The interview had flowed; both of them had sensed its smoothness and run with it. For Nia’s part, she had, indeed, begun to get a feel for the man and his lifestyle. He’d given her food for thought, plenty to research before she met him a second, and most likely final, time. It hadn’t been half as bad as she had expected.

  Weston. The sign was suddenly before her as though out of the blue, evoking a purely reflexive tremor from within. It was nearly twelve-ten. If the switchboard operator was correct, Strahan would be occupied by team practice for another twenty minutes. If she was lucky enough to avoid any traffic, she might just make it into Boston and to her telephone in time to catch him before he left the arena. But if she missed him again…and if he continued to slam-dunk her messages into his wastebasket…

  With a flick of her head to shake her hair back from her forehead, she took the Weston exit, paid her toll, and headed for the arena. She was so close; it was too good an opportunity to miss. After all, she would have to come out here to interview him some day.

  In defense against bitter memories, Nia concentrated on what she knew about Daniel Strahan. It was, in fact, very little. He had been a Breaker great, a star in his playing days. During the four years that he’d been head coach of the team, its record had steadily improved. This year the Breakers were headed for the playoffs. It was impossible to live in Boston and not know that, even allowing for her distaste of the sport. The daily papers were filled with the jubilant word, which ranked up there with politics, foreign affairs and the economy on the front page.

  The parking lot was mammoth. Nia pulled into a free space near the arena, shifted and turned off the ignition, then sat. Surely there was something else she knew about Daniel Strahan, some little tidbit deep back in her memory bank. Nothing. But why? With the gaggle of dirt-hungry reporters who covered each game and conducted those infamous pregame and postgame interviews, certainly the man’s life was an open book. Why did she know nothing?

  As she stepped from her car and locked the door she had second thoughts about this drop-in visit. Usually she was better prepared; even in Kiley’s case, she had studied a preliminary bio. Granted, she hadn’t planned on confronting Daniel Strahan today. Perhaps he’d even manage to evade her now.

  Her violet gaze, wide and uneasy, took in the imposing arc of the arena’s structure, sending a chill through her. This was why she knew nothing about Daniel Strahan; everything about basketball in general, and this place in particular, made her uncomfortable. Had it not been for Bill Austen and his supposedly brilliant idea she wouldn’t be here now. For that matter, had Daniel Strahan the social grace to return even one of her calls, she would not have felt at such a distinct disadvantage. What if he actually refused to see her? That would be downright unpleasant. On the other hand, she smiled at the clever thought, such a reception could be just enough to convince Bill to find another “eligible easterner,” freeing her from the world of basketball once more.

  Bolstered by this vague hope, Nia entered the Arena and looked around. Despite the hundreds and hundreds of hours her ex-husband had spent in the building, this was her very first visit. Though she had picked up David many a time outside, she had never ventured within. Strangely, she felt as if she were at the scene of a crime. It seemed perfectly in keeping when a uniformed security guard stopped her.

  “Looking for someone?” he asked blandly.

  “Uh, yes. I’m here to see Daniel Strahan.” She spoke with the confidence of her professional position.

  “He’s busy.”

  “I know. There’s a practice that should be over soon. I’m early.” In some situations Nia would have instantly identified herself as being with the magazine. Here, intuition held her back. Security guards were often more like bodyguards; if this one had an aversion to press people, he’d never allow her entrance.

  “Does he know you’re here?” the guard asked, his gaze narrowed in suspicion.

  Nia bluffed. “I’ve left him several messages.”

  “You a friend?”

  Unwilling to lie, she offered a simultaneous smile and a shrug, letting her slightly provocative head-tilt suggest what it would. It did.

  “Ah. Girlfriend. About time.” To her astonishment, he seemed utterly satisfied. Turning, he pointed toward a ramp. “Go on over there, make a left through those doors and up the steps. You can watch.”

  Watch basketball practice? There was little she wouldn’t rather do. She nearly blurted out as much on impulse. Then it occurred to her that to argue might mean antagonizing the guard. It would be wiser to suffer through the last of the practice, then ask directions to Strahan’s office.

  With a polite nod and a smile of appreciation, she did as the guard had suggested, soon finding herself low in the stands opposite the side of the floor where the team seemed centered. Sliding as unobtrusively as possible into the nearest seat, she opened her notebook, determined to ignore the ongoing practice in protest against the game and what it had done to her life.

  To her chagrin, her powers of concentration left much to be desired. Much as she might glue her eyes to the notes she’d made that morning in Worcester, her ears picked up every nuance of the action on the court. There was the call of instructing voices—was that his voice?—as plays were called, and the slap and squeal of sneaker treads against the floor as each play was executed. There was the murmur of conversation between teammates, oaths of fatigue, gasps of exertion. There was the occasional smack of flesh on flesh as two players accidentally collided with one another and, of course, the resounding thud of the ball as it hit the floor. Ironically, as if it was irrelevant, the victorious swish of a basket was drowned out by the sounds of the players proceeding to the next drill.

  Her eyes drifted up against her will to scan the play for a moment before moving on to the reason for her presence, the focal point of the practice as
well, the coach. To her surprise, he wore a Breaker warm-up suit, as did those players who were sidelined for one reason or another. She had always assumed that coaches were more formally dressed, symbolically removed from the team.

  Daniel Strahan was well in control. From where she sat, his deep-toned commands slowly set themselves apart from the other sounds by an air of subtle authority. Intrigued, she looked more closely.

  There were perhaps nine players on the court, alternately running through plays and gathering around the coach. Several other players followed the action, as did three other men beside Strahan. Assistant coaches? Trainers? The words popped into her mind, gleaned from long-ago discussions she’d overheard between David and his fellow addicts. As to the specific role of an assistant coach or a trainer, she was ignorant. Indeed, even the daily duties of the head coach remained a mystery.

  Inevitably her gaze returned to Strahan. Standing alone for the moment, calling commands with one hand on his hip and the other pointing from one player to another, he was tall and lean, broad of shoulder and narrow of hip. His hair was dark, very dark, and casually mussed. As she watched he took the basketball to demonstrate a particular evasive move; the action was lithe and fluid, exhibiting the superb coordination which had, in part, been responsible for his own success as a player. Back on the sideline, he stood briefly at the center of the group. To her surprise and marginal amusement, he was the shortest one there.

  But surprise and amusement turned to caution as she saw the guard who had directed her approach Strahan. The players returned to the court; the two men stood head to head. After a few moments Strahan looked up toward Nia.

  For a few seconds she was aware only of how out of place she must look, dressed conservatively yet with a definite feminine flair in a lace-edged sweater, full skirt and high-heeled pumps. Nia had anticipated spending the morning in corporate circles, the afternoon in the office. More casual clothes might have been appropriate here…but, then, she hadn’t planned on stopping until the arena’s proximity to her route had tempted her. Now she wished she’d resisted that temptation. Strahan was scowling; that was clear despite the distance.

  Fighting the urge to sink lower in her seat, Nia held his gaze stubbornly, reminding herself of the deskful of messages he had seen fit to ignore. The guard turned and walked away. For a moment longer Strahan stared. Then something on the floor caught his eye and his attention, and Nia was left in peace.

  Peace. What a strange word, she mused, as she slowly recovered from the powerful, if short, visual interchange. She had known peace when David was on the road, leaving her to the writing she thought would establish her as a respected professional entity. But the rumors of infidelity had crept up on that peace, shattering it completely in that final, cruel year.

  Breathing deeply, she forced her attention back to the court, where her eyes had blindly continued to follow the practice. Now it was over. The shortest of the men with Strahan— yes, she decided arbitrarily, the trainer— handed out towels to each passing player. In a slow procession they headed for the tunnel to the locker room and were swallowed up, one by one, in the darkened cavity. A few stragglers remained, one of them Strahan. Her pulse jerked when he looked up at her once more. He stood confidently, both hands cocked on his hips, as though he were awaiting something.

  “You can come with me now.”

  Nia’s head spun around to find the same guard in the aisle. “Oh, you startled me!” she exclaimed, gathering her wits, wondering whether she was being taken into custody or expelled. Neither turned out to be the case. For, moments later, after a seemingly endless trek through aisles and up corridors, she was ushered into Daniel Strahan’s office.

  “He’ll be right with you,” was the curt message as the guard turned and left. Nia watched his exit, feigning self-confidence, but feeling maddeningly unsure.

  When the hall beyond the door was empty once more, she turned to peruse her cell. The office was actually quite large, but made immeasurably smaller by the wall-to-wall collection of basketball memorabilia. There were pennants and pictures, statuettes and full-sized trophies. There were certificates and citations and plaques. All told, there must have been half a dozen basketballs at random spots, several on stands marked for one historic game or another. There were papers, books and a stack of precariously piled movie reels. There was not one item she would call truly personal—no family photographs, no hint of the man independent of the game. It was basketball, all of it. Nia shuddered in aversion.

  Frustrated and impatient, she threw herself into the chair on the opposite side of the desk. Where was he? She looked at her watch, then looked again five minutes later. It was bad enough that he’d never returned her calls, but to purposely keep her waiting was even worse. Was this the way he customarily treated women? No wonder he was still “eligible”!

  When her waiting reached the ten-minute mark, she shifted in her seat. Desperately, she tried to blot out the room’s pervading decor, but distaste welled up in her stubbornly. It was a game, big boys, little boys—what difference? This one had obviously never learned manners! Fifteen minutes had passed and she began to seethe; another five found her livid. Hadn’t she paid her dues as a basketball widow long ago? Damn it! There were other things to do in life besides wait in a congested office, competing for air space with an overblown collection of inane souvenirs!

  Pushing herself from the chair, she hoisted her bag to her shoulder, threw her wool reefer over the crook of her elbow and stormed to the door. There she came to an abrupt halt. For, standing at his full height, no longer overshadowed by the distracting presence of giants, was Daniel Strahan. And if she was angry, he was no less so.

  Two

  His eyes were dark and piercing. His voice shot sharply through her. “Leaving already?” he asked tautly.

  “Already?” she heard herself echo, stunned for but a brief instant before rage took over. “Already? I’ve been waiting here for twenty minutes now.” That twenty-minute stretch combined with the anger of the past to explode in a reaction that would not be tempered. “Is this your idea of good public relations? If so, you’ve been sadly misguided.” Her eyes flashed. “You could have sent someone in to say you’d been delayed, or even called yourself from that precious locker room of yours. But, then, you’re allergic to telephones, aren’t you? That must be why you never returned my calls.” It was only when she paused to catch her breath that Nia realized the extent of her outburst. Every muscle in her body was tensed.

  Daniel Strahan didn’t flinch. He was neither intimidated nor phased. Rather, he stared down from his superior height, wearing a mask of dark indignance. “I didn’t ask you here.”

  “Your…henchman escorted me here—”

  “After you had very conveniently announced yourself to him as my girlfriend.”

  Nia tipped her chin up in defiance. “I never did that.”

  The coach’s gaze narrowed dangerously. “Then why did he report it?”

  “He chose to draw that conclusion.”

  “And who are you?”

  “My name is Antonia Phillips. I’ve been trying to reach you on the phone all week.”

  “So you’ve opted for a different method?”

  Now that she had revealed her name, Nia felt a heightened sense of responsibility for her behavior. She owed it both to the magazine she represented and to herself to look and act the part of the professional. “As it happened,” she succeeded in lowering her voice, “I had an appointment earlier this morning in Worcester. The arena was right on my way back to Boston. Since I’d been unable to reach you by phone, I thought I’d take a stab and stop here.”

  Daniel Strahan’s initial vexation seemed slightly eased by her explanation. Relieved, Nia took the time to notice that he was newly showered and dressed in a blazer and slacks. His hair was black and damp, his jaw clean shaven. Aside from the harshness lingering in his gaze, he could actually be classed as attractive.

  For an instant, doubt min
gled with that harshness. “Antonia Phillips?” He sought to make the identity.

  “Antonia,” she corrected automatically. Her name had been mispronounced for the better part of her life; it was a matter of the emphasis on the wrong syllable.

  “Antonia,” he repeated it properly. She thought she saw a quirk at the corner of his lips, but it vanished before she could either verify its presence or contemplate its intent. “Antonia Phillips.” His brows drew together. “Eastern Edge?” At her nod he drew himself up even taller, if that was possible. “Ah,” he exhaled slowly. “Those messages.”

  Nia couldn’t contain her barb. “Does that mean that you’re inundated with daily messages from many sources?”

  “The press is persistent.”

  “We’re not exactly ‘the press,’ ” she inserted firmly.

  Again she caught a trace of that quirk that did nothing more than appear, then disappear, leaving her distinctly off-balance. “Oh?” he asked. “I suppose it’s a matter of semantics. Eastern Edge may be a magazine—and a fine one at that—but,” he spoke evenly, as though treading more cautiously in direct consideration of his claim, “it still qualifies as the media.” To further disconcert her, he took a step into the room, closed the door behind him and leaned against it.

  Nia feld oddly trapped and strangely awkward. He was tall and commanding, as imposing a figure as she had ever seen. She was the intruder here, totally out of her element. Indeed, Daniel Strahan now studied her as though she were the oddity, rather than his sizable comrades.

  When he spoke again he was fully in charge. “No further argument?”

  “Not on that,” she answered truthfully. “It’s not that terribly important.”

  “Then what is important enough to merit your daily calls and finally bring you here today?”

  “I’d like to speak with you.”

  “That’s obvious.”