by Mj Fields
I shrug as I thumb through pictures of her mom, her, her dad, what I assume is her stepfather, and many of her and Christa. High society, high class, lots of money.
“She’s beautiful,” she says again with a smile in her voice.
“I agree,” I comment, looking at a picture of her in a little school girl uniform. “You still have this by any chance?”
She looks over. “Probably.”
“I’m gonna fuck you in that skirt.”
Her posture straightens, and she sits perfectly still.
I look over, and she glances at me for just a second out of the corner of her eye, saying nothing.
Gotcha, I think.
When the van slows down in front of the hotel, she hands me back my phone, and I hand her hers. Then, when the van comes to a complete stop, she stands up and walks off without a second glance.
Yeah, she’s out.
I take in a deep breath and stand, waiting for everyone else to exit.
Parker grabs my shoulder and squeezes it. “Let’s fuck shit up.”
“Let’s.”
Walking into the hotel, I watch as Courtney and Christa speak to a concierge. They give her a handful of envelopes, and she nearly drops them. However, a man I don’t know grabs her hand and smiles. She lets out a slow breath and smiles back. He then whispers something in her ear, and she smiles more genuinely.
There is a woman behind him whom I recognize. It’s an older, shorter version of Courtney. Her mother.
Courtney and her look at each other for a moment before her mom hugs her and, after a second, Courtney returns the embrace. Then they talk for a minute before Courtney nods then turns around and looks at the team. She puts a smile on her face as she walks toward us and hands the envelopes to Coach D.
“You have a block of rooms. Your keys are in the envelopes. Coach D and Coach Landry have it from here. I’ll see you all in a few hours on the court.” She looks at her watch then back up at everyone. “Good luck tonight, Stallions.”
As luck will have it, I’m with Parker. Floor twenty-three, too.
Well, that’s a good sign, isn’t it? I think as we exit the elevator.
Once inside the room, Parker says, “Christa. What do you know about her?”
“She’s our boss’s best friend.” He cringes, and I shrug. “You like her?”
“I wanna fuck her.” He shrugs. “Maybe a couple times.”
I nod and set my bag down.
***
AN HOUR BEFORE TIP-OFF, WE are warming up. It should be a euphoric feeling, this being the first game I play as an NBA player. Yet, walking into The Stable had more of an effect on me.
The stands are packed with lots of Nuggets fans. I can’t stop myself from smiling at them, psyching them out a little. Hell, it may even make them trade in their Nuggets’ gear for Stallions’.
“Bring it in, men!” Coach yells.
Walking toward the tunnel and to the locker room, I look up to see Courtney, her folks, Christa, and a bunch of others shaking hands and talking business, I assume.
She looks at me as if she knows I’m watching and smiles shyly before looking away.
There are things in my life I would change, but Callie isn’t one of them. She isn’t a “thing”; she’s my child. When Courtney saw my pictures, though, something changed between us. I felt it, and it’s been eating at me for the past few hours. She distanced herself.
Over it, I tell myself and join the team.
Inside the locker room, we all circle around Coach D.
“All right, men,” Coach D grumbles as he shakes his head. “I know this isn’t what you all expected, but it is what it is. We have a new leader. She’s no Charlie, but she is the one in charge of the contracts and you all getting paid, so we’re giving her what she wants. This is just an exhibition game, so swallow your pride, play your best, and try to have fun.”
The dig on Courtney doesn’t sit well with me, but what do I care? She’s distancing herself.
“Boeheim, Rose, Howard, Johnson, Stalks, you’ll be sitting the first two quarters. We’ve already discussed it, and you know how I feel. You also know my hands are tied. We’ll make the best of it, though,” he says with bitterness. “Casspi and Black, you’re our starting forwards; Matthews, you’re shooting guard; Parsons, you’re point; and Rhodes, you’ll be starting center.”
Casspi, Black, Matthews, and Parsons all look shocked. He is definitely setting us up for failure. I am no fucking center, and there’s no reason I should be starting over Walker, Anthony, or Gallinari. Hell, I shouldn’t be starting over any of them.
I look at Coach Landry, who looks down. I know damn well he’s not happy, either. Then I look over at Walker and Gallinari, who were starting forwards last year; Anthony, who was starting shooting guard; and Parker, who is a damn good point. They all shake their heads.
Boeheim, Rose, Howard, Johnson, and Stalks look way too fucking smug. They know exactly what Coach is doing.
Parker raises an eyebrow at me, and I shake my head. “It’s wrong.”
He shrugs. “It is what it is.”
I nod.
“You’ve got this.” He pats the top of my head and smirks.
“Fuck you,” I say through a laugh. “I’m only a couple inches shorter than you.”
“Don’t kid yourself. A couple inches do make a difference.”
“As point, yeah. But what you have in height, I have in length.”
“Fucking Stallions,” he says, holding a fist up.
After I give him some fist, his eyes narrow at me with a look of determination. “I don’t talk much. Doesn’t mean I’m not capable.”
I try not to laugh because Parker really doesn’t say shit, and the man needs to be reminded to take off his headphones when we are at practice.
“Coach D is trying to prove a point to your Courtney.”
“She’s not my mine,” I say with a bit of a bite.
“Right.” He shakes his head then continues, “He’s putting you with the players with the least amount of game time. Fucked up, but here’s what you need to know. Casspi and Parsons are shooters, though they aren’t given the chance often. You give it to them every chance you can. Parsons lacks confidence, so chat him up; tell him where it needs to be, and he’ll do his best to get it there. Matthews, he’s cocky; thinks he can shoot threes. He can’t. Defense is his strength. You two need to work together. He’d make a good center, but not shooting guard. You’re gonna have to push yourself and that knee to be both until he gets pissed off enough and falls into center.”
“Anything else?” I ask.
“Fuck Coach D. He’s Boeheim’s second biggest fan,” he sneers.
“His first was Charlie?”
“No, his biggest fan has always been himself, and Charlie was sick of it.”
He looks like he wants to say more, but simply nods and walks away.
I look past him and see Coach Landry looking at me. His eyes are deadlocked on mine when he nods. He heard what Parker said, and he is confirming.
When I nod back, he looks away.
I look around and see my team all partaking in what is their pregame ritual. Minutes before a game, every player tries to find their place of peace and focus, like Parker, who is now sitting with his eyes closed and his headphones on. Some appear to be praying, while others are on their phones. It dawns on me that I don’t have a ritual. Never did.
“All right, men, our team’s owner would like a minute of your time,” Coach D announces, and we all look up as Courtney walks in.
She looks at her watch before looking up at us. “I know that things have gotten off to a rocky start with us. I know many of you think I am not capable of leading this team. I’m no coach; I never wanted to be. What I want is to make this team—a team my father built—the best it can be. I’m no more a quitter than he was, and I’m not going to turn and walk away from what he left me. I’m going to try my best to make him proud. As hostile as things have been, I want to ask t
hat you play for him today, for his vision.
“Growing up, I didn’t spend a lot of time with my father. The greatest memories I have with him are sitting in the stands at Knicks games. He would whisper to me different players’ names and stats. He’d curse and get angry when someone messed up, and he’d cheer when the same player made a basket. At the end of the game, he loved each and every player the same as he did going into the game. Basketball was his love.” She giggles. “It was his fourth wife and the one he had the longest and strongest relationship with.
“He’s no different than the thousands of people out there who are waiting for you in the stands. Tonight, I am no different, either. You all have a fan out there. You have me. I hope that, regardless of all that has gone on this past few weeks, you know that is one hundred percent true. Now go out there and play the game you love. Do it for Charlie, for your fans, and for yourselves.”
Coach D immediately interjects, “Let’s get out there and play!”
They all cheer and line up to walk out and be announced.
I look at Courtney, who smiles and shrugs before turning and walking out the door.
“Fuck,” I say as I quickly follow her. “Court!” I yell.
She stops but doesn’t turn around.
I walk in front of her to find her eyes are red and filled with tears.
“What you said was great.”
She shrugs and looks down.
End this, Rhodes.
“It’s no secret that I’m playing for her and my family. Whatever changed between us in the van after you saw her, it’s cool. I don’t expect someone like you to—”
“Someone like me?” she gasps.
“You don’t want me because I’m a daddy to a kid with—”
Her lips hitting mine stop me from continuing.
I push her against the wall and kiss her even harder. Tongues, lips, and teeth come out to clash with hers, mine fighting for dominance. However, there is no loser in this connection.
I take the sides of her face and tilt her head up, gaining control, and she slowly caves to it. I taste her mouth, lick and suck on her tongue, and she moans as she grips my jersey.
When I pull back, I admit, “You scare the hell out of me.”
“You do the same.”
“How?”
“Is a season enough? I’m afraid of that. I’m afraid now more than I was last night that I may actually like you.”
That makes me chuckle.
She places her fist on my abdomen in a mock punch. “She’s beautiful, Trae, and I wouldn’t want to take you away from her for more than a season. I don’t think I could if I tried.”
I shake my head, agreeing with her. “She’s my number one.”
“And that’s something every girl wants from her daddy.”
I kiss her again, this time softer, and then pull back when I hear my name.
“Fuck.”
“We’ll talk later. Go.” She smiles sadly.
“I need a promise,” I tell her, slowly running my thumb between her skin and the waistband of her black pants.
She closes her eyes, her head falling back slightly, as I move my hand down her pants, under her silky panties, and look down at her as I sink my finger inside her hot little box.
She whimpers out, “Trae.”
“This is mine for the season.”
Before she has time to say anything, I push a second finger inside her, and none too gently. Her pussy squeezes my finger as she thrusts forward.
“Yes.”
“Good answer.” I kiss her hard, but not hard enough to leave a mark, not yet, and then I leave her panting against the white brick wall.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Oh. My. God.
COURTNEY
I PULL MYSELF TOGETHER THE best I can then hurry to my seat as the announcers begin to start the game.
“We are here tonight at Mandalay Bay Hotel and Convention Center in Las Vegas, Nevada to watch the Denver Nuggets take on the Seattle Stallions in a preseason exhibition match. Tonight’s game is presented to you by Chevrolet. I am Joey Curry, and with me is Laura Delfury. Now let’s talk about these two teams.”
The female announcer, Laura picks up, “The Nuggets are on their game, but how will the Seattle Stallions play their second year?”
“Well, they can’t play any worse than they did last year.”
When Joey Curry laughs at his own joke, I want to shove the microphone up his ass. Instead, I scramble up to my seat, and Christa stands up for me to get through.
“How did it go?” she asks. “Are you okay?”
I give her a look that warns her to be quiet. “It went fine.”
“O...kay,” she says, not quite getting it.
“They’ll be fine.” My mom pats my leg as I sit. She probably thinks I’m annoyed by the announcers. I am, but that’s not what has me off kilter. I’m still unsteady from the connection between Trae and me.
When the sportscasters announce the team, my hands start to shake. I grip them tightly, trying to stop it.
“Your starting Stallions. Team captain, Brock Boeheim!”
I look at Christa who shakes her head.
“He’s done. He’s so done,” I sneer.
Brock is not supposed to be starting. His ass is supposed to be sitting.
“Hell yes, he is,” Christa snaps.
“Number 2, John Casspi. Number 5, Jason Black. Number 45, Wes Matthews. And number 23, Trae Rhodes!”
One by one, they come up, and we are on our feet, cheering just like Dad and I were with the Knicks. However, there is a different kind of excitement, a fine mixture of nervous energy, a want to win, anger at the man in charge of the team I own, and a desire for a man that was immediate and has only grown.
When Trae comes out, he catches the ball that Parker passes to him from center court and makes the basket.
“That’s his signature move,” an excited fan says from the seat in front of us. “He’s back! Trae Rhodes is back!”
Christa leans forward. “You’re wearing a Nuggets’ hoodie, yet rooting for Trae Rhodes?”
He turns around. “Rhodes and Boeheim made me love this game. My name is James Toretto. I used to run an online magazine.”
“The Dirt,” I say, knowing exactly who he is.
He nods. “Loved those two.”
“Odd way of showing it.” Christa snorts, and he gives her a dirty look before turning back around.
She looks at me and mouths, “What the fuck?”
My mom taps my leg. “Here they go.”
Trae comes out and takes center court. He looks back at me, and I give him a thumbs-up. He grins then turns around.
The whistle blows, and the referee tosses the ball.
“And the Stallions win the tip-off to start the game,” the announcer says with shock in his voice. “Rhodes passes it to Black, and Black to Parsons.”
“Parsons isn’t new, is he?” Delfury asks Curry.
“Who’d she blow to get the job?” James Toretto yells from his seat, and everyone around us looks in our direction.
I sink in my seat while Christa giggles.
He looks back at her. “Women have no business being sportscasters.”
Christa looks at me when he turns back around and whispers, “We need an in-house female announcer.”
I laugh as I watch the game.
Parsons shoots to Matthews who passes to Trae. Trae tries to get a shot, but he’s covered heavily. He shoots to Black, and Black shoots to score but misses, and Trae snatches it back. He again looks around then passes to Casspi, and Casspi shoots, but it’s snatched by number 34 on the Nuggets.
Trae runs down the court, and number 34 passes. He jumps and gets possession of the ball, dribbling back to our basket. He then stops at the three and shoots, when he gets knocked down and a foul is called.
“Fuck yes! Fuck yes, Rhodes, that’s all you!” James jumps up, and I can’t see a thing, but I know Trae made the three-p
ointer by the crowd’s reaction.
“I hate this damn game,” my mom grumbles as she tries to look over James’s flailing arms. “People like him and that god-awful sound of the shoes squeaking on the court...” She shakes her head. “Doesn’t that bother you? Like nails on a chalkboard,” she declares.
“Not at all. I actually love that sound.”
Trae looks back at me from the foul line and licks the finger that was inside of me a few minutes ago. Then he turns back to the hoop and throws his first free throw. When the ball swishes through the net, he looks back at me again, wearing an arrogant, cocky smile.
Oh. My. God.
Mom looks at me. “Why are you smiling? Why is he smiling at you? Courtney, what’s going on?”
I shake my head, unable to stop the smile from spreading across my face. “Mom, we’re winning.”
“But only by four,” she points out.
Trae makes his second foul shot, and now I’m on my feet, two fingers in my mouth as I whistle loudly.
“Courtney, sit down,” Mom scolds. “You’re the owner, not some randy fan.”
James looks back. “You’re Courtney Cohen?”
I smile and nod.
“So, Boeheim screwed you over, huh?”
“She dumped him,” Christa jumps to my defense.
“Trae and you knocking socks yet?” he asks.
I roll my eyes and keep watching my team.
“Is that why he’s looking at you, Courtney Cohen?” Mom asks, tugging on my shirt.
“Trae’s a good guy. Just here for a season to prove his worth.”
“That’s a yes,” James says, shaking his head as he turns back around.
“Don’t get involved,” my mom whispers sternly.
“Mom, don’t worry about it,” I whisper back, still watching the game.
Throughout the entire quarter, my mother is in my ear, asking questions and mumbling about the sounds. I can’t help thinking about Dad and how much he must have appreciated me being quiet so he could enjoy the game.
The first quarter ends with the Stallions up by eight, which also happens to be the number of points Trae scored.
“Did you and Dad ever go to games when you dated?” I ask my mom.
“One, and that was enough.” She cocks her head toward Ron and widens her eyes.
