by Rita Ewing
“Tony, you’re a doll. Thanks. I’ll make it up to you, I swear,” Remy said, keeping up the front as she threw her stuff into a Louis Vitente carryall bag and headed for the door.
“Can you blame her? I’d be hurrying over to the Mecca, too, if I had a chance to check out that fine ass rookie Michael Brown in shorts,” Pam said.
“Shoot, if I had Collin DuMott waiting for me, I’d be rushing too. And the play-offs? Who can blame you, girl? I’d split for there just to see who was in the audience.” Remy’s hairdresser gave Pam a high five.
“Try to get some sleep tonight,” Tony barked after Remy. “We start at seven sharp tomorrow morning. I want to get to the Brooklyn Bridge scene by early afternoon.”
“Sure, sure, Tony, see you tomorrow,” Remy said, letting the door of the studio slam behind her.
Once in the limousine heading uptown, Remy thought about everyone’s fascination with celebrities—especially when two of them dated. It sometimes bothered her that people thought her relationship with Collin was public property since she and Collin were both public figures. Even her own staff sometimes overstepped the line. Remy had a huge, possessive fan base. One of the major appeals of her music was its “mood-shaping” effect. Remy’s music was uplifting, inspirational, and soulful. Her music and lyrics were often said to make one feel like a bird taking off on a fantastic voyage.
Now that she and Collin were “public,” these fans, as well as a number of her friends, frequently assumed that any mood fluctuations she experienced were directly attributable to Collin. When she made live appearances, if the mood she projected was sexy, it was often perceived as insight into their love affair. Her public thought that by following Collin’s statistics, they could evaluate the status of their relationship.
At home in her SoHo loft with its soaring ceilings, she realized it was only one hour until tip-off. She had been teetering all day about whether to attend the game. Last night Collin had left what amounted to an obligatory message on her machine about leaving her tickets for the second game against Philadelphia. His tone had been noncommittal as far as any plans after the game were concerned. Sitting down on her vanity chair, Remy peeled the skintight buckskin skirt off her toned thighs. She looked at herself in the mirror before removing the charcoal makeup from around her delicately slanted eyes, which she had inherited along with her straight jet black hair from her Japanese father. But her tan complexion and full lips came directly from her Haitian mother.
Remy used a Q-tip to wipe away the mess beneath her eyes. She stared at her reflection, contemplative.
What are you doing?
Remy had consciously turned her thoughts off during the video shoot, at least for a while. But now she wrapped herself up in thoughts about Collin. She had never allowed a relationship with a man to affect her work. It was bothering her that she was doing it now. Remy cared deeply about Collin and they had enjoyed a fulfilling relationship for the past three years. Part of what had kept their connection fresh was their mutual respect for one another’s need for space.
Remy had always preferred being free, and she knew Collin shared this attitude with her. She was not a woman who felt she had to have a man to be complete. She hadn’t had an exclusive boyfriend until she was twenty-two years old. That was really the first time she felt relaxed enough about her career to listen to the deeper rumblings of her heart. Since then, she’d dated plenty, but never had the desire to settle down. She always wondered where the term “settle down” originated. Remy had never wanted to “settle” for anyone.
She thought of her hit single, “Happiness Is Divine.” Indeed, Remy considered herself to be happy for two reasons: her parents and Collin. Her mother and father had instilled in her that happiness comes from within first and that no material item would ever bring her lasting contentment. That spiritual valve helped keep her grounded in the unreal world of a star. And then there was the love she had for Collin. The sense of peace she felt in his company brought her a joy she was unable to duplicate in his absence, a feeling she wanted to last forever. But recently he’d been unavailable to even share her company.
Yet they were only boyfriend and girlfriend. There was no rule stating they had to spend “X” number of days together. Neither of them had ever broached the topic of marriage except to say that they saw no need for it. Why was she allowing love for a man to change her? Her relationship with Collin was fine the way it was right now—or the way it used to be. They spent time together whenever they could, they shared wonderful vacations to exotic destinations, and they had deep passion. Their connection needed no more definition. But didn’t it need time and nourishment?
Remy reprimanded herself for not leaving well enough alone as she jumped up from her vanity and headed into the living room. Everything was perfect the way it was now. Wasn’t it? Why was she entertaining ridiculous thoughts of lifetime commitments? She was a free spirit. That was her commitment. Yet she felt so jumbled inside. And now here she was, making a conscious decision to ignore his invitation to the game. Why was she pulling back now? Did she want Collin to chase after her, to beg her? That wasn’t his style or hers—to play games just to get more attention.
Walking toward one of the ten-foot windows in her loft, Remy lowered the blinds. The eight huge windows in her corner loft were ideal for taking in the sights of SoHo and capturing the sun on the whitewashed pine floors, but she knew from experience not to leave an unobstructed view into her apartment after dark. The last time she left her shades open in the evening, the paparazzi caught her clothed in an old terry cloth robe and a mud mask on her face. Naturally the photographs found their way into the National Enquirer’s “Would You Be Caught Dead in This Outfit?” section.
Sure, Collin had invited her to see him play, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that he would be too busy, once again, to meet her afterward. She was tired of him pushing her away, and more important, she did not want to risk his rejection. Remy fell back on her goose-down sofa and snatched up the television remote control, determined not to chase him anymore. If Collin wanted to see her, he would have to call her and make an official date. After all, she had her pride too. Flicking through the channels, Remy hoped that he’d call her after the game to find out why she hadn’t come. That would make him realize he couldn’t take her for granted. In fact, tonight would be a perfect time for her to catch up on some phone calls.
Collin DuMott was out of her thoughts.
Chapter 15
“You played a great game tonight, Mr. Thomas. Could I get your autograph too?” the pretty young woman asked as she pushed the piece of paper from under his teammate’s hand toward Paul.
Paul felt a quick smile start to pull at his face when he saw his teammate grin at his reaction to the woman’s suggestive stance. She was leaning over their table, exposing her plump protrusions from every angle. Paul quickly averted his eyes and glanced down at the torn, lipstick-stained tissue in front of him. He signed his name and playing number 2 with a flourish and handed it to the woman.
“Thanks, guys. If you ever need a return favor, call me.” With a seductive wink and a toss of her hair, she placed a business card on the table and slowly sashayed away.
“Yeah, sure thing,” Paul said, looking at his teammate and shaking his head. “It never ends, does it?”
“Nope,” he responded. “And it’s not supposed to, at least not while we’re still playing.”
“You’ve got a point there,” Paul agreed, looking around the crowded restaurant.
No matter how many people showed up at Nobu, the Flyers were always given priority seating at the very best tables. On game nights in particular, masses of people tried to get reservations at Robert De Niro’s popular eatery, hoping to get a glimpse of one of their favorite players. Even the guys from the opposing teams frequented the restaurant, with many game nights ending in a spirit of forced camaraderie among the competitors that only a good meal and funny league anecdotes could provide.
/> “Listen, I didn’t bring you here so the groupies could get their fill of Paul Thomas,” he said jokingly.
“Aw, and I thought you were tryin’ to hook me up.” Paul laughed and sat back in his chair.
Paul was curious why his teammate had rushed over to him as soon as they entered the locker room after their second win over Philadelphia. The two men were good friends, but they rarely had dinner unless they were on the road. Now he had asked Paul to grab a bite to eat out of the blue. Paul hadn’t really felt like joining him because he wanted to hurry home to Lorraine, but the way his teammate had approached him was more of a friend’s plea than a mere request to grub on some soul food.
Seated at the discreet plush corner booth, he began speaking as soon as their orders were taken. “Paul …” He hesitated. “You’re my boy, right? Always there for me …”
“Through thick and thin, man.”
“And I can trust you, right?” he continued.
“Always, man. Whatever you say to me, the buck stops here.”
Before he could continue, the waitress returned with their drinks, hovering over their table to the dismay of the other customers. Paul’s teammate took a long swig of his Amstel Light and roughly cleared his throat.
“We’re fine, thanks,” he said, looking up at the waitress’s expectant face.
Finally she left them alone when she realized that neither of them was interested.
“Do you remember the last Bible study you held for the guys right before the play-offs started? You ended the session by asking if any of us had any other things we wanted to discuss. Well, I wanted to say something then, but I didn’t know how, and I’m still not sure how to say what I need to tell you … but …” He seemed unable to go any further. He clasped his hands together and looked down at the table.
“What’s up man? Talk to me,” Paul said, bothered by his teammate’s obvious discomfort.
The two of them had always been open and honest with one another about issues both on and off the basketball court. Paul wondered just what kind of burden could cause his boy to act so tentative with him.
An awkward silence hung over their table.
“Is it your woman? The two of you havin’ problems or somethin'?”
“No, no, it doesn’t have anything to do with her; well, at least not directly. She doesn’t know anything about this; that’s part of the problem,” he slowly responded.
“Are you sick? You don’t have AIDS, do you?” Paul worriedly asked, taking a second look at his teammate.
“Naw, man! I’m not sick. It’s nothing like that. I … I …” he said, clearly flustered. “I’m going through a tough time right now.”
“Well, what’s up? Talk to me. You worried about the team being sold?”
“No, Paul, it’s not that. I’m … I … I think I’m gay,” he said, blurting out his last few words.
Paul quickly reached for his water glass and knocked it over as he blindly groped his hand across the table. “Shit!” Paul said as he reached for the toppled glass. He placed his cloth napkin over the wet areas and began dabbing frantically at the soaked linen covering.
“Shocked?”
“Honestly?” Paul asked.
“The look on your face says it all.”
“This is coming out of left field. I mean … I … you … you’vebeen involved with a woman, with women, period, for as long as I’ve known you. I assumed you liked women.”
“I do like women and I truly love the one I’m with, but just not in that way. I guess I’ve known for … a while,” he said, casting his eyes downward.
“How long have you felt this way?” Paul said, regretting not being able to hide his astonishment.
“I don’t know exactly, probably since the time I was supposed to start liking girls. I’d hear all my friends in junior high talking about the little honeys they were crazy about. I never really felt that out-of-control passion. I put so much into basketball and homework, I kind of told myself that was the reason I had no interest in them.”
“But you still had girlfriends?” Paul asked, confused.
“Yeah, a few, over the years. Nothing really serious, until my woman now. But then, I was just going along with society’s program for a jock like me. You know, I had to have a woman on my arm, and the finer, the better. But my lady is more to me than that, she’s still my friend. But I can’t pretend anymore. I’ve never felt complete with a woman. It always seemed like something was missing, but I was never able to pinpoint it until … until …” He trailed off.
Paul knew where he was going with the conversation and really didn’t want to join him there. He wasn’t prepared to hear the gory details. Paul watched his teammate’s face play out his contradictory inner struggle: confusion, agony, and certainty.
“Hey, man, you don’t have to go on if …” Paul started.
“I know, I know, but I want to, I really want to. I’ve just discovered that something major was missing in my life. He …” He checked out Paul’s face. “It’s given me peace and contentment that I didn’t know was possible.” He stumbled through the sentence as if he could not believe what he was saying himself.
“And it’s also made me more confused, angry, and frustrated. Hell, I don’t know.” His turmoil was obvious. “I just had to tell somebody, and you’re always there for all of us. I had to let it out, get it off my chest. I mean, it’s a big part of who I am … what I am.”
Paul downed the last bit of Merlot in his wineglass. He did not know what his friend needed or expected of him. Paul also didn’tknow why he suddenly felt so uncomfortable. He was more anxious than ever to get home to his own woman. Gently shrugging his shoulders and looking him directly in the eye, he said, “To each his own my friend … to each his own. And you’ll always be my boy.” Paul tried to convince himself of that statement as much as his teammate.
He genuinely felt for his friend, but there was a part of Paul that believed being gay was unnatural and counter to the teachings of the Bible. After all, God did make Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve. On the drive home and entering the warmth of his home, he could not stop thinking about his teammate’s confession.
Paul switched off his kitchen television set with disgust. Sometimes he wondered why he even bothered to turn it on. Tonight he had been unable to stop himself. Seeing how he stacked up against Allen Iverson would be a good distraction for him. Paul made it a practice to catch the midnight replay broadcast of the Flyers’ home games. Lorraine had not come to the second game against Philadelphia and she had been in a deep slumber when Paul arrived home. He could not stop thinking about the revealing news. Not that it was news. It was more like an unsettling jolt. Paul wasn’t quite ready to discuss it, not even with Lorraine. He had needed something to distract him from what his boy had told him. Not that the New York news channels took his mind off anything, except by reminding him of all the bad things in the world. Even when there was a potentially positive story, the media put a negative spin on it.
Normally Paul would have read a few passages from his Bible, but when he had tried to pick up the Book, he just as quickly replaced it before even opening it. His head was too scattered. The news media had not offered much solace either.
The Flyers had blown out the Philadelphia 76ers for the second time in three nights, and this was still not enough to satisfy the New York sports reporters. The New York press was determined to trash every accomplishment the Flyers made. They claimed it was meaningless that the Flyers defeated Philadelphia since they were never going to beat the Chicago Bulls to get to the championship series anyway. The fact that the Flyers had a better record than the Bulls and actuallyhad the best record in the entire NBA was discredited as well. The media attributed their winning record to an easy schedule during the regular season, no back-to-back games like most other teams, and finally, sheer luck.
Paul shook his head as he rose from the kitchen stool. He reached into the bleached pine cabinet closest to the refrige
rator, which contained more painkillers and anti-inflammatory pills than most pharmacies. The eighty-two-game season had taken its toll on his knees, along with the first two play-off games, and they were inflamed and throbbing. Paul swallowed two long yellow tablets in hopes of them performing a miracle on his banged-up legs. He seriously did not know how much longer his body could take this constant abuse. Paul was the smallest guy on his team, and in his position of point guard he was knocked around in the course of the game more than anyone else on the court except the opposing point guard.
Even though Paul felt physically exhausted, his mind was racing with too many thoughts to sleep. The prospect of the team being sold and relocated to Albany if they did not win the championship hung over every game like the stench of a cigar. And Leonard Hightower, lurking around the first two games as if he was checking out his new inventory, didn’t help matters. Paul knew the Flyers had the talent to go all the way this year, but he did not know if they had what it took mentally. The team needed to pull together and start behaving like adults instead of a group of freshmen in high school.
It was not only his teammates’ immaturity that bothered him. Their blatant lack of morals and complete self-centeredness were a constant source of trouble for the team. Arguing with the referees, picking fights on and off the court, disrespecting women and themselves had all made it increasingly difficult for Paul to tolerate the selfish attitudes of most of his teammates, who were only concerned with their next contracts or how many individual statistics they could rack up instead of focusing on winning for the team. Paul also detested the hypocrisy and the lies. He had yet to figure out why most of his teammates even bothered to get married or engaged when all they did was cheat on their women as soon as the team went on a road trip—if theywaited that long. And now with his boy talking about being gay, Paul shuddered to think where the team was headed.
