by Mj Fields
Out of the thirty-one teams in the NBA, there is only one other female owner, Gail Miller, who owns the Utah Jazz franchise. I have all intention of getting in contact with her and seeking advice. First, I have to figure out who my father has or has not pissed off amongst the NBA franchise owners when he made an even number odd, messing up the teams’ playing schedules.
Being a female in a male-dominated world is clearly a joke to most in this industry. Being a woman and owning the shittiest team in the league is harder still. But I will overcome. If not, I will do what it is I came here to do to begin with—show Brock Boeheim that I am not a woman to fuck with, get rid of him, and let this place crumble. No. No, I won’t do the last one. I am my father’s daughter, part-time or otherwise. I have it in me to be ruthless. I have it in me to win.
My gut reaction was to fire him, but there are these things called contracts that are legal and binding. Trust me; there is no way to break one.
I understand some of the players receiving astronomical salaries. Hell, Brock, the tool that he is, deserves it—he sells tickets. It is debatable if it’s based on his skills on the court or the fact that the hoop whores who flood the arena after practices have a chance to have him in the sack. What is not debatable is that he is only desired in the sack because of his name and celebrity status. Even my first fuck was more skilled than him, and we were seniors in high school.
I laugh to myself as I exit the elevator. Empowerment comes in many different forms. Right now, I feel empowered by the fact that I am going to face a man who thinks he’s a baller in bed and one hell of a catch, and ended up being neither. A man who thinks, because I didn’t accept an offer he and this shitbag crew threw at me, thinking I would see dollar signs and equate them with the amount of Jimmy Choos I could buy, means I still want him. A man who likes to fuck in front of a mirror so he can watch. And I’m not talking about watching the actual fucking. No, Brock Boeheim likes to watch himself.
I cannot wait to have his balls in a vice and be the one to turn the handle, tightening that bitch until they are crushed, like my heart was by a man who told a mourning young lady that they were fated, meant to be together, and that he knew my father would want a man like him to take care of his little girl.
I am piss and vinegar, and ready to unleash my bitterness on a bunch of players, a coach, and a staff of men who view me as a joke.
I walk down the corridor and onto the court, stopping in the middle and standing on the black stallion. I look around at the stadium from center court, and then up, taking a deep breath.
After leaving yesterday, I sat down and drew up a plan for my team, my arena, that I know is going to piss off a lot of people. Then I slept for the first time in weeks without waking up and feeling like I will fail.
With a plan A, and a plan B in line, failure is not an option.
I walk toward the tunnel that, just yesterday, was my escape route, my head held high and ready to take on all the balls they have to throw at me.
I’m shocked by the number of women lined up down the tunnel, most wearing next to nothing. The smell of cheap perfume almost makes me gag, and I literally hold my breath as I approach them.
“Can I ask what you’re in line for?” I ask the first woman I come across.
She looks away from her phone and to me, holding her phone up. “The Stallions tweeted that they’re doing a meet and greet.”
“Basketball fan?” I ask, interested.
She winks. “Baller fan.”
“Meaning...?”
She shrugs. “The Stallions are a hot team.”
“Do you come to watch them play?” I ask, wondering if maybe I missed something.
“No.” She giggles.
“Would you if tickets were more affordable?”
She looks at me like I’m crazy. Then she rolls her eyes dismissively and looks back at her phone.
I then walk down the line, eavesdropping on some of the conversations. I learn that, apparently, there is a tweet that goes out pretty regularly.
#needasteed @stallions are hosting at the stable.
Pissed, I push past some of the women, and yes, some push back, but I give a damn less as I continue forward.
At the front of the line, a woman with black hair and way too much makeup sucks her teeth at me and says, “Bitch, please, I was here first.”
“Do you have a ticket?” I ask with as much venom as she seems to have.
“Don’t need a damn ticket; there’s no game,” she huffs. “Now, back of the line, bitch.”
The group of women seem to agree with her. I am called a hoop whore, a cracker, and other things that are just as nasty, and by a group of women, not men. WOMEN.
I hold up my badge. “All access. All. Access.” Then I reach up and turn the knob, but it doesn’t open.
“Access denied, crazy bitch,” someone in line says with a snicker, and then everyone else snickers, too.
Maliciously, not miraculously, I am transported back to the eighth grade, except I’m being mocked by a bunch of so-called adults.
Now pissed, I bang on the door with my fist.
When no one answers, I swipe my card and try the handle again, not caring if I walk in on half-naked men. They clearly have no modesty if they send out a “need for steed” tweet.
It doesn’t open, which the hoop whores just love. Bitches are calling me all sorts of names; none nice, might I add. And what the hell is a snowflake?
I storm off down the hall, deciding to try the door that leads directly into the locker room. I try the handle to find it’s locked, so I try my card. Access denied. Then I kick the door hard...in Jimmy Choos.
Ouch.
The door opens, and I am greeted by six-foot, seven-inches of man with a white towel covering just his manhood by one very, very large hand.
“What’s the password?” He smiles a million-watt smile that I am sure would melt hearts and probably panties. Then he looks me up and down as he licks his lips in that way you see in movies or read about in books.
Before I can tell him I own the team and don’t need a damn password, he looks me up and down again, but slowly this time, stopping his gaze on my breasts.
Fucking ballers.
“Little lady, this is the NBA. Since your presence seems to be making my towel”—he pauses as he continues to stare at my boobs—“shrink, I’ll tell you the secret to getting in here without it; a sure-fire way of skipping the line.”
Annoyed, I roll my eyes as I snap my fingers in front of him, trying to redirect his attention from my tits to my face. “Skip the line?”
He leans against the doorframe and nods. “N.B.A. means no bras allowed. So how about you take yours off right here, right now, and I’ll let you in.”
Floored, I don’t reply. Who the hell does he think he is?
“I can give you a hand. Hell, I’ll give you two.” He looks down and smirks at the hand holding the towel, or his dick, or...Hell, I don’t know. “I promise you won’t be disappointed. But if you go in there and leave with someone other than me, I can’t promise the same.”
I am pissed at myself for being at a loss for words; pissed when I realize exactly who this baller is and that, in my twisted plan B, he plays a role. Therefore, telling him to fuck off would be detrimental.
Instead, I hold up my pass. “Settle down, Stallion. I’m not a hoop whore. I’m Courtney Cohen.”
I expect him to be shocked, to say he is sorry for the misunderstanding, to try to climb out of the hole he just buried himself in. What does he do instead? He nods and says, “Well, come on in, sweet thing. Mi stable es su stable.” Then he turns around, his rock-hard bare ass on full-display, yelling, “Mare in the stable!”
“It’s Courtney,” I force myself to say while watching his ass muscles flex as he saunters across the locker room.
Son of a bitch, he’s hot.
CHAPTER FIVE
Neigh
TRAE
I SMIRK WHEN I LOOK in the mi
rrored wall in front of me to see her checking out my ass. Then, when I look left, I see Brock’s face, nostrils flaring, hands on hips, elbows jutting out, poison darts coming out of his eyes, directed all at me.
Hot chick checking out my ass, check.
Hot chick is my archrivals chick, or ex, or some shit, double check.
Hot mess of a teammate is furious and looks like a big-ass pussy, triple check.
I stop and flex my glutes as I wink at him.
He steps forward like he’s going to do something.
I laugh as I walk over to my locker, knowing there isn’t a damn thing he can do, not with an audience.
Little bitch.
“Gentlemen, I’d like twelve minutes of your time in the conference room before you leave today,” Courtney calls out as she walks through the locker room toward the conference room.
“Courtney, hold up.” Coach D follows after her.
I throw on a pair of sweats and a hoodie, ready to go stir the pot. But when I walk past Brock, he grabs my elbow.
“Leave it alone.”
I yank my elbow from his grip. “Put your hands on me again, you’ll be talking out your ass. Oh shit, you already do.”
“I’m warning you, man.”
“Funny thing. I don’t hear a warning; I hear a challenge.”
I walk past him and the rest of the team, heading toward the conference room. Then I stop to grab a bottle of water and an apple, passing time while I listen to Coach D talk to Miss Cohen.
“This wasn’t discussed, Courtney,” he starts.
“Lou, I totally understand you are doing what’s best for them—”
“The team, the entire reason this place is here, the place your daddy built.”
“Well, this place is a business, and I plan to run it as such,” she says firmly.
Her voice is sexy, deep, and when I heard her at the door the first time, my dick stiffened. It’s having the same effect now.
I did my homework, seen the pictures, some of which were attractive but none stunning. This woman, this Courtney Cohen, she’s fucking stunning. Her black hair is pulled back in a low bun, brown eyes like caramel, red lips, and sharp cheekbones that give her a Native American look. She is tall. I would say she’s five-foot-nine, maybe ten, and lean except for her tits and her hips.
Sure as fuck isn’t going to be hard to do what needs to be done here. She’s smokin’ hot. I could play grab ass, but I just had to make sure I only played and didn’t actually grab.
“This team will succeed, Courtney. If you want out, you know—”
“I’m not going anywhere, so you can either get on board with what I’m proposing or not, Coach. I will not argue with you about this anymore.”
“You need me to keep them in line.” His tone is much less authoritative now.
“And you all need me to keep this place afloat.”
I hear the door open behind me. Knowing the team is coming, I decide to step inside.
Courtney is leaning against the wall, flipping through some papers. She looks up briefly as I walk in, and I get a wink in. To that, she rolls her eyes as I sit front and center. Of course it’s to piss off the dick, but she is one hell of a sight.
Brock walks in and sits next to me. I laugh at that, which causes her to look at me again.
“You better watch it, man,” Brock hisses under his breath.
“Oh, I’m watching all right. Watching and wondering.” And I am, not taking my eyes off her.
“Wondering what?” he snaps.
“How you managed to fuck this one up.”
If I said I was shocked that he stood up and shoved me, I would be lying. I expected it. He didn’t expect me not to budge, though.
“Sit the fuck down, Boeheim, you pussy.” I laugh at the joke he is.
“That’s enough!” Coach D yells.
“Brock, out,” the sexy, raspy voice chimes in.
“But—”
“Out now or, so help me God, you’re suspended for the first game.”
“Baby,”—he starts to chuckle— “without me, there is no game.”
I look around at my teammates. “Do you clowns hear him?”
“Courtney, can I have a moment please?” Coach D asks.
“No, get him out.” She looks at her watch. “I have ten minutes left to talk to my team.”
“Courtney, don’t be difficult,” Brock says as Coach D walks him out.
She doesn’t respond, and the look on her face is that of total fucking disgust. I can’t help laughing.
When I hear a loud whistle from the hall, I know whose foul mouth it came from, and when the rest of the team starts to stand, I do it quicker.
Blocking the door, I ask the team, “You really going to walk behind him like a bunch of cattle being called out to pasture?”
“He’s our captain,” one of them says.
“And Miss Cohen owns the ship,” I argue, not moving. “He doesn’t pay your bills.”
“He sure as hell does. Without him, we would have been done months ago. They come to see him play,” Dwayne says.
“Gentlemen, I can promise, if you walk out that door, you won’t be coming back in tomorrow without consequence,” Courtney threatens.
Some look at her. Hell, I look at her. She’s nice to look at.
Her face is set in determination.
“What are you gonna do? We’re under contract; you can’t fire us,” Dwayne snaps at her.
“You should show some respect,” I tell him.
“You ain’t shit to me,” he sneers.
I shrug. “That’s true. I’m not shit, but you keep sticking your nose in that ass”—I throw a thumb over my shoulder—“you’re gonna smell like shit.”
Some of the guys laugh. Some do the “Ooo.” Not Dwayne, though. No, he gets pissed.
“Have it your way.” I step aside, walking back to the seat in front of Courtney and telling her, “I’m all ears.”
She looks past me and at the rest of the team. “It’s not a threat; it’s a promise. Leave if you want. There are plenty of you to put five on the court come game time.” She then turns her back to us as she sets up her laptop.
I watch as all but six guys walk out the door. I expect Coach to return, but he doesn’t.
“Hey, pretty lady, there are seven of us still here, so whatcha got?” I ask.
She turns around, looks at her watch, and then looks toward the ceiling. “Thank you for staying. I can assure you my father is looking down from center court and appreciating it,” she says as she finally looks at us. “Wade Walker, Gregory Gallinari, Derrick Anthony, John Casspi, Jason Black, Michael Parker, and you”—she points at me—“I appreciate you taking your careers seriously.”
“My name is Trae Rhodes,” I inform her.
“I know that.” She starts to blush and looks away. “I’m making some big changes here. It has everything to do with the team’s profitability. This weekend, I arranged a pre-season exhibition match to be held in Las Vegas. You’ll fly down on the private jet, your rooms are paid for, meals included, and attendance is contractual. Those who don’t attend, including those who just walked out the door, will be monetarily penalized.”
Anthony snickers. “Oh, damn.”
“Oh, damn is right, and I’m within contractual rights on everything I am about to lay out here, so please, listen up.” She looks around then nods. “This team is the joke of the NBA.”
“She didn’t just say that, did she?” Gallinari whispers to me.
I nod. “She did.”
“Mr. Gallinari, I am not here to feed egos or blow smoke up any asses. It’s about the business.”
“The team is the business,” Michael Parker pipes in.
“It’s great you feel that way, but the way things are being run around here, you’ll be lucky if you have a job at season’s end.” She makes eye contact with everyone but me. “Things need to be done here that are done at other arenas. We have a state of the art fa
cility—most impressive in the industry. I’m going to expand the arena’s use and hope like hell that pulls us out of this hole.”
I watch her look around, avoiding me once again. It’s actually pretty damn funny.
Then she looks at a watch that is way too big for her wrist and mumbles, “I’m over by two minutes.” She looks up. “Lastly, and this has just come to my attention, the hallway full of women?” She shakes her head. “Pathetic that you need to send a tweet out to get laid.”
I can’t hold back the laugh, causing her to finally look at me.
“Mr. Rhodes, it’s not funny. Would you like to know why it’s not funny?”
“You’ve got my attention. Let’s hear it.” I lean forward.
“Those ladies—and I use that term very loosely—have no business inside my arena. They aren’t fans.”
“They’re fans,” Gallinari argues, and Parker high-fives him.
“Let me be more specific. They come in here without paying. They don’t come to watch you play. Hell, none of them even have your colors on. Therefore, we’ll host a formal meet and greet, charge money, and donate it to...I don’t know...planned parenthood or something.”
“You’re whoring us out?” I ask.
“Whatever you do off my time and out of my arena is your business. Here, your egos get checked at the door, and your balls stay on the court.”
“My balls will stay on court, Miss Cohen, I promise.”
Her eyes widen, completely understanding my innuendo, and then she rolls them before looking at her watch again.
“I will be calling each of you into my office next week so we can discuss your current contract and what is expected from here on out. Four days to Vegas, gentlemen. I want you hungry for a win. You need it.” She nods. “Thank you for your time.”
My teammates mumble under their breaths as they leave the conference room.
“This is some bullshit, man...”
“This jealous ex-shit is pathetic...”
“She’s using the team to get back at Boeheim...”
