Warren: A novella

by Xyla Turner

  “Zora.” Pete waved his hand around. “You know Ralph, Thomas and Harvey.”

  I shook each man’s hand with a smile and a nod. They knew of me but we had never spoke. Yet, Mr. Dark Eyes, decided to speak.

  “I don't have the pleasure of knowing the beautiful and accomplished Miss McCoy, but I've most definitely heard of her amazing work.” Harvey notes with a quick glass lift of the white wine.

  “All I know, is I want to take a page out of your book,” Ralph, owner of the Leopards said. “Getting your ladies to get their master’s degrees or start non-profits, so they are employable after their tenure. Fucking, genius.”

  Pete beamed and chimed in, “Hell, Zora hit the mark with that one. Brilliant. The league should follow suit. Some of these agents don't look out for the big picture. Swear that's why we got Shaw, Christy and Monique. If nobody else gives a damn about their career, their coach will.”

  The men nodded their heads.

  I took that opportunity to grab my phone from my clutch and say, “Gentlemen, it's been a pleasure, but I can only take so much talk about myself.”

  They laughed, bid their farewells, and I moved toward the bar.

  “Gin and tonic,” I called to the eager lady bartender.

  “Yes, Ms. McCoy.” She batted her eyes and smiled. “Coming right up.”

  Hell.

  Feeling a presence next to me, I slowly turned around and of course, Desiree was sitting there looking like she was worth all the money she spent on that designer dress. She was pretty, no one could deny her that, and she was excellent at her job. If I was interested, yeah, this would be a no-brainer, but she didn't do it for me.

  “Zora,” Desiree cooed. “You ready for me yet?”

  I laughed.

  “Well, hello to you too.” My mouth turned up into a smirk.

  “We’re beyond pleasantries.” She moved in close, with her shoulder touching mine. Her expensive perfume crawling up my nose. It was clear the fragrance was made to entice and seduce. “I’d much rather scream your name while your head is buried between my thighs.”

  This had me turning around to face her. Her caramel skin tone, with light freckles, gave her an exotic air. Long legs, toned body at every muscled curve, like she worked specifically on it. Arms like Michelle Obama, sculpted calves you knew could run for miles. Long, straight, hair reached the middle of her back. She was a nice-looking woman, but I wasn’t into that.

  “I'm not sure you want to bark up this tree.” I leaned back away from her. “Told you before I don’t swing that way.

  The bartender took that time to slide my drink to me and when I went to grab it, her fingers lingered. This move did not miss Desiree who quickly turned into me, slid her hand up to my face and tilted my head toward her.

  “I absolutely want to bark up this tree.” She raised a perfectly arched eyebrow while her other arm moving down my suit jacket.

  Her shit was getting beyond the limit. She was the type that needed a forceful hand. Some bitches did not understand no. My other problem, in and out of the league, is because I am a basketball coach or player, there is an assumption about my sexuality. Then, there is the other assumption because I’m more of a pants suit type of woman because the idea of stockings simply makes me itch.

  Out the corner of my eyes, I saw a hulking figure staring at us. Harvey was openly watching our exchange, or just me. I moved Desiree away from me and said again, “What part of I don’t go that way, don’t you get?”

  “Such a fucking tease.” She tugged at the bottom of her dress.

  I held up my glass toward her. “Have a good night.”

  I swirled around to see Harvey staring at me with a wry smirk on his face. It was a knowing, calculating look and fuck if that didn't make my panties wet. I stood there, openly looking back, knowing—he'd make me cry out his name. The man would work at it until he succeeded. It was evident and written all of his face that contained those hidden secrets. For fucks sake, he was a goddamn owner of a semi-professional, athletic team, a rival one at that. That was only one issue. The other was the package I knew he had between those legs. It was in his stance, that smirk on his face, and those eyes. Plus, he was an arrogant, self-righteous, and exuded power from his mere presence.

  Having enough of the cat and mouse games with Desiree, Harvey and the wet panties the man inspired, I went to retrieve my coat and called for my car.

  My battery-operated boyfriend was about to be utilized.

  A lot.

  Chapter 2

  Zora McCoy

  A lazy Sunday is what I planned.

  After practice, I came to my office, to find the owner there. Not Pete, my owner, but Harvey, the other one from Friday night. He was sitting in the seat meant for visitors across my desk with his overcoat draped over his thighs. It was such a power move even if he was merely sitting in my chair.

  When his gaze met mine, he smiled, then stood up to greet me. Dressed in a tailored, navy suit with a gold, striped tie and a handkerchief square poking from his jacket breast pocket.

  “Miss McCoy.” He held out his large hand for me to take but I stared at it first since he was in my office without my consent.

  “How may I help you?” I asked while taking his hand.

  To my surprise, the man's large hand enveloped mine. He lifted our joined fingers to kiss my knuckles, causing all sorts of spasms to run through my body. Those whiskey-colored eyes were on me, adding to the sensation.

  That was weird.

  Slowly, I removed my hand from his grasp and asked again, “How may I help you?”

  “It's probably more along the lines of I'm here to help you.” His wicked mouth, framed with a neatly manicured mustache and completed with a thick beard, slid into a knowing smile.

  All the thoughts that clouded my mind were not good. Why the cloak and dagger approach by setting no appointment and this assumption he could help me. I did not want to know. I wasn't a messy person and honestly, if he needed something from me, there were channels that needed activated before he came straight to me. Plus, the kissing of my hand, those lingering eyes, and that damn smile made me wonder.

  “Whatever I need, I will speak to my owner. No one else's,” I emphasized.

  “On the contrary,” he said with renewed enthusiasm. Though, his smooth voice elevated with excitement, the man still held the same facial expression. “You need a championship and I can give you that. This will get you that position at the national level and, my dear, that's what you'll get from this owner, not your current one.”

  Shit.

  I knew it.

  Nothing good.

  I shook my head and sank into my leather chair.

  “Mr. Black.” I held back a smirk. “Clearly you don't know me very well but let me clue you in on why that would never happen. One,” I held up my index finger. “I could give a fuck about a championship or a position in the national league. Two,” my middle finger joined my other. “I don't do shit like this. Underhanded, behind closed doors, with whispers and hushed tones. Three,” my ring finger joined the others as they stood straight in the air, “your team will not make the playoffs. Sure, they have solid players, but what they don't have is stamina. So, they won't win. Now, that is something you can take to the court. Which, by the way, I don't ever see you on.”

  One of his thick eyebrows rose in what could have been interest or absolute shock. I am almost certain nobody ever talked to him this way.

  Ever.

  Harvey’s lip turned up, then he said, “Well, you may have a point. But, since you won't let me be an owner for you professionally, how about personally?”

  What in the dribbling hell?

  “What!” I blurted.

  He leaned forward and said with short, succinct, words, “Own. Mine. You. Me. Fuck.”

  Was he a goddamn caveman?

  “What?” I gasped again because I could not believe the words he was saying.

  “You, Zora,” the man repeated.
“You won't take one proposal, so take the other. Fuck me when and where I say. I'll own your sweet ass and in turn, you'll want for nothing.”

  There was one man who proposed to me in my lifetime, but I turned him down because he was drunk off his ass, a complete stranger and homeless. Therefore, that did not count. This proposal, however, seemed more serious than I anticipated. The only thing I could think about to keep my mind from my wet panties was the fact I knew his ass was elicit. I knew he was trouble. The way he looked at me, the other night, I knew he wanted a piece of me. But what he didn't know, I was not the fucking type to let someone own me or just fuck me for shits and giggles. I wasn't in my twenties trying to find my way through life. I was a grown ass woman, with responsibilities and shit that did not involve fucking. I was establishing myself as a professional and world-class coach. Then, here goes a man trying to help me sleep my way to the top.

  On top of that, I swore off all men.

  Sexy ass owners, included.

  I was not that woman, and I'd never be her.

  “Mr. Black, I don't like you. Now get out of my goddamn office.” I turned around to face my computer. “Any other requests, please have them go through my owner.”

  I typed my password for my laptop, so I could get to work on the new plays we were planning to do. The computer chimes rang through the tension in the air with a finality that I'm sure had Harvey gathering his pride along with his shit.

  Something slid across the top of my glossy oak desk and then Harvey said, “Just think about it and get back to me. I'll be waiting.”

  “I wouldn't,” I said as I kept typing.

  “I will. You should know I'm not a man easily deterred. I get what I fucking want. One way or another.”

  When I turned to ask him if that was a threat, the asshole was gone.

  Who in the fuck does that?

  Chapter 3

  Zora McCoy

  I tossed and turned all goddamn night; restless and shit, horny as hell. It had been years since I felt anything besides the occasional yeast infection or my monthly menstrual in my nether regions.

  My aversion to men had been real and so much so that people thought I was a virgin, or simply a prude, because I just did not respond to men’s praises or gestures of intimacy. I didn't entertain flirts and for fucks sake, I remained in a pants suit almost any time I was out. Maybe this was used as a deterrent, in my subconscious but I had closed all doors of any sort of romance.

  The species alone had fucked me over in more ways than one. Between the attempted rape at eleven years of age from one of my cousin’s friends. My uncle not believing me and my cousin completely alienating me. My boyfriend, at the age of fourteen, dating me as a bet with his friends. Me being constantly overlooked romantically because I was a tomboy and being friend zoned by guys. To my adult years of dating guys who thought I was gay and preferred to have a three-way relationship. With another woman, of course. Never another man because they were too masculine for that.

  My last straw was the one guy who I thought was a great chick, until I beat his ass in a pickup game of basketball. The man’s little pride was hurt and therefore, he underperformed.

  Fucking done.

  Done with men.

  None of this beat the shit I get from guys in the league. This superior ass shit like they have a swinging dick so they are above rules, laws and us little women are inferior. I was done.

  It wasn't that I didn't have needs, but I was over that intimacy notion of a happily ever after. I had the vibrators, sex toys and even the nipple stimulators and they were just fine. Outside of the sexual release, I took care of my personal business by working out, buying a house, paid off all debt and threw myself into my teams.

  Fuck a man.

  Fuck them all.

  Except now, I was horny and the arrogant man was playing on repeat in my mind. His words, that arrogant ass proposal and just his primitive body language. It turned me on, and nothing for the past six years had.

  Why did it have to be someone who propositioned me or who should have repulsed me? Why was he the one to have me flicking my nub with three fingers? Bringing myself to several orgasms and hoping I would fall asleep.

  Why did it have to be him?

  ***

  Practice the next day was brutal and not just from the players perspective but the coaches. We expended enough energy to light a stadium with the intensity of instruction and delivery. We ran our press drill over fifteen times until they were able to execute it flawlessly three times in a row. They were about to collapse and mentally, so were Justine, Sasha and me.

  Once it was finally over and three suicides later, we sent everyone home and the three of us went out for drinks.

  “Damn.” Justine fell back in the buttoned-cushioned oversized chair. “That practice was brutal.”

  Her eyes narrowed on mine, before she shook her head and said, “They'll thank us later.”

  I held up my wine glass, filled with Merlot, and nodded. “Yes, they damn sure will.”

  The fact remained that the women were probably calling us all types of bitches. However, the seasoned ones knew, can't have the fame without putting the work in: Those hard ass practices, time away from family and loved ones, extra nights studying their opponents, eating right and maximizing the strength of their body even off the court. That was the goddamn work, and that is what would and could win championships.

  I was a firm believer of ‘any given Sunday’. I also knew that underdogs usually won because top dogs grew lazy or forgot they needed to maintain what brought them there.

  “Fuck, I feel like I've been running suicides all day.” Sasha remarked before she took a gulp of her draft beer.

  “Cause your ass was out there with the forwards.” I laughed as I remembered her posting up against our other center, who we called Hightower. The woman is 6’7 and lanky as all hell. No meat on her bones so Sasha was on the court showing her, yet again, how to use those bony hips to move a bitch.

  Or an opponent.

  “I know.” Sasha laughed. “Hightower is like a damn flower. No time to be nice. By the time we hit the playoffs, she'll be moving bitches all the fucking time.” She tipped her glass up again against her burgundy-colored lips. “I guarantee,” she said mimicking the voice of Justin Wilson, the Cajun Chef.

  We all laughed at her joke but the steely determination was in her eyes. Hightower would be stronger, no doubt and that was what we needed. In a year or two, she'd be pro.

  “Excuse me ladies.” The waiter came to us holding a long-neck bottle of red wine. “The gentlemen over there wanted your table to have this.”

  His small hands held up the cloth covered glass as if it were a baby swaddling in a manger.

  “Oh hell,” Sasha inhaled.

  “Fuck, I'll take it.” Justine looked toward the vicinity where the waiter nodded.

  My gaze floated in the same direction and I nearly dropped the glass of wine in my hand. Harvey was sitting at the bar, boldly intimidating with that damn smirk on his face encase in a goatee and beard I wanted to pull on, so he’d drop to his knees.

  What’s this man's deal?

  A noise escaped my mouth that sounded a lot like a growl. All heads turned my way, sharing that there was recognition and I'm almost sure the irritation was clearly evident.

  “Zora, you know him?” Sasha asked

  “He's the owner of the Warriors.” I worked hard to remove the annoyance in my tone.

  “Oh.” Justine nodded. “That's awfully nice of him.”

  This time it was Sasha’s turn to grunt before she stated, “Seems like he's trying to be nice in other ways too.”

  It took everything to not answer, ‘if only you knew.’ However, I remained silent. If I declined to confirm or deny, maybe she'd forget it.

  “Damn, he's eyeing you,” Justine commented. “Like eye-fucking you to be exact.”

  “Shit,” I hissed.

  “Ohhhhhh.” The ladies at the tabl
e all turned around to ogle the man. Which of course, spurred him to saunter over.

  Double shit!

  His long legs carried him to our table much faster than I anticipated even though his pace was measured and not hurried.

  “The dynamic coaches of the Lady Vikings,” he greeted us with a smile. “What a pleasure. I hope you enjoy the wine.”

  “Oh, we will,” Justine said as we all started laughing around the table.

  His gaze moved to study me but I tipped my wine glass and skipped the sipping, gulping a large amount in my mouth. Anything to keep my mind off the things I shouldn’t be thinking about him and any of his fucking proposals, especially the physical one.

  The damn man asked if we could fuck.

  Not just fuck, but when and where he wanted.

  “Zora,” he called. “Step into my office, please.”

  Yup, he was about to do this. Openly and in front of my team. This shit would not fly. To save face, I nodded. Placing my wine glass on the table, I turned to the ladies and said, “Be right back.”

  “Take your time,” Justine said with humor in her tone.

  I did not want, nor did I have time for, this type of bullshit. They already teased me because they thought I needed to get fucked. However, my personal life was none of anyone's business. Sasha and Justine freely shared about theirs, but I never partook. Even if I did have something to gossip about, I still wouldn’t have because that wasn’t me. I liked my privacy. People assumed a lot, but what was actually happening, was absolutely nothing.

  Justine and her partner of three years were still trying to figure out if they were going to get married or call it quits. Sasha was trying to navigate dating a college senior and questioning if he would be a good father to her daughter.

  I had nothing. Hadn’t had sex in six years.

  Six whole years and up until Harvey, I was fine.

  Once I slid from the booth, he held his right hand out signaling for me to go in front of him and his left arm extended in the direction I should walk. This led me to a door that he opened as if he owned the place and I walked in.