by Mj Fields
I look at my watch, seeing I still have half an hour to kill, so I decide to venture up top to where I’ve heard there is a bridge that goes from one end of the arena to the other. I’m sure that cost a pretty penny.
My badge works everywhere I swipe it. All access.
I chuckle to myself as the elevator stops on level B.
Pushing myself off the mirrored wall, I take in a deep breath before stepping out.
Just outside the elevator is a lounge area for VIPs only. Leather and wood...everywhere.
I walk past it and see that the bridge is, in fact, a real bridge that spans from one side to the other. On either side are, what I assume, box seats for the elite or corporate sponsors. Their name plaques are all blank but one.
Fucking Boeheim.
My blood begins to boil at the sight of his name.
The tool bought himself a box. Good damn thing, too, because, when I get through with him, his ass will not be down on that court. All I have to do is play grab ass with the girl he was engaged to, not my type, at-fucking-all, but it should work. His self-important ass will be sitting up here in what he thinks are the best seats in the arena. Not in my opinion. I think they are nose bleeds.
“Pompous motherfucker,” I grumble to myself.
“You sure you can handle this, boy?”
I look behind me to see Coach Dealing.
“I got your boy right here,” I reply, grabbing myself.
He shakes his head. “Haven’t changed a bit, have you?”
“If you mean that as a compliment, as in, I’m a lean, mean, ball handling machine with GQ looks, then no. No, I haven’t.” I snicker.
He holds out his arms, grinning. “Bring it in, Trae.”
“You going soft?” I ask. “I mean, the man I used to play college ball for was not some touchy-feely type. He was a miserable, old bastard who rode his team’s ass, regardless of a win or loss.”
“Not playing with little boys anymore.” He steps back and winks after I give in to his manly, pat on the back hug. “Working with men.”
“You look good, old man.” Damn he’s aged, his hair’s completely white now, and he’s put on about fifty pounds, but I won’t point that out.
“Feel good, too. But that all stops tomorrow.”
I nod. “First day of training.”
“Yep, the miserable, old bastard will be back, so enjoy this one while you can.” He chuckles as he walks past me, patting my back. “Let’s show you around.” He swoops his hand out as he says, “Every seat in the house can see the jumbo display. Every chair is wider and more comfortable than any other arena out there. Twenty thousand fans can be seated inside The Stable, watching you men play ball, all with unobstructed views. It was modeled after MSG, but enhanced. Now, let’s get down to the locker room.”
Once down in the lower level, he swipes his badge card and opens the door. “Charlie wanted his team healthy, so the first place you stop on your way to the locker room is the team’s training staff. You tell them if you’re sore, have a headache, getting leg cramps—hell, if you have a pimple on your ass, the training team needs to know, you hear me?” When I don’t respond, he says, “I’m serious, Rhodes—”
“Back to the miserable, old bastard so soon?”
Out of the blue, Coach shakes his head and says, “No idea why Charlie wanted you here.”
“Because I am the fucking best,” I remind him.
“Were, Rhodes, until your fall.” He narrows his eyes, clearly trying to ward off the warm feelings he had when he saw me, one of his star players from his assistant coaching days at Kentucky, for the first time in nearly four years.
“I’m all rehabbed up,” I assure him.
“Four years’ worth of rehab?”
“I’m good, Coach. Really, really good.”
“Better be better than good. This is the NB-fucking-A, Rhodes,” he says sternly.
Shit, I think to myself, then smile slightly. Four years. Four fucking years of never looking back, and now, here I am.
He moves toward the large wooden door and pushes it open. “This is the wet room.”
I can’t help chuckling, causing him to look back at me.
“Sorry, Coach. I mean, you have a butt-ass ugly team, but I’m here now. I’ll be sure my moves on and off the court get ‘em wet. No need for an entire room and team dedicated to that.”
“You horse’s ass,” he growls, still walking forward.
Inside the wet room—as he calls it—sinks are lined up against one wall, built for men my height. On the opposite wall are showers.
“Can’t get them to shower before they come to work?”
He turns and gives me a look as he opens another door. “And this...This is our locker room.” He waves his hand out, signaling for me to enter, then points to the far wall. “You see your name?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah, what?” he asks, sensing my irritation.
“Not the best location,” I admit. “When I left this world, I had a corner. I like the corner.”
“Jesus Christ, Trae.”
I pat him on the back as I walk toward my locker. Then I trace the letters of my name T. R, H, O, D, E, S, and the number 23.
“You like the number?” he asks, and I nod. “You sure you’re okay with it?”
“I was pretty damn attached to it for a good number of my twenty seven years.”
“Well, for some reason, Charlie wanted you to have it again.” He nods. “Now, let’s finish the tour up, shall we?”
Once he brings me through the training center; the player’s lounge, where a full buffet of food will be set up after each game; his office is next. And on the wall hangs a picture of him, Brock, and myself after the press conference when it was announced we had been chosen for the US Olympic team.
Bet that motherfucker Brock, loves seeing that damn picture plastered on his coach’s wall. I know it has nothing to do with Coach’s sentimentality, and everything to do with where he came from—Nowhere, USA, just like the majority of men I once shared the court with, with Brock as an exception. It starts with the love of a game, and then the deep desire to become.
His office leads to the press room, which leads to the video room, then the hot and cold tub room for before and after the game, and then the weight room.
The tour finished, I stand just inside the tunnel, looking toward the light.
How symbolic is that? Leaving the dark and heading into the light? Last time I was in an arena, it was the opposite.
Coach looks back at me. “You ready?”
“He know I’m here?”
Coach shakes his head.
“How does he not know? My name’s up there in the locker room,” I point out.
His infamous grumpy attitude comes out. “Did I just tell you he doesn’t know you are here?”
“Yeah, but—”
“No buts, Rhodes. He doesn’t have a clue, which I think is shit. The way you two left things, he should have had a heads-up.”
The way we left things? Fuck him, I piss and moan to myself.
“But that was your agreement with Charlie, and I upheld that agreement. From here on out, I’m in charge, you hear me?”
I nod. “Loud and clear.”
“Good, now let’s get this over and done with.”
I nod, taking a deep breath and inhaling the sweet smell of do-overs and revenge, and then exhaling the bitterness of anger and resentment that I know could fuck it all up if I allow it to, as I walk out onto a real court for the first time in four years.
Even louder and clearer than Coach’s words, I hear a huge expel of air and the words, “What the fuck is he doing here?” coming from that son of a bitch, and I can’t help smiling.
“Now, you settle down, Brock,” Coach warns, holding his hand up to him.
He tries to sidestep Coach and I hope to fuck he does.
“Settle down? What is this? Some fucking intervention? You dying, and I don’t know it, old
man?” Fucker hadn’t changed a bit, I could still take his lanky ass.
I laugh out loud as I look at Coach. “You gonna make him do laps for disrespecting you?”
Brock scowls at me, eyes on fire. I’m sure darts are about to shoot out of them. I could take them too.
Coach groans. “Enough, both of you. The rest of the team will be out here soon, and they will not—I repeat—they will not be subjected to this cock and bull game you two play. Let bygones be bygones and leave the past where it should be—in the past.”
“You ambushed me.” Brock pokes his self-important self in the chest. “The star of this fucking team. The reason for this fucking team. I should walk out of here right now, old man.”
He starts to step again and Coach moves with him blocking him from getting any closer to me. He wouldn’t always be able to do that.
“Now, you listen to me. Charlie brought him on; signed him without anyone knowing. It’s what Charlie wanted. And as for the old man shit, it stops right now. I’m not old. I’m your goddammed coach!”
“Isn’t about you, Coach. It’s me. And just so we are clear”—I chuckle to myself as I reach down and grab my dick—“mine’s still bigger.”
“You stupid—”
“All right, both of you, bury it here and now,” Coach demands.
“Buried,” I say, grinning smugly.
“That’s fucking right. You’re on my team now. I’m the captain here,” Brock says like a fucking elementary school kid.
I hold up my hands. “You win, you win. Uncle.”
“Fuck you, Rhodes.” He raises a fist.
“You are definitely not my type,” I tell him, keeping my smile in place.
“You have a type now? Not just my cast-offs?” he smarts back.
When I hear the clicking of heels on the court, I stop from saying something I know damn well I shouldn’t, especially in front of a lady.
When the clicking stops, I look back over my shoulder to see a nice, round ass in a pencil skirt swaying away as she quickly heads for the tunnel.
“That’s just fucking great, Brock,” Coach snarls at him.
Brock doesn’t say a damn thing.
“Who was that?” I ask, still watching that fine ass leave, knowing damn well it’s pissing Brock off.
“That’s off fucking limits. That’s handled, you get me, Rhodes?” Brock says in a much different tone.
Nervous. That fucker is nervous.
I look at Coach. “Who was attached to that little, round ass, Coach D?”
“Like Brock said, she’s off limits. That young woman is the owner of this arena, and the Seattle Stallions. That young woman is your new boss, Courtney Cohen.”
I nod as I chuckle to myself. She looks damn good from behind.
“What’s so fucking funny, Rhodes?”
“The thought of you trying to handle ass to keep a job.”
“Trying nothing. That ass has been mine for six months,” Brock snarls.
I look at Coach, but he looks down.
Huh, I think as I hear laughter and chatter from behind me. We’ll see about that.
“Well, fuck me running. If it ain’t Trae Rhodes.”
I turn around and watch as my new teammates walk onto the court. Some are familiar faces, men I have played against in the past; and some are new faces that I am only familiar with because I have seen them on ESPN.
“Welcome back to The Stable, gentlemen,” Coach D greets them. “It’s a new day, and we have a few new players, so let’s introduce ourselves, and then we’ll split up, white against black, and have a little peacocking session.” Coach D tries not to smile, but hell if I can’t see it inside.
Hope. Coach D has hope for this little piss-ass pony squad.
“Number 13, center and captain, Kentucky, Brock Boeheim,” Brock says, starting the introductions as he smiles like he’s something.
He ain’t shit.
Then all the other guys start sounding out their introductions.
“Number 34 from Duke, point guard, Damien Rose.”
“Number 28 from UCLA, forward, Wade Walker.”
“Number 33, Kentucky, forward, Dwayne Stalks.”
“Number 68, North Carolina, forward, Gregory Gallinari.”
“Number 12, Syracuse, center, Dwight Johnson.”
“Number 32, Syracuse, shooting guard, Derrick Anthony.”
“Number 38, point guard, Louisville, Michael Parker.”
“Number 2, forward, Georgetown, John Casspi.”
“Number 5, forward, Utah, Jason Black.”
“Number 45, guard, Michigan State, Wes Matthews.”
“Number 17, forward, UConn, Will Parsons.”
“Number 63, forward, Duke, Chandler Howard.”
They all look at me.
“Number 23, point guard, Kentucky, Trae Rhodes.”
Coach D claps his hands. “Welcome, young men, to a new year here at The Stable. I hope you are ready to make this year a fuck of a lot better than last year. We got nothing stopping us; this team is full of the best of the best. Now let’s show the rest of the NBA that we aren’t just a bunch of globetrotting show ponies. Let’s show them who the Seattle Stallions really are.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Locker Room Talk
COURTNEY
“YOU HAVEN’T MET THE TEAM yet?” Christa asks on a laugh from over the phone.
“I tried to a few days ago, but...Let’s just say I may have changed my mind.”
“Court, you have to be strong. Brock is nothing—less than nothing. He’s a pimple on the ass of nothing. And you’re going to make sure he knows that.”
“Christa...” I lean back in my father’s black leather chair. “Trust me; I know exactly who Brock Boeheim is.”
“Yet you can’t face him?” she asks.
“It wasn’t him,” I admit, and to the only person in the world who knows everything about me since prep school.
“Do tell,” she says, and I can imagine her mischievous grin.
“The man my father recruited...Trae Rhodes. He arrived today.” I stop, taking a deep breath. “He’s...”
“Hot. I’ve seen the pictures,” she says giddily.
“Yes, but that’s not my point.”
“Okay, carry on.”
“Coach D and Brock told him I was off limits.”
“Why would they say that?” There is as much confusion in her tone as I feel.
“I don’t know, but it made me uneasy.” I found it odd they told him I was off limits. I mean why?
“Because they aren’t taking you seriously?”
We have had this conversation a million times. She knows how they treat me. I’m nothing but a figurehead to them.
“That, and they seem threatened by him.”
“And he’s hot.” She giggles.
I sigh, dismissing the obvious. “When will you be here?”
“Thursday.” There is excitement in her voice.
“Good.” My alarm goes off, and I hit snooze.
“Does the team know yet?” she asks.
“No.” I shift forward to look at the email I prepared for the training team with the changes I am making.
“They’re going to be pissed, yeah?”
“Doesn’t matter. We need the money.”
“Then tell them. I dare you.”
“Don’t dare me,” I warn.
She giggles. “I double dog dare you.”
“We aren’t fifteen anymore,” I remind her.
“I triple dog dare you,” she goads.
“Goodbye,” I tell her before disconnecting the call.
Gripping the edge of the desk, I take a deep breath. Then I push myself back before standing up, ready to face my team.
I wasn’t ready to come here after graduation. I stayed in New York, working for Ronald and gaining experience, leading meetings and basically watching how he manages his team, so to speak. We also had many conference calls with Larry, Dad’s attorney,
so I knew what I am facing now was going to be difficult.
Dad not only owned the team, but he owned the arena. It isn’t sponsored like every other one. No, Dad needed to own everything around him, control his environment, and he did...until he died with all his plans in place, except how to make this sinking ship stay afloat.
I left New York with plans Ronald and I worked on that have one clear objective—save this team from ruin.
From the minute I declined the buyout Brock threw at me a few weeks ago at my first meeting, I have been met with resistance. No friend in sight. No one person who has faith in what I came here to accomplish. They are all waiting for me to fail.
I know I am in over my head, but I am going to do whatever it takes to make this work, or die trying. I often wonder if that was what my dad did.
Exiting my father’s—now my office—after freshening up in the bathroom, I look at the picture on the wall. It’s one of my father and me at one of the many Knicks games we attended two years ago, during my junior year at NYU.
We both are wearing our white jerseys, trimmed in orange and blue, with the big orange number 7 in the center. Carmelo Anthony’s jersey.
My dad loved watching him as much as I did. Our favorite player in the NBA. He admitted his love for the player started during Anthony’s college years at Syracuse and some sort of bet for a fantasy draft. Dad won a lot of money because of Anthony, and for a man like my dad, money and respect seemed to go hand in hand. If he made a lot of money on a business deal, he respected those involved. And if he respected a man without a lot of money, he would back anything he could to help him gain the money that a respectable man deserves.
Skewed way of thinking, maybe, but for the little amount of time I spent with my dad, I took in everything he said as one would from a clergyman—like Gospel.
I push open the massive door made to resemble a barn door and walk into the reception area where Jeffrey, who was hired to assist me, doesn’t even bother looking up when he says in an almost condescending tone, “Meeting?”
“Yes. Please take my messages. I’ll be back within half an hour to return any calls.”
He chuckles almost audibly.
I am his boss; I should have his respect on that alone. However, I don’t. Hell, the only person I seem to have any respect from is Larry, my father’s longtime friend and lawyer, and Bill Smith, the security guard at Gate A.
