by Ally Adams
I put up my hand to silence the pack. “I met him through work and then again at the gym ... we had a bet and I won ... so he has to come with me. Yes, that’s him wearing the beautiful sports watch on the Timex billboard,” I said, licking my lower lip like the cat that got the cream.
We got interrupted by a request from the other end of the table to pass the salt and to stop hogging the water jug, and I could hear the news working its way down the table. Eventually the buzz The Russian had created died down.
“So, what are you going to wear?” Aimee said, refocussing.
“I’m getting a dress made.”
“Ooh, I should think so,” Aimee gushed. “Last week you were wearing the green dress from your closet.”
“Time to retire that dress,” Steffi said.
“Really? I’m clearly clueless then because I thought it had plenty of life in it yet,” I sighed. “Josh said it and all my outfits sucked,” I said, whirling pasta on my fork.
“Josh would know, the man’s a style king,” Steffi said. “Besides, you want to look your best if you’re with The Russian. You two will be the ‘IT’ couple for the night.”
I imagined myself walking in on his arm – one of the hottest players in the league, with me! My whole body was tingling and in some places more than others.
“Lucky bitch,” Aimee said, hitting my arm.
I grinned. “Yeah, but he’s just a handbag for the night. I’d love to move him to the next stage ... body warmer.”
We giggled like schoolgirls; some things never changed, thank goodness.
*****
I know I shouldn’t have done it, but who can resist? Josh was spending the night at his boyfriend’s place, so after showering and making a cup of tea, I sat in front of my laptop and searched for The Russian and Leesa. If I searched for myself there were years and years of sports reports, action photos, team shots, trophy awards, national team photos, glamorous season launch shots, interviews and fan pages, you name it, but you wouldn’t find many of me with past boyfriends.
I’d had a few relationships including one that had lasted for two years—my longest—but never with fellow athletes. The guys didn’t have a profile and no one was really interested in who I was dating. I thought back to the last guy I took to the Suns’ Ball with me – Sam. I had been pretty wild for Sam; Sam had been pretty wild for Sam too and every other female in the room, so humiliating. Turns out he really just wanted to hang with me to help his prospects for getting a basketball coaching job with his college team, like it would make any difference.
I wondered if the girls were right; if The Russian and I going to the Ball together would fuel a few rumors.
I wished I hadn’t looked because there were hundreds of photos of The Russian and Leesa, and bummer, she was gorgeous. She had this long, wavy blonde hair and was petite and cute. She was a mixture of fashion plate and bohemian, and she looked gorgeous on the arm of the tall, handsome Russian. She was so not me.
There were plenty of stories, too, about her father, Harry Hart, one of the country’s most successful and rich film directors. It looked like Leesa had spent her life in the lap of luxury around studios and film stars. She was Hollywood, which begged the questions, how had she met and ended up with The Russian?
She had more followers than my entire basketball team on Facebook and Twitter. There were hundreds of shots of her with The Russian in a hundred poses – none of which he looked really comfortable in considering he wasn’t a stranger to getting his photo taken. There were shots of her driving her Mercedes, at openings with gal pals, cutting ribbons, modeling, partying, with her father, with famous actors ... crap. The Russian was not going to be interested in me after partying with a wild child, rich girl like Leesa. I was the gym locker type, she was a socialite.
I closed my laptop and began to coach myself. I didn’t need a man to make me feel complete, I was a successful, attractive, and intelligent woman. Friends have told me I have great legs and a good butt, my hair is one of my assets and God knows, I’m funny! Ha, yep ... I was going to enjoy a night out with another successful athlete and then ... move on.
Chapter 5
I got a text from Sasha to say she would be home by five-thirty if I wanted to come around for a fitting—my final fitting—so when my shift finished at The Sports Daily, I went straight to her place. This time it was just Sash, me and Prada the puss; her gorgeous live-in-lover Saint Nik was at training. Seriously, could the week go any slower ... bring on Sunday night.
“Righto, do a lap for me,” Sasha ordered after she had pinned up my hem and pulled herself up from her knees.
“Love to,” I said, and took to the catwalk. I walked down and back, head high, shoes high, just like you see in the fashion shows. I watched my reflection and how the dress moved in the mirrors.
“Oh Sash, it is truly stunning, you are a miracle worker,” I gushed, and she grinned with pleasure.
“It has come up a treat and you do it justice. It’s like having a model wearing my designs.”
“It’s just so fluid and glamorous,” I said, twirling again and watching the skirt kick out from the bottom. The fitted bodice and hips were just perfect and not so tight that I couldn’t eat, drink or breathe, and the neckline was flattering, showing off my assets without putting them in anyone’s face if you get my meaning.
“I love it,” I said. “You should be charging more and doing this full time.”
“That’s the dream,” Sasha said, “but for now, a few social pics and label dropping will be much appreciated,” she assured me. “Okay, you can slip it off.”
I was both relieved and excited ... I knew it would get the Josh nod. I disappeared into Sasha’s changing room and returned five minutes later, with the dress over my arm.
“I have a few finishing touches to do and then I’ll bring it hanging but wrapped to the media box on Saturday and you can sneak it home after we finish work. Okay?”
“That’s perfect, thank you. I can’t wait to wear it,” I said, watching her lay it out carefully, ready for hemming.
We exchanged air kisses and I headed home. I was terrified that The Russian would pull out; that he would find some reason to get out of the bet and I’d be embarrassed in front of everyone I had told. I had to keep coaching myself to put the thought out of my mind so it wouldn’t become a reality.
Just as I entered my apartment my phone rang; I didn’t recognize the number.
“Carla, hi, it’s Deidre Carmichael, personal assistant for Karen Meares,” the mature female voice said.
Karen Meares ... my brain was sifting names ... Karen Meares was the Head of Production at the Cable TV station where I had applied for a basketball commentary job!
“Deidre, hi, how are you?” I said, trying not to sound insanely excited.
“Well, thank you,” she said, then cut to the chase. “Karen would like you to come for an interview for the women’s basketball commentary job on Monday. Would you be available at ten a.m.?”
“Absolutely, thank you,” I said. “Should I bring anything in particular?”
“No, just yourself. So we’ll see you Monday, at ten at the studios. Just ask for me at reception when you arrive.”
I thanked Deidre and hung up. I looked at the phone … yes, that really did just happen ... I leaped for joy. I had applied for this job several weeks ago; I wanted it so bad I could taste it, and it tasted sweet. If I got the gig, I would be working with former competitors – Lynx’s Captain Suzie Ellis and Storm’s recently retired goal shooter, Catherine Allan. Since I couldn’t play, it was the next best thing to attend women’s basketball games around the country with the commentary team, doing interviews and calling the games for home viewers.
I couldn’t believe it, this was the best week ever – going to the Ball with The Russian on Sunday, a gorgeous new dress, and now an interview for my dream job on Monday. Thank you, universe!
I dropped my gear on the counter, opened the fridge and
saw a casserole dish with a note on it reading ‘Eat me’. I lifted the lid—fantastic—dark, rich, beef casserole. I put it into the oven to heat up – thank you, Josh. He must have cooked it earlier then gotten a better offer; we were great housemates – he liked to cook and I liked to eat.
I changed, slipping on some fitted Lycra running pants and a long-sleeve Suns t-shirt and headed to the couch with the remote to watch Sports Week on television. They were interviewing a gridiron player and I waited patiently for the discussions around this weekend’s major league games including the Saints and Suns. My girls—the Suns—were playing the Firebirds and it wasn’t going to be pretty. We had lost to them more than we had won. Imagine if The Russian and I got together—a Saint and a Sun—well, a retired Sun. Mm ...
I can’t believe that I was so busy swooning that I forgot to send The Russian my address to pick me up for the Ball Awards on Sunday night. I reached for my phone and messaged him.
Hey Alex, hope the tux still fits. My address is 2/14 Scarborough Street. Starts at 7pm. See you Sunday at 6.30pm here? Carla.
I thought I’d better write my name since I had his number and he didn’t have mine ... I didn’t want him to confuse me with anyone else he might have been dating this week. I put the phone down and waited. Nothing. Maybe he was still at training. I rose, poured a glass of wine—I could do that now that I wasn’t training—and returned to my program. Still nothing. Maybe he was trying to think of a way to get out of it. I was pleasantly distracted by the review of the Saints and Suns pending games, and then I realized it was forty-five minutes since I had sent the text and still nothing. A churning feeling rose in my stomach ... maybe he had forgotten already about the bet and the date. What would I do if he never texted back? Crap, that was a drama I could do without.
Then my phone pinged, and I almost leaped off the couch reaching for it. So uncool, lucky I was home alone. Crap again, it was from Aimee asking if I was coming to the Suns’ game on Saturday. I shot back a response that I was working in the Saints’ media box but would be following scores online and told her to break a leg.
I got up to serve myself some casserole and glanced at the clock. It was nearing eight p.m. He must be out somewhere, with someone, because training would be over by now ... Sasha was expecting Nik early because they had started early. Whatever. Men sucked. I wished The Russian would suck me. Seriously, where had that come from? My apartment buzzer went off and I jumped again ... so jumpy lately. I lifted the intercom phone.
“Hello?”
A deep male voice spoke up. “Brooker, open up.”
Oh my God, he was there. Play it cool. Deep breath.
“Who is it?” I teased, knowing full well who it was.
I heard him clear his throat while he swallowed his impatience.
“It’s your Sunday night date. Were you expecting your Thursday night date?”
I laughed. “Hello Alex,” I accentuated his name. “Come up, second floor, first door on the right.” I hung up and raced to the bathroom. I patted down my hair ... Lord knows why, it didn’t make any difference. I raced back out and opened the door. He was coming up the stairs with several suits covered in clear plastic, draped over his arm. I loved how easily he took the stairs like the athlete that he was.
I drank him in – what an Adonis. He was wearing jeans, a black t-shirt and runners, and he looked so hot that I couldn’t take my eyes off his huge arms and chest and ...
“Nice location,” he said, stopping in front of me as I stood in the open doorway. “I hope it’s okay I came over unannounced, but I figured you’d be home preparing for your date with me.”
I smirked at him. “It’s only Thursday.”
“I know, but you want to be perfect.”
“Shut up and come in,” I said, trying to hide my smile as I stood aside to let him in. He grinned as he passed me. The Russian knew how to relax a situation. I glanced quickly at his butt and got caught in the act. He gave me a suspicious look and then turned his eyes to appraise my apartment. It was a decent size with a good view – the apartment that is; I had gotten it the first year of my contract when the area hadn’t been so trendy and now I owned it and it had increased in value a lot. I was super lucky.
“This your place?” he asked.
“Yep, all mine but I have a housemate. He’s out somewhere.”
“Why didn’t you take him to the Ball?” The Russian asked. He put the suits down over the back of the sofa.
“You want out?” I asked, challenging him.
“I never renege on a bet. But I wouldn’t mind a coffee.” He wandered around the room looking at my things. “I like your minimalist style.”
“Mm, I like space. Are you a minimalist too?” I asked.
“No. Probably more of a ‘leave it where it falls’ guy,” he said, picking up a photo of me with my parents. “You were a cute kid.” He said matter-of-factly.
“Still am cute,” I said, filling the kettle. He looked up and smiled at me. OMG he was beautiful; I loved the way he filled the lounge room and just looked so good in something so simple to wear. He noted the collar on my father in the photo.
“Your dad’s a reverend? Wow, that must have been an interesting upbringing. What’s your mom do?” he asked.
“She’s a reverend’s wife,” I said.
“Did you have one of those rebellious periods where you went against the church and your dad? Got a tattoo, went out with a bikie?” he teased.
I laughed. “Not yet, but I’m still planning to.” I pulled two mugs out of the cupboard then changed my mind and reached for two water glasses. “I was about to have some of my housemate’s beef casserole. Have you eaten? Want some?” I asked.
“Don’t want to impose,” he said, putting the photo down.
“Trust me, you wouldn’t be imposing. I’ve done nothing, Josh cooked, all I have to do is serve it.” I reached for two bowls without waiting for his answer and placed them on the counter. I kept sneaking glances at him. I couldn’t believe The Russian was in my living room – all six-foot-five of him, I just wanted to knock him to the ground and press all my bones against his.
I lifted the casserole out of the oven and opened the lid. The Russian came into the kitchen area to join me; be still my very loud beating heart. He sniffed the steam rising above the casserole.
“That’s good, really good.”
“Yeah, Josh loves to cook. I should reduce his rent for all the meals he’s cooked,” I said. “So, what’s with the suits?”
“Ah the suits,” he said, with a glance towards them.
I held up my hand. “Before you answer, grab a drink,” I nodded to the glasses. “Wine, water, cola, et cetera, in the fridge. Napkins top drawer, cutlery below, we can eat on the balcony” I said, issuing orders.
“Yes ma’am,” he saluted. Fuck, that was sexy too. The way his arm flexed when he saluted, I could just imagine him in a uniform ... I forgot what I was doing for a moment and almost ordered him to give me five.
He rattled around in the drawers and cupboards, gathering everything we needed.
“The suits ... well, I can’t decide which one to wear, so I brought the three tuxes I have over to let you pick,” he said. He filled our glasses with cold water from the fridge.
“Who on earth has three tuxes?” I asked, pausing from serving the casserole long enough to frown in his direction.
He shrugged. “I’ve had to do a few appearances. I liked one of the suits so I bought it; the other two were given to me. But I don’t know if the cuts go out of style or whatever.”
I grabbed our plates, leaving The Russian to follow with the cutlery and water glasses. I wondered if he was checking out my butt – I wouldn’t have missed the opportunity if the situation had been reversed. He followed me onto the balcony.
“This is great,” he said, again, taking in the view.
Oh yes, it sure is, I thought. As for the other view, it was of the district – high and airy with plenty of
twinkling lights. A balmy breeze made the night just perfect. We sat at my large outdoor timber table, both on the same side, facing the view. I raised my water glass and clinked it against his.
“To wins for the Saints and Suns,” I said.
“To wins,” he agreed, tapping his glass. I tried the casserole first.
“Yep, you’re lucky I didn’t cook,” I said.
He smiled and tried some. “That housemate is a keeper,” he agreed.
“So what’s your place like? Got a housemate?” I asked. I was finding it really difficult to eat and breathe with The Russian less than a foot away from me. I could smell him; musty, masculine and manly.
“I live by myself ... I like to come home and not make small talk. It’s a big apartment, but I have a cleaner who comes in once a week and keeps the place in good condition. Besides, occasionally my sisters crash with me so I have spare rooms ready. Ana’s eighteen; she sometimes stays over when I’m at an away game ... gives her some privacy to see her friends, although I suspect there’s a boyfriend in the mix too,” he said, in a not-so-happy voice.
“How many siblings have you got?” I asked.
“Three younger sisters,” he said.
“Ah,” I said, with a nod.
He turned to look at me. “Ah ... what? What does that mean?” His eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“Sasha said you were one of the girls; now I know why ... you know how to talk to girls. I bet you were spoilt rotten being the only boy,” I said, feeling sorry for his sisters.
“Brooker, you can’t spoil a good thing,” he said. I rolled my eyes accordingly.
“Suits,” I said, bringing the conversation around. “I wouldn’t have a clue what’s in and what’s not, sorry.”
The Russian turned to look at me like I was an alien.
“Is there something you’re not telling me? You are a chick aren’t you?”
I grimaced at him again. “I have other interests besides fashion. It’s like art ... I know what I like, not necessarily what’s in.”
The Russian raised an eyebrow in my direction. “Let me get this straight – at the gym you managed to shower and be ready in ten minutes, now you’re telling me you don’t know a lot about fashion ... how do you feel about social media?”
