Homecourt Advantage

by Rita Ewing

  “Alexis, this room is exquisite,” Casey said.

  “It was a labor of love for me. Each room in my home is like an extension of myself,” Alexis said, clearing her throat as she motioned for Casey to sit beside her on the sofa, a sure indication she would change the subject quickly. “Casey, we’ve known each other, what … five, six years now, and I feel that I can trust you. You’ve always made Coach and me proud to have you in the Flyers family. You carry yourself well, you’re intelligent and articulate, and you’re an excellent envoy for your husband.”

  Alexis dropped her voice conspiratorially. “Now, we both know how important this championship is to the boys.” Alexis paused and refolded her hands in her lap.

  Casey’s toes curled at the description of her husband as a “boy” or any of the players as “boys.” The connotations were demeaning and never sat well with her, no matter how often the term was used to describe grown men, especially black ones, as were most of the Flyers players. Casey didn’t know how much longer she could take this little tête-à-tête, and she was having a difficult time concentrating on Alexis’s pitch. She was about to explode.

  “Casey? Casey? Are you following me?” Alexis asked, interrupting her thoughts.

  “Yeah,” Casey said, trying to hide her distaste.

  “Well, do you agree with me?”

  Casey shook her head, clearing her thoughts before she answered. “I agree that it’s important to carry myself in a dignified manner, but not only for my husband and his team—there are more important reasons.” Like myself, she wanted to say.

  “Of course, Casey, but my concerns pertain to a few of the other wives and significant others who are not so—how shall I put it—aware of the delicacies of being involved with a professional athlete. Do you follow what I’m saying?”

  “I hear you, Alexis, but I’m not so sure that I know what you’re getting at.”

  “Well, let me put it this way: This is a crucial year for the Flyers for a variety of reasons. With the acquisition of the new players, especially Michael Brown, we are under a lot of pressure to win. We had to give up our top three draft picks for the next four years. But in order to pull it all together we need the cooperation not only of all the players but also their partners. “Alexis paused again.

  Casey was totally aware that the real reason for her being there in the overstuffed, overgilded room had still not been mentioned.

  “I’m not supposed to tell you this, and none of the boys know it yet either. Brent is finding out today at the meeting, but …” Alexisstopped in midsentence and looked around the empty room as if someone might be eavesdropping before she continued. “The Flyers will be sold and moved out of New York City if they don’t bring home a championship this year.”

  “What?” Casey looked at Alexis in amazement. Was this one of her tricks?

  Alexis continued. “It would be the worst for all of us, especially since the lurking buyer is Hightower Enterprises.”

  Casey knew that not only was Leonard Hightower a bigoted, right-wing zealot, he was also known for acquiring sports teams as if they were toy trains. He treated his players like machines on a southern plantation.

  “We’ve got to bring home the championship! Our boys need complete concentration during the play-offs. They get enough distractions from outside sources; they don’t need to get it from home too! We need to be on our jobs.”

  “What exactly are you saying, Alexis?”

  “It’s really quite simple, dear. The Flyers women need to stay out of the way. We should not be asking to meet our mates on the road for away games. You know how that can be such a distraction. And at home, the women need to stay in the background, and, Casey, I need your help to get through to them on this. You can teach them better than I can. I’m hoping you can help them get involved with activities of their own. Maybe then they won’t be so eager to disturb the boys. Do you think you could handle that, Casey?”

  “Boys” again! Who the hell did Alexis think she was?

  Casey swallowed hard before she answered, reminding herself that she was talking to her husband’s boss’s wife. Very carefully she said: “First, I don’t know how I can motivate the other wives to get involved in independent activities. That’s a personal decision; I can’t be responsible for their lives. Second, I have a career, Alexis, and I don’t have time to play house mother.”

  “I know you can’t change their outlooks on life, Casey. That would be like getting water from a rock, but they admire you. If you could just get them to understand that this is a do-or-die season, then maybe they’d be willing to cooperate,” Alexis said in her syrupy voice.

  “What are you proposing?”

  “I want to encourage the ladies to arrive at the home games on time dressed in presentable attire, and I want to make sure that no outbursts occur with any of the fiancées or girlfriends during the play-offs. I want to ensure that the ladies are up to par on their etiquette. We’ll have a few public engagements, and I want to avoid any embarrassments. Whatever their personal problems may be, they can wait until after the season has ended. I think that’s a small price to pay for a championship title and the team remaining at the Mecca Arena where it belongs. I think you know better than anyone how to get through to them.”

  Casey was speechless at her audacity. She knew that Alexis was prone to outrageousness, but this approached the ridiculous. Everyone was supposed to forget that they have a personal life and instead center their lives around the Flyers. Yeah, right.

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Mitchell.” A servant appeared, interrupting them. “A few other ladies have arrived and the parlor is properly prepared.”

  Casey watched as Alexis jumped from the sofa and straightened her clothing. She then readjusted her diamond charm bracelet. Casey followed suit, feeling disgusted and defeated knowing that Alexis held all of the cards. That was usually the case with her and Coach.

  “Casey, I need to know if you’re with me on this.”

  Casey reluctantly nodded her head before she answered Alexis. “I’ll see what I can do,” she said, feeling as if she had made a pact with the devil. But what could she do? Her husband, her marriage—both were involved.

  “Wonderful!” Alexis beamed, changing face once again. “Oh and there’s one more thing. I’m glad to see that you and Brent have finally worked out your problems, especially about the little girl.”

  “Excuse me?” Casey said.

  “I saw Brent with the little girl and, I believe, her mother in Boston.”

  “What?” Casey felt the floor dropping beneath her.

  “She’s really a precious little thing. Brent looked so proud. He really dotes on her. I’m glad you can be generous enough to let him involve her in his life. You’re a fine example.” Then Alexis walked away to greet the other women as they filed into the living room.

  Chapter 2

  Casey found her way into the circular parlor and requested a cup of espresso from one of the women dressed in black and white. How was she going to make it through the breakfast? Alexis had just told her, basically, that Brent had violated his promise to her: he’d seen Nikki and her mother, Shauna — Casey’s nemesis.

  Casey stared at the large round mahogany table with lace placemats. The table was decorated with a silver candelabra and settings for a nine-course meal. Freshly squeezed orange juice had already been poured into each glass at the table, and a fruit bowl was sitting in the center of each setting.

  A buffet of delicacies was spread across a marble server: salmon, tuna, poached eggs, bagels, muffins, and croissants circled an ice sculpture shaped like a giant basketball. Casey was not sure how many women were coming, but she was certain that even if they stayed for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, they could not put a dent into this spread of food.

  At the entrance to the parlor, Casey watched the familiar faces file in. All of the women were wearing Rolex watches and tennis bracelets, with Gucci or Chanel purses draped across their shoulders. Most of th
e women also wore some sort of massive diamond ring. This included Casey, to her sudden embarrassment. A couple of them were tiptoeing around as if they were afraid they might break something.

  All of the mates were decked out in the latest designer fashions, ranging from Prada dresses to Armani pantsuits. All except Trina Belleville. Of course, she was the wife most out of place. She obviously could care less about the tags inside her clothes or the style atop her head. Trina’s slightly graying hair looked like she had just removed the sponge rollers moments before and had forgotten to comb through the clumps. Casey could only imagine what Alexis was thinking about Trina’s appearance. It was only a matter of time before she commented on it.

  Casey felt sick. She was not in a particularly sociable mood as she sorted out her feelings about Brent and his daughter, Nikki, and Nikki’s mother, Shauna. Casey watched as Alexis worked the room. She knew when to pat a hand and when to nod, albeit condescendingly, as she feigned interest in some conversation or another. The coach’s wife had a plastic smile glued on her face as she sauntered around the parlor, directing her staff and entertaining her guests. Casey wondered if the other women noticed. They all seemed to stiffen when Alexis neared them, fearful of making one wrong move. Casey knew how they felt. And yet, against her better judgment, she was about to follow Alexis’s plan for these unsuspecting victims. She really had no choice. Not as long as Brent was a Flyer and under the thumb of Alexis’s husband, known simply as Coach.

  She thought again about Brent and his affair. When he had confessed to having had a one-night stand with some anonymous groupie weeks after the fact, Brent had seemed genuinely remorseful. And after a few months, Casey had finally gotten to the point that she was willing to forgive him. Then suddenly he’d been hit with a paternity suit. Brent tried to convince Casey that this kind of thing happened all the time to professional athletes; there were women out there who purposefully got pregnant in order to go after an athlete’s money. Casey knew this was true, but it wasn’t a compelling defense for his major screwup. Though Shauna might have targeted him, his actions were unjustifiable.

  The blood tests had proved with 99 percent certainty that Brent was the father of the little girl. Fearful that the woman would go public, Brent had settled to keep her quiet. Throughout the entire debacle Casey stuck with Brent despite feeling as if her heart were being ripped to shreds. Out of respect for Casey and their marriage, he had promised not to have any contact with the woman or the child other than providing financial support.

  Casey still loved her husband with a fierceness she did not know was possible, but it was a daily challenge for her to believe in him again. Sometimes she longed to be back in Virginia, the home of her childhood and young-adult memories, and escape from the feelings of pain and betrayal she had been confronted with during her New York years.

  Casey’s mama had always said, “A cat may stray, but it always comes back home.” And as long as they were willing to genuinely rectify their wrongs, her mama felt men should be given another chance. Undoubtedly this was why Casey’s mom had always been called the Queen Settler, a title Casey was not eager to inherit. If her mother had any idea of some of the bad choices Brent had made, Casey wondered if she would be so quick to forgive. Her mother obviously assumed that Brent’s faults were as harmless as forgetting to put the toilet seat down or not cleaning up the kitchen after himself. And even though her mother might imagine that Brent had been unfaithful, she would never believe that he had fathered a little girl by a random groupie. She would be shocked.

  Casey wished she could recapture the sense of hope that she had had when she married Brent six years ago. Lately, Brent was always, it seemed, either out late at meetings or on the road. Since his affair, she had a problem trusting him during these times. Whenever he traveled to an away game, Casey could not completely shake the feeling that he might cheat on her again. She longed for the serenity of when they were first together. It used to be a given that he would be faithful. Nowshe was constantly plagued with doubts. It had gotten better, but there was always that lingering fear in her mind that Brent might slip.

  And what was worse, after the hell Casey had experienced, she realized how little she knew about herself. Brent’s indiscretion had brought out Casey’s hidden “paranoia,” her insecurities. Inside herself she discovered previously unexplored weaknesses—some of them not so pretty. Casey longed to be at peace.

  Chapter 3

  Brent stepped off the elevator and glanced down at the platinum Cartier hanging loosely on his wrist. Swearing softly to himself, he walked quickly down the Mecca Arena’s long hallway. This was one meeting Brent did not want to be late for, especially if the topic of discussion had anything to do with his contract with the New York Flyers. When Brent had opened the FedEx letter late yesterday afternoon, he had immediately paged his agent, Jake Schneider, demanding to know if any trade rumors had surfaced. Although Brent knew the trade deadline had already passed back in February, he was also well aware of the workings of the NBA. The player was usually the last person to know about decisions made that would affect his career. And the place he lived. At first Brent had wondered if the meeting had anything to do with the play-offs, like the meeting his wife, Casey, was attending this morning at his coach’s house. Then, to Brent’s surprise, Jake had informed him that he had also received an invite to the meeting andassured his star client that he had no idea why the Flyers’ owner, Hal Hirshfield, wanted to meet with them.

  The smell of fresh paint in anticipation of the play-offs combined with stale lingering food aromas permeated the air of the Mecca hallways. Brent could feel the anxiety building within him as he approached the doors to the Arena’s office suites.

  The Hirshfield family had owned the New York Flyers for the past fifty years. The Mecca had been built in 1948 and was the team’s first and only home. Although Brent had never played for any other NBA team, he had heard the horror stories of other teams and appreciated the style with which the Flyers were run. The Flyers management techniques were clearly a reflection of Hal Hirshfield. Hal was in charge of his family’s estate and was the key decision maker for the Flyers’ daily operations. As Brent was ushered through Hal’s private suites, he admired the paneled oak surroundings and was reminded of the grace of the Hirshfield family.

  Hal Hirshfield was the patriarch of a multigenerational family of Eastern European Jews. Hirshfield loved to tell his family’s stories, usually after a few Scotch and sodas on those rare occasions when he traveled with the team. His grandfather had been a Lower East Side peddler, selling anything customers would buy, “on time.” Fifty cents held a lot of merchandise on layaway. Brent had seen Hal in action enough times to know that Hal Hirshfield was a true gentleman in every sense of the word, and he respected Hal’s uncanny knack for making those around him feel important. He gracefully held himself high above the manipulative male chauvinism inherent among the other NBA league owners. His respect for the players and fans alike, coupled with his genuine love for the game, made Hal Hirshfield the ultimate team owner.

  Brent glanced at his watch once again as he stepped into the conference room. It was 11:30 sharp. He was right on time.

  “Brent, come on in. How are you?” Hal stood up and walked around the table to shake Brent’s hand.

  “Hello, Hal. It’s good to see you.” Brent gave Hal a quick hug and clapped him on the back.

  “Hey, Coach. How’s it going?” Brent reached across the tableand greeted the Flyers’ coach, Mike Mitchell, with an easy high five.

  “Jake, any room over here?” Brent asked as he pulled out the chair next to his agent.

  Jake looked like a caricature with his thick toupee and tortoiseshell glasses as a puff of smoke from his Cuban cigar rose above him. He gave Brent’s shoulder a quick squeeze. “There’s always room for my favorite client.”

  “Yeah, yeah, that’s what they all say until the new guy comes along,” Brent responded, only half jokingly.

&nb
sp; “Brent, you remember Tom Lenko, the Flyers’ attorney?” Hal asked, pointing at the suave man with the slicked-back hair neatly parted on the side.

  “Of course. He made you look like the nice guy while he did all your dirty work renegotiating my contract last year. How could I ever forget? Jake was there, he can testify; you guys even made him look bad.” Brent laughed. Every man there knew nothing could be further from the truth—no one could “make” Jake look bad.

  “Come now, Brent,” Hal said with a wink. “You don’t have to worry about your contract for years to come. I think it’s fair to say that you got everything you asked for.”

  “Touché, Hal,” Jake said, adjusting his glasses.

  “Listen,” Hal said, obviously anxious to get down to business. “I asked each of you to come here today because there’s something extremely confidential and important I need to discuss with you. I’ve already mentioned some of this to Coach and I trust that what I say here today will go no further than this room.” Hal stopped talking and looked around the table, making sure everyone met his eye. “If what I’m about to tell you gets leaked to the media, the Flyers could lose all of their corporate sponsors overnight.”

  Brent had never seen Hal so somber. The other men looked as confused as he was.

  “I’m sure you’re all familiar with Hightower Enterprises,” Hal said as he looked around the table.

  “Isn’t that the group that just made an offer for TCI?” Coach asked no one in particular as he stood up from the table and nonchalantly walked toward the buffet.