by Tracy Wolff
She balls up her fist, and for a second I think she’s actually going to hit me. I prepare to block, not because I’m worried about the punch but because I don’t want her to hurt her hand when she slams it into me. She’s tall and obviously athletic, with muscles that look like they can do some real damage to a normal person. But I’m not normal and I never have been.
“Look, sweetheart—”
If possible, her eyes narrow even more. “Call me sweetheart one more time, you dick, and I’m going to break your fucking nose.”
Beside me, Darnell makes a choking noise. Not that I blame him. This whole conversation is going south fast, which is terrifying considering where it started.
I mean, how am I supposed to respond to her? If a guy had said that to me, I’d tell him to bring it on and then knock him on his ass hard enough that he learns not to make bullshit threats. But what the hell am I supposed to say to this woman who looks like she’s at least half Amazon—and acts like it, too.
“Okay.” I hold the hand that isn’t clutching the towel up in a placating gesture. “Why don’t you tell me what your name is, then? Or better yet, give me five minutes to get dressed and we can go somewhere and talk about this over a cup of coffee. The last thing I ever want to do is take money from kids who need it.”
Her eyebrows hit her hairline. “You actually think I’m going to get coffee with you after what you did?”
I didn’t do anything. I met Jack Reilly at a party a few nights ago and shared a beer with the guy. How was I supposed to know that an autograph for his kid would lead to a fifteen-million-dollar donation to my charity? “You will if you want a chance to solve this—”
“What’s there to solve? You and your damn football foundation get all the money and the rest of us are left out in the cold, as usual.” She shakes her head. “I’m so sick of this. I work my ass off to get funding for my kids—boys and girls. For sports programs, sure, but also for art and drama, music and dance.
“And academic programs, because—amazingly enough—there are things in the world other than football. I did powerpoints and flow charts and a ten year plan for what the donations could do for my center plus I let that arrogant asshole flirt with me for weeks and for what? To have some player”—she says it like it’s a curse word—“just waltz in and take everything for his foundation like football is the most important thing in the whole freaking world?”
I feel my own temper start to heat up, but I do my best to hold it back. Something tells me if I lose my cool right now there’s going to be a hell of a lot of fireworks…and any chance of finding a solution to her problem will go right out the window. Not that I should care, but I do. It’s hard not to admire a woman willing to go toe-to-toe with a guy who looks like me and come out on top.
“Look, I’m sorry if you lost some funding,” I tell her. “I know how much that hurts. Let me get dressed and we can talk about—”
“Not some funding, you jerk.” She’s so mad she’s all but spitting the words out now. “All the funding for the new programs I’ve been working to put in place, programs that would give inner-city kids in San Diego a chance to go to college for more than just football. That would give them a chance for a life that doesn’t lead to concussions and broken, worn-out bodies by the time they’re thirty-five.”
Her eyes sweep over me as if to say mine is one of the broken, worn-out bodies she’s talking about. “I hope your foundation enjoys all the gold-plated helmets and giant TVs this will buy. In the meantime, you can take your invitation for coffee and your calm-the-crazy-lady-down tone and fuck right off.”
Then she whirls around and storms out of the locker room without a backward glance, leaving a shocked and horrified Lacey in her wake.
And me staring after her, wondering why the hell I suddenly feel like I’m as big an asshole as she apparently thinks I am.
Chapter 2
Elara
I’m still shaking when I get to my car in the VIP section of the stadium’s parking lot. I tell myself it’s just because I’m angry. And while I am, the truth is it’s pure adrenaline that’s got me trembling like a junkie jonesing for a fix. After all, it’s not every day David goes up against Goliath…
Which is exactly what it felt like when I let loose on Tanner Green. At six six, he may only be four inches taller than I am, but when it comes to power, he’s definitely got the upper hand in this situation. Especially since I was stupid enough to storm into his locker room and call him a dick.
Ugh. I can’t believe I did that.
I pull out my keys and try to press the unlock button on the key fob, but my hands are trembling so badly that I keep dropping them. I’m just picking them up for the third time when Lacey storms up to me, her face redder than I’ve ever seen it.
“What the hell was that, Elara? You said you wanted to meet Tanner Green, not that you wanted to eviscerate him in front of the entire offensive line! I could lose my job over this.”
“I know, I know. I’m so sorry. I thought I just wanted to talk to him, to explain why he shouldn’t accept all the money Reilly is throwing his way when there are a dozen other foundations for underprivileged kids here in San Diego alone that could use just a little bit of that money. But when I saw that ridiculous locker room and his smug, ridiculous-looking face, I completely lost my temper. I’m so sorry,” I repeat again.
“You’re sorry? You screamed at him in the locker room when he was wearing nothing but a towel. You were supposed to wait in the lounge in the front, until he was dressed, and instead you stormed in there like some kind of avenging angel. What the hell were you thinking?”
My stomach churns with guilt, the last thing I need to add on to the adrenaline cocktail already pumping through my system. But Lacey and I’ve been friends for years—ever since she was one of my trainers when I played basketball for the University of Connecticut, and the idea that I messed her job up for her makes me sick.
“I wasn’t. I saw him looking up at me from the field, all arrogant and—” I cut myself off before I can say “hot,” because the fact that Tanner Green is the sexiest man I’ve ever seen in person is so not what I should be thinking about right now. No matter how good he looked in that little white towel, the water on his dark, mocha-colored skin gleaming under the locker room lights.
“It set me off. Have you seen how much money the Tanner Green Foundation has, anyway? I mean, I get it. He’s a player and he gets a shit-ton of donations from other players who have more money than anyone needs. Good for him.
“But why the hell does he need to go after one of the biggest donors in town when the rest of us are barely keeping our doors open and our programs funded? It was a bullshit move on his part and I’m not sorry I called him on it.” When her eyes start to glitter with rage all over again, I hastily add, “Though I am sorry I called him on it in the training facilities, which you were gracious enough to get me into.”
“As far as apologies go, that’s a pretty lousy one.” She crosses her arms over her chest and stares me down, even though she’s about eight inches shorter than I am.
“Yeah, I know. But it is heartfelt. I really didn’t mean to get you into trouble.”
Lacey rolls her eyes. “You didn’t. Tanner’s too cool to rat me out to my boss and the other guys are way too busy handing him his ass right now to even think about it. But I’m never bringing you into the training area again. That much I can guarantee.”
“I will never ask again,” I vow. “That much I can guarantee.”
“Good.” She takes the keys out of my still-shaking hand and presses the unlock button. Then she opens my door. “Now you should probably get out of here before the players start coming out. Tanner may be cool, but by the time the other guys are done messing with him, he’d probably welcome the chance to go off on you in return.”
She hugs me and I know all h
as been forgiven. Which is why—after I climb into my car—I can’t resist saying, “Yeah, well, I’d welcome the chance to go off on him again. I may not have planned on doing it, but I still only said about a third of the things that I wanted to.”
“Elara—”
“I know, I know.” I blow her a kiss goodbye, then pull the door closed.
Lacey walks away after a final wave, and I’m left staring after her, all kinds of words still swimming around in my brain. Words that I wished I’d said to Tanner, words that I would have said if I’d actually waited until I was calm instead of letting my temper knock me off my game.
Things like my rec center, Rebound, helps between seven hundred and a thousand kids every month.
Things like we provide a place for neighborhood kids to learn important skills—life- and job-wise—as well as exercise their bodies and their creative spirits, all while giving them a safe space to hang out in one of the worst neighborhoods in the city.
Things like we operate on a shoestring budget of two hundred thousand dollars a years—and that all the programs I’ve spent months working to put together for my kids, because Reilly promised me that money a dozen times over, would cost only an additional one hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
An extra hundred and fifty thousand dollars. That’s all it would take to help change these kids’ lives in real and permanent ways. The Tanner Green Foundation will get that much alone in yearly interest if they just put the fifteen million in the bank, let alone what they’ll get if they actually invest it with a halfway decent adviser.
And there are more than a dozen other programs in the city that could benefit from even less money than mine needs.
It’s such bullshit. Football’s been this untouchable god my entire career—my entire life—sucking up all the available resources and leaving all the other programs to scramble—high school, college, and definitely out in the real world.
It’s one of the reasons I opened Rebound, because I’ve spent my whole life struggling to get what I want. To be who I want. I hoped to make that journey easier for other kids, especially ones who don’t have a lot of other advantages in life. Those who might not be interested in or able to play any kind of ball, but who still want a shot at making a better life for themselves. Who still want a shot at being who they want to be—who they can be, if they just get the opportunity.
But from the minute I used most of my savings to open Rebound, I’ve been struggling to keep it going. Struggling to expand its reach. Struggling to help more kids who need help in the manner they need help. And just when I think I’ve got a way to do that, here comes Tanner Green to just snatch it all away.
It’s maddening.
Tears flood my eyes and for a second I lay my head on my steering wheel and try not to sob. I’m not a crier, never have been, but right now I’m so frustrated, so angry, so disappointed, that I don’t know what else to do. I really don’t want to fail my kids, but right now, I can’t see any way around this. Especially since we’ve already gotten our yearly donations from the Ethan and Chloe Frost Foundation and our other big donors.
I give myself two minutes.
Two minutes to wallow, two minutes to let myself think of all the new programs and opportunities I could have given my kids. And then I sit up, wipe my eyes, and order myself to get on with it. So what if the half million Jack Reilly promised me has dried up. There are other rich people in San Diego that I can hit up for money, people like Nic Medina or Quinn Bradford or Wyatt Jennings. I just need to figure out how to quickly convince them we’re a good bet.
As I think about it, I try not to also think about the fact that I had months to work on Jack Reilly and still couldn’t convince him in the end.
It’s that niggling thought in the back of my head that finally has me starting my car and heading home, wishing like hell that I’d never heard Tanner Green’s name. Wishing even harder that I never hear it again.
Chapter 3
“Is he there yet?”
“I don’t know, Mom. Do you think I’d be talking to you if he was?” I ask as I twist my hair into a top knot.
She ignores the sarcasm, for once more focused on the end game than on her too-mouthy daughter. “What are you wearing? Tell me you’re not in those awful sweats you like to run around in all the time.”
I only run around in sweats when I’m playing ball or working on the center, but I don’t correct her. A lifetime of experience with the most helpfully overbearing mother on the planet has inoculated me against her “constructive criticism.”
“Actually, I thought I’d wear my red sweat suit. You know, the one Si got me for my birthday.” I grab a couple of bobby pins and fasten my hair in place as I wait for the explosion. It doesn’t take long, even though it comes in the dulcet tones my very Southern mama has spent a lifetime perfecting.
“Bless your heart, sugar. I know you know that you can’t meet that nice man in a jogging suit. He’s a doctor.” She all but whispers the last word, like graduating from medical school is a sacred thing or something. Which, now that I think about it, it probably is to her. Or to be more specific, the act of landing someone who has graduated from medical school for her wayward daughter is definitely sacred…and completely unnecessary.
“What will he think of you, Elara?” she continues.
“That I’m a busy woman who dresses appropriately for her job and is squeezing him in as a favor to our mothers?”
“Do not let that man think this is a favor!” Her voice cracks like a whip, the sweetness sublimated by her determination to make this match happen. “If you let it seem like he’s just a chore for you to get through, this is never going to work. Men like to be flattered. They like to think they’re the most important thing in your world.”
“Well, Mark is going to be disappointed, then, because that’s not going to happen.” I swipe a nude lipstick across my mouth, then press my lips together to spread it around.
“Elara, don’t be rude. And don’t embarrass me. I’d never be able to speak to his mother again and I—”
“Don’t worry, Mom. I’m not going to be rude. You didn’t raise me in a barn. I know you don’t believe it, but I really do know how to act in a social setting.”
“Date. You can say the word, you know.”
“I could, but why would I want to?” I swipe a mascara wand across my lashes. “Especially since this is definitely not one of those? I only agreed to do this because you said his practice has deep, philanthropic pockets.”
She sighs heavily. “Is it too much to ask for you to just forget about your little center for a few minutes and humor me, Elara? Mark is a nice young man with an important job and a promising future. He could take care of you.”
And there it is—the phrase I’ve been waiting for. The phrase that pops up in every conversation I’ve had with my mother since I was eight years old.
Forget basketball, Elara. It’s such a masculine game. Boys like girls who are soft.
Forget that hiking badge, Elara. Focus on the cooking badge instead. Boys like girls who can cook.
Forget studying something important in college, Elara. Focus on finding a nice premed or pre-law boy to marry.
Anyone who heard her could be mistaken for thinking I’d been raised in the 1950s and not the 1990s. But that’s my mother for you—always has been, always will be. Is it any wonder I’m such a major disappointment?
“I can take care of myself,” I tell her, grabbing a pair of big silver hoops and slipping them into the bottom set of holes in my ears.
“But why would you want to?” she asks, and there it is. The reason she and I have been at odds for pretty much my entire life. After having three boys, she wanted a petite little girl who wore dresses and played with dolls and sat back and let men shape what happened to her. And I’ve always wanted—and always been—
pretty much the exact opposite of that. Thank God.
Not to mention that at six two, one hundred ninety-five pounds, I couldn’t be petite even if I wanted to.
For a second I think about stripping off everything and putting my red sweat pants back on, just to spite her. But the many years of haranguing I would have to endure because of it wouldn’t be worth it—at least not if I don’t get to be there to see her face when she finds out what I did.
I settle for answering her question with only a trace of sarcasm. “Self-reliance? Self-respect?”
“Letting a man take care of you isn’t a bad thing, Elara. As long as you take care of him right back.” When I don’t say anything, she continues. “Besides, you’re not getting any younger.”
“I’m thirty-one.”
“Exactly.” Her heavy sigh implies that spinsterhood is just moments away for me—or worse, that it’s already hit. “What will it hurt if you give this a chance, darling? If you go in with an open mind, you might actually like Mark.”
“I’m going to lunch with him, aren’t I? Even though I really don’t have time for this today.” I grab the only pair of black heels I own and slide my feet into them, then check that everything’s in place as I turn back and forth in front of the full-length mirror I hide behind the door in my office. “That’s as open-minded as I can be.”
“Yes, but you’re going in a sweat suit.” She all but spits out the last two words and I decide to have mercy on her before she gives herself an aneurysm.
“I’m in a black pencil skirt, Mother. Does that make you feel better?”
“I don’t know.” She still sounds suspicious. “What are you wearing with it?”
“My purple blouse.”
“The silk one with the dramatic sleeves?”
It’s my turn to sigh. “It’s the only purple shirt I own.”
