Offensive Rebound

by Mj Fields

  When I shut the door behind their groans, I hear Courtney’s own groan as she whispers, “Thanks, Dad.”

  “You think he can hear you?” I ask, startling her.

  She straightens up completely, back straight as an arrow, yet she doesn’t turn around.

  “Your eyes closed?” I ask.

  “Excuse me?” She still hasn’t moved.

  “You aren’t saying a damn thing. I assume you think by closing your eyes, you’re invisible.”

  She turns around then and looks at me. “I am well aware I’m not invisible.” She grabs her bag and walks toward the door. “Now, if you’ll excuse me...”

  “Why are you in such a hurry?”

  She stops and waits for me to move away from the door I’m blocking. “I have a business to run.”

  “You mentioned your dad a minute ago. He was a good man.”

  “Was he? How well did you know him?” I can tell she wishes she hadn’t said that.

  I shrug. “Talked a couple times. He seemed proud of his kids. Seemed like he was doing this for you.”

  She looks at her watch, her face completely blank. “My father is not up for discussion.” She then motions for me to move. I don’t.

  “How about Boeheim? Is he up for discussion?”

  “Mr. Rhodes...”

  “Trae. My name is Trae.”

  “I don’t care what your name is, now please excuse me.” She takes a step forward, but I still don’t move.

  “What’s the harm in being on a first name basis?”

  She simply looks at me.

  “That’s what I thought.” I finally move to the side. “Courtney Cohen, you and I are going to be a good team.”

  She sighs, asking, “Why’s that?”

  “For starters, mutual hatred for Boeheim, and”—I motion around the room—“I’m all ya got, sweet thing. You even alienated the coach.”

  She swallows hard and looks away. “I don’t need them.”

  “Well, you do,” I dispute.

  She looks back at me, deadpan, not giving anything away. But her blushing and avoiding eye contact with me earlier tells me she wants me, and I sure as hell want her, which is why I say what I do next.

  “Let me take you to dinner. I’m gonna help you out.”

  “Help me out?” she huffs. “I don’t need help.”

  “Don’t be difficult. This thing is going to happen.” I rub my fingertips up her arm.

  She gasps.

  “This thing, attraction, what could happen...You and I.” I motion between us. “I thought it would be a stretch to make it believable to everyone that there is any sort of attraction between us, because you aren’t my type. But I was wrong. You’re feisty, determined, and are doing one hell of a job making them think you don’t give a damn. You need me, and I am at your service, sweet thing. We have a common disdain for Brock. We can make his season hell.”

  After pulling her shocked eyes back in place, she rolls them as she quickly sidesteps me and makes it to the door. “You’re wrong.”

  “I’m a lot of things, but wrong isn’t one of them. And, Courtney, you’re fucking beautiful.”

  I watch as her brows knit together before she looks down then walks out the door.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Gentleman’s Agreement

  COURTNEY

  “HE SAID WHAT!” CHRISTA’S GASP nearly pierces my ear through the Bluetooth ear piece.

  “Something like: I thought it would be a stretch to make it believable to everyone that there is any sort of attraction between us, because you aren’t my type.”

  It wasn’t something like that. That was exactly what he said. I know Christa, though. She will read into it when there isn’t anything worth reading into.

  She laughs. “What an ass.”

  “He is. He’s also a hot-headed pot stirrer.”

  “He smokes pot?”

  “No,” I tell her on a laugh.

  She’s my best friend, but we couldn’t be more opposite if she were the North and I were the South Pole.

  She groans, and I assume she has now allowed what I said to sink in. Instead, she exclaims, “So, when I get there in two days, I will dig into these Stallions and figure out what we’re going to do with them.”

  “Sounds good,” I respond, looking around my suite that is all packed up.

  Since moving to Seattle, I have lived in this suite, waiting for my father’s house to become more mine. I haven’t stepped foot in it; have avoided going there since I moved here. It’s weird to think about moving into a place filled with his things, but I need to settle in and have a place to hunker down. A place for me to escape the Stallions.

  “Hey, Court?”

  “I’m here.”

  “You should really wait until I get there to move into your dad’s house.”

  “No, I need to do this. The movers are finished. The painters Mom hired finished two days ago. I’ll be fine.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes. Now, don’t you have some packing to do?” I ask

  “Yes.” She giggles. “Are you one hundred percent sure you want me there? I mean, Mom says—”

  “You made this decision. Don’t let her change your mind,” I remind her.

  “I just don’t want to be a burden. I mean, I can stay and go along with their evil plot to ruin me, but...” She stops, waiting for me to give her affirmation. And even though I hate that she needs it, I oblige.

  “I need a sidekick, Christa. I need someone I can trust. I can’t wait for you to get here.”

  “Perfect. So, we both need each other.”

  “We always have.”

  “Always will,” she says, and I hear a smile in her voice.

  “Talk tomorrow?” I ask.

  “But if you need me tonight, I’m here.”

  “I know,” I tell her before I hang up.

  I can’t stop thinking of The Stallions’ number 23. What an ass. What a nice, firm, round ass, I think. But an ass all the same. I don’t need his help.

  At first, he was part of the plan. I knew about him before he joined the team. I knew about his and Brock’s big fight over some woman named Tammy that Brock once dated. One whom he broke up with after finding her in Rhodes’ bed.

  I knew that number 23, a player on and off the court, was always seen with Brock’s exes. I knew that an online sports entertainment channel, The Dirt, did a whole story about their rivalry, painting a pretty vivid picture of Trae Rhodes and his plethora of offensive rebounds with Brock’s castoffs.

  Brock never spoke of it, and I never looked into it any further. It wasn’t important. But now...Now I’m curious.

  I am sure it has a lot to do with what Trae said to me. “I’m a lot of things, but wrong isn’t one of them. And, Courtney, you’re fucking beautiful.”

  I am just as certain it has a lot to do with the way he looked at me, seemed to toy with me. And yes, a miniscule amount has something to do with the way he stuck up for me.

  I haven’t had that since I got here.

  Well, you certainly don’t need it from him, I remind myself.

  Christa could not get here soon enough. I needed a buffer, someone whose presence will remind me what I am here for. Otherwise, I know I will allow myself to see Trae the way he wants me to see him—as a friend. He is not.

  Another thing that has been on my mind constantly is trying to salvage this financial mess. I need to cut back where I can, and a part of that includes driving myself around and getting rid of my father’s driver, saving me a hefty amount of money. Plus, it allows me the ability to finally drive. I have had my license for years, yet living in New York City, driving lessons, or the need to even own a car wasn’t necessary.

  As I get into the vehicle I will be keeping from my father’s fleet, the black BMW X7, I can’t help smiling when I press the button to start the car and the engine revs. I feel power.

  I hit the navigation system and speak the address, “1723 West Ave, R
edmond.”

  “Getting directions to Home Court,” comes through the speakers, but the words Home Court are in my father’s voice.

  Emotions bring the threat of tears, yet there is no need for them when I hear his voice and the word home.

  His home is now a place that is mine for all intent and purpose.

  For now.

  Getting on WA-520 in Hunt Point, the sadness fades and excitement for seeing where my father called home creeps in.

  I decided a long time ago not to allow myself to wallow in lost moments with my father, but focus instead on the time I did spend with him. Therefore, I only focus on the memory and the legacy he left behind.

  He didn’t teach me to ride a bike, throw a ball, or figure skate in Rockefeller Center. He didn’t interrogate my friends or boyfriends to ensure I wasn’t putting myself in harmful situation. He never took me on amazing spring break vacations, or held me up over his head to put a star on top of the Christmas tree. Hell, I didn’t even see him on every holiday. Was he a great dad? The answer is no. But every twelve minutes between quarters of all the games we attended, I was his complete focus and the light of his life. The things I learned in those moments, the love I saw in his eyes, was enough. Charlie Cohen was not the greatest or worst father in the world, but he was my father, and the love I have for him is no less.

  For the next twenty minutes, I think about him as I drive to a place he called home, focusing my energy on that. Then I pull up in front of 1723 West Avenue and put the vehicle in park.

  The house is immense and beautiful, and the view is stunning. Lake front property on Lake Sammamish.

  I wonder for a moment if my father loved the water. The Stable and his primary home are both waterfront properties. It dawns on me that I lived on an island my entire life, yet I was never one to stand and admire its beauty.

  Then reality hits, and I know I will be spending far less time here than the arena.

  I put the vehicle in drive and pull onto the circular driveway. The house’s Cape Cod style has a charm about it. Even though I know that it has seven thousand square feet of living space, it seems cozy. It’s sage and white color is in sharp contrast to the arenas black and darker woods.

  To the left of the house is an attached garage. I was told the garage has a large apartment over it.

  Getting out of the vehicle, I look at the porch leading to the entrance’s french doors. To the left is an Adirondack style rocker and a sign that says “To the Lake” with an arrow pointing to the right.

  My father was a penthouse kind of man. However, this place, the one his voice still calls home, is not what I would have imagined. It is homey, bright, inviting.

  At the door, I punch in the code that unlocks the door and walk inside to find a wide-open floorplan that is impressive. The chef’s kitchen is remarkable, and I can’t wait until Christa gets here so we can cook together. Or, at least try. She is handier in the kitchen than I am. My kitchen skillsets are less tested than my ability to run an NBA team and save it from ruin. I can boil water and warm up a meal in the microwave. That’s truly it. Nevertheless, I have faith in myself that I will figure it out. I’m smart, and the more I tell myself I can do something, the more I believe it.

  After having a look around the kitchen, living room, two dining areas, and the bathroom, I decide I am impressed with my color choices. They are all natural and light, not bright. Tans, light yellows, and light sage accents to carry in the outside colors, but not a lot of them, just enough. It was difficult to hire a designer, having not seen the home, but Donavan nailed it.

  I head down the whitewashed wooden stairway to the floor that is level with the beach and holds all four bedrooms. When I get to the bottom, I see a massive picture hanging on the rec room’s wall.

  It’s of me and Dad at a Knicks game, his arms surrounding me, both of us smiling from ear-to-ear. And above the picture is a wooden board with the words “Holding Court.”

  Holding Court is a term used in many places: the theatre, a court room, and a basketball court. It means that the subject is the center of attention and all eyes are on them.

  “Knock it off,” I tell myself as I slap away a tear. “Get it together.”

  I walk over to the built-in stereo system and turn it on. Music instantly plays throughout the room, making me smile.

  I can’t see Dad as a music guy. If NPR or ESPN blasted through, I wouldn’t find it odd. This, though...This I find odd. Dad and pop music?

  I shake my head at the thought as I head into one of the bedrooms and drop my bag on the bed before pulling out the Stallions’ jersey with the number one on the back. Dad sent it to me when he first had them made.

  As I unzip my dress and let it fall to the ground, the music stops. Then I hear a low whistle.

  Startled, I jump and turn around, yelling at a towel clad Trae Rhodes who is ogling me, “What in the hell are you doing here?” before I quickly grab the jersey and toss it over my head.

  Damn, damn, dammit. This should piss me off. It does piss me off. However, I look down at my nipples and see physical evidence of the desire I hoped to keep bottled down unless I needed him.

  Trae Rhodes, number 23, is, without a doubt, the most beautiful man I have ever seen. The most confident and sexual man, too. Playing off an attraction to him will be a non-issue. But with a baller, a player, a man like him, I can’t fall at his feet and have it on my terms. I caved to feeling with Brock, knowing now it was because I was weak and vulnerable after Dad passed, but Brock is no Trae Rhodes. He could leave a much bigger mark. If need be, I will enjoy using him, but right now, I don’t need him, not in the plan B type way.

  He walks past me, bare-assed again, and grabs his bag from beside the bed. I hadn’t noticed it there when I dropped mine on the bed.

  “The guys are tiling the apartment bathroom. And you...you weren’t supposed to be here for another couple of days.” He then drops his bag beside mine, pulls out a pair of shorts, and when he drops his towel that was doing a horrible job of covering his...manhood and clearly not his ass, I look away.

  “You...Why are you...? What are you...? Jesus, Rhodes, what is going on?” I stumble over my words as I pull on a pair of shorts.

  Focus, focus, focus!

  “Answer a question for me first, and then I’ll try to figure out what the hell you’re trying to ask me.” He doesn’t wait for me to reply. “Have you been without a bra all day?”

  I turn to face him, ready to scream at him, and he smiles.

  “Welcome home, Court.”

  The way he says it is without game. It’s sweet and kind, and...very fucking confusing.

  No. Oh no, you don’t baller.

  “My home.” I poke his bare chest. “Mine.”

  He grabs my poking finger and smiles wider. “Your dad gave me the apartment for the season. Part of my contract.”

  Mouth dropped open, I tell him, “I’ve read your contract; it doesn’t say that at all.”

  “Gentlemen’s agreement,” he states, as if that’s enough of an explanation. “I have no desire to hole up in an overpriced hotel with all of Brock’s ponies.” He’s looking at my chest like he is waiting for an answer about the bra question.

  I cross my arms over my breasts.

  “Do you have a problem with this arrangement?” he asks, bringing his eyes up to my face.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. It’s...” I stop, having no idea how to explain why this is so wrong. My tits even know it’s wrong, though they are literally pointing in his direction.

  Hell, I have never felt like this with a man, not ever. At the arena, it was different. Other people surrounded us, people who hold me in contempt but were there. They aren’t here now, dammit.

  Before I can get anything out, he explains, “Only reason I’m here is because the shower is out of commission for the night. Grouts gotta settle for twenty-four hours. I won’t be in your hair again.”

  Exasperated, my hands now spread out to
my sides, I ask, “What exactly do you want me to say, Rhodes?”

  He shrugs and smirks. “No, it won’t be a problem.”

  “Then that would be a lie.” I drop my arms and walk past him, out into the rec room.

  “The way I see it, we can either be enemies or allies. And let’s face it; you need all the allies you can get.” He follows me.

  I walk out the french doors and onto the patio, shutting the door behind me, hoping he just leaves — at very least I need space.

  The door opens.

  Damn him. I will not turn around. I will stand my ground.

  What is my ground again?

  When I hear the door shut, I look left to see him at the outdoor kitchen, reaching into the refrigerator and pulling out a bottle of wine.

  “You like red?”

  “I like peace and quiet,” I snap, to which he chuckles.

  “You’ll have plenty after we hash this out.”

  I turn from the spectacular view of the lake to him, watching as he opens the bottle. “I’d rather not.”

  He walks over and hands me one of the two glasses. “You pissed off a lot of people today.”

  “You’re pissing me off right now,” I retort as I take the glass of wine and set it on one of the tables. I certainly don’t need to drink. Who the hell knows what will happen then?

  I look at him, standing barefoot and bare-chested in ball shorts, swishing the wine around in his glass as he watches me. He takes a sip, and I imagine him sipping on me. His licks his lips after his sip, and I swear he is turning me on. His lip curves up in the corner, and I know then he is aware of what he is doing.

  I need to be a bitch, or bossy, or...I’m not making friends with him. I’m not, but I can’t make an enemy out of him, either.

  “You’re changing things up at The Stable, and your little ponies are gonna play follow-the-leader whether you like it or not.”

  “If they don’t want to be in breach of contract, they’ll do as they’re asked.”

  He sits down then takes another sip of his wine. “You’re between a rock and a hard place.”

  I don’t know why, but when he says hard place, I look down, and then quickly turn away, hoping he didn’t notice.