by Mj Fields
This must be her way of telling me not to mention Dad. It dawns on me then that she and I never really ever talk about my father and her being together. I guess it makes sense since they split up when I was three.
Ron leans forward. “Rhodes is good. Casspi and Black excellent, too. Matthews needs to stay on D, and Parsons can play, but he needs more time on the court.”
I nod. “None of them started last season. They weren’t even in six through ten.”
“Coach D is trying to show you he’s in control.”
I shrug. “I’m sure that’s what he thinks he’s doing, but he’s actually showing me this team has a hell of a lot of hope.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Courtney,” Mom says almost sadly.
“She’s right, Ellen.” Ron reaches over and pats my knee. “They’re good.”
The second quarter starts with the same five players.
James turns around, grinning from ear-to-ear. “Watch Rhodes and Parsons; they’ve found their rhythm.”
And they have. There is much less looking around this quarter, and the ball is moving faster and more furiously. The Stallions are holding their own against the Nuggets.
Parsons looks far less pained. He seems to be—dare I say—having a good time. He even throws a three but misses. Trae is there for the offensive rebound, though, and dunks the ball with fury.
We now lead by one and, as the Nuggets move down the court, Black blocks a pass, and Trae dribbles it down the court without a single player stopping him, an easy two-point shot. However, he stops at the three, looks back, our eyes meet, he winks, and then he turns and makes the basket.
I spring to my feet and clap like a fool. Christa joins me, and so does James.
Coach D motions for a time-out, and I look at the clock. Ten minutes to the second quarter left and no reason to use a timeout.
When I see Trae’s head drop as he walks to an empty seat, I know what Coach D is doing. Son of a bitch.
Number 28, Walker, takes Rhodes’ place on the court.
Walker’s a great player, but like it or not, Trae has been the one leading the points and the team. Clearly, Coach D didn’t like it.
I look down and see Brock, hands clasped behind his head, looking at me. He gives me a slow wink.
I look toward Trae who is staring at Brock, jaw clenched, hands fisted, clearly pissed off.
“What did you do?” Christa whispers.
I shake my head and turn back to the court.
James looks back at me. “They’re not in sync. They’re gonna fuck up the lead.”
I want to say “no shit,” but if I expect Coach D to respect me, I’m certainly not going to let some weirdo with an odd obsession with Trae and Brock’s old bromance know there is dissension in the ranks.
“I’m sure Coach has his reasons.” I smile and look back at the court in time to see the Nuggets steal the ball and fly down the court, making a three.
“Well, do you think, since you own the team, maybe you should point out he is epically fucking this up, just like he did with Rhodes’ chance at Olympic glory?”
“James, I appreciate your enthusiasm.” I smile again, deciding not to make further eye contact.
“For the love of good basketball, Cohen, do something!” he gasps when the Nuggets snatch the ball again and makes a two.
I look at Christa for some help.
She climbs over the seat in front of us and moves James’s coat. “I’m gonna get you through this, James. You and me, bud.”
“I’m not sure I’m comfortable with that.” He looks at her suspiciously.
“Well, that makes two of us,” she says, looking straight ahead. “But, God willing, James, we’ll survive.”
At halftime, we are down by five.
I stand up to make my way to our locker room when Ron stops me, grabbing my hand. “Let him bury himself.”
“And chance a loss?” I ask horrified.
He nods. “It’s just an exhibition game, Courtney.”
“That could help regular season ticket sales if we win. With all due respect, I’m not chancing it.” I walk past him quickly before I catch a glimpse of disappointment in his eyes or suffer through my mom telling me I’m being rude. God knows that’s coming.
When I enter the locker room, Coach Landry gives me a slight shake of the head. His eyes are telling. He’s just as pissed as I am.
Trae sees me, and then looks over at Brock like he wants to tear his head off. Coach D notices, and then looks back at me.
I swallow down my extreme pissed-off-ness and smile. “Just stopping in to tell you that you look good out there.” I look at Trae. “Better than any old footage I saw last year.”
He licks his lips and looks down, hiding a smirk.
“Keep working together and win this, then drinks are on me tonight.”
To that, Trae looks up and shakes his head.
I look away, knowing exactly why he would rather I not host a get-together. It’s written all over his face, and if that wasn’t telling enough, I can see it in his eyes.
Desire.
“I’m proud of you, Stallions. See you on the court.” I turn and walk toward the door, whispering to Landry as I pass him, “I want a win.”
“So do I, Courtney, so do I.”
***
WE ARE DOWN BY FOUR with six minutes left in the third.
Walker passes to Anthony, who’s ready to take a shot, when Coach D calls another timeout.
“What the fuck is that old man doing?” James yells, looking at Christa.
“I have no idea, but it’s bad, right?” she asks.
He has no idea she has very limited knowledge of the game and that she’s actually asking a question.
He grabs her hand and looks at her with almost pleading eyes. “Can’t you make her do something? They have a chance to win this thing, and that old bucket of Kentucky Fried Coach is going to kill this win!”
She looks back at me then down at their held hands, and then back at me and mouths, “Help.”
I giggle, and she scowls. God, I love her.
When the whistle blows, a whole new team takes the court—Brock, Rose, Howard, Johnson, and Stalks.
“Well, here we go,” Joey Curry states, smiling at the camera. “This is last years’ team. Let’s see if, like the rest of the team, they’ve improved, too.”
“With the Nuggets up by three, let’s hope so, Joey. Let’s hope we’re here to witness a historical event—the Stallions first ever win,” Laura says with a smile.
“I hate newscasters,” my mother whispers. “They’ve said nothing nice about your team since the beginning of this godforsaken game, and now that they look to have a chance at winning, they’re talking about them like the Stallions is made up of players who could be Carmelo Anthony.”
The mention of Dad’s favorite player adds to the emotions bubbling inside me now. I can’t believe she even knows who Carmelo Anthony is.
She must see my surprise because she gives me a quick smile when I look at her.
“You know that’s Dad’s—”
“Of course I know,” she whispers. “We weren’t enemies, Courtney.”
“But you hated him,” I whisper back.
“I hated his choices—business being more important than family. He should have chosen family.” There is a soft sadness in her voice that doesn’t go unnoticed. She takes in a deep breath and straightens up. “The man bred well. I told him that every time I was given the chance, and he agreed.”
“Parker is coming out and replacing Howard,” James says. “He’s limping.”
I look up and watch as Parker jogs out.
Brock passes him the ball, and it’s a sloppy pass, yet Parker somehow gains control and makes a three-pointer. He winks at Brock, and Brock’s face turns red.
I look over at Trae, who has that signature smirk on his face as he watches the interaction.
Parker snatches the ball from the Nuggets and dribbles
toward the basket. He heads in for a layup and, out of nowhere, Brock collides with him, knocking him to the ground.
Parker jumps up and shoves him, and Brock holds his hands in the air.
I can read his lips as he says, “My bad, man.”
“That stupid fucker!” James yells. “Haven’t you learned, Boeheim!”
Brock looks toward us and shakes his head.
“What do you mean by, haven’t you learned?” Christa asks.
“Boeheim and Rhodes,” he says, looking at her like she’s an idiot. She shakes her head, letting him know she still doesn’t understand, and he sighs. “Rhodes’ knee injury?” Again, she shakes her head. “Brock did that to him. Brock laid him out when he was going up for a layup, and Rhodes lost everything. Well, everything except that girl.”
“Are you sure?” I’m shocked I have never heard of this before. Trae never mentioned it, and I didn’t read about it. The hatred between the two men is deeper than I thought. It was way more than fights over women.
James looks back. “Tapes don’t lie.”
“I’ve never seen nor heard about any of this.” I look toward Trae, admiring him even more.
“It was all pushed under the rug so Boeheim’s reputation wasn’t damaged. I tried to blow the story out of the water, but was...” He stops mid-sentence.
“Was what?” I ask.
“Rhodes asked me to leave it alone. Said his game was dead, so why fuck up the chance for Kentucky Fried Coach and Brock. I was floored! I had no idea why he was letting it go, but he told me that some things just need to be let go in order to make a better future for others. When I argued, he told me it wasn’t my fucking call; it was his. And for my love of the game and respect for the best players since Jordan, I did what he asked. He left the game, and so did I.” He looks at the court and smiles. “He’s back now, and so am I.”
The third quarter ends with the Stallions behind by seven.
Parker is pissed when Gallinari replaces him. He says something to Coach that makes his face contort and turn red. Then Parker leans in and whispers something that has Coach tossing his arms in the air and sending Trae back in.
None of the four on the court throw Trae the ball. It’s almost like they’re playing keep away.
When he steals the ball from the Nuggets, he flies down the court and makes a three. Then he jogs back down the court and smirks.
I read his lips as he says, “That’s how it’s done.”
The score is 97 to 90 with four minutes left in the game when Brock makes another three, closing the gap.
When Trae steals the ball again, Brock is at the basket. He grits his teeth as he throws it to him, and Brock dunks the ball, making the score 97-95.
With one minute and thirty seconds left to the game, I am on the edge of my seat. Hell, even my mother is on the edge of hers.
Trae is at the basket, wide open, when Brock shoots a three and misses. Trae grabs the rebound, though, and shoots for two. Now the game is tied, and the whole place is coming unglued.
Trae gets another rebound and flies down the court. Brock yells at him to pass the ball, but Trae ignores him, going in for a layup. Brock collides with him, but Trae seems ready for the attack, and instead of him ending up on the ground, Brock is the one who ends up falling.
“And the mighty tree has fallen!” James laughs maniacally as he stands up, clapping his hands.
The Nuggets shoot, but Trae blocks the shot.
“Oh, damn!” Christa yells as Trae steals the ball. “He’s flying! He’s flying! Christ on a cracker, is he a bird? Is he a plane? Hell no, he’s a baller with wings and...Oh, man, he made a three! Sweet baby Jesus, a three! That means we won, right? James, did we win?”
“Yes, Christa, the Stallions have won their first game ever,” James answers, grinning like a proud father.
“James, are you crying?” Christa asks.
“No.” He wipes away a tear. “No, I’m not.”
“Do you need a tissue?”
James gives her a dirty look.
She giggles, shrugging. “It’s just a game.”
The buzzer sounds. The game is over.
“It’s not a game; it’s my life. And these are not tears.” James stands up and begins walking away. “It’s allergies!”
“Go!” Ron laughs as he pushes me past him. “Go congratulate your team.”
“Drinks in the hotel bar in an hour,” I yell to Mom and Ron. “Come on, Christa!”
“James!” Christa calls out to her new friend.
He turns.
“Wanna come meet the team?”
Even James can’t stop himself from smiling.
I roll my eyes at Christa. “You need to stop making friends with the crazies.”
“But they make me feel normal,” she says with a giggle.
“Come on, James.” I wave for him to follow us. “Let’s go congratulate our team.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Light
TRAE
THE ARENA ERUPTS IN CHEERS. Hell, even the Nuggets’ fans are on their feet.
I should be eating this shit up, I should, but I hear his fucking jaw flapping.
“Hope you’re happy with yourself!”
I turn around to see Brock limping off the court.
Fucking fraud.
“I’m not happy, Boeheim. I’m ecstatic!” I pound my fist to my chest. “I’m fucking high on hoops and a win!”
I see Courtney and Christa walking toward me with someone I know I should recognize, but it matters fuck not.
I point at her, and then I point at myself.
She looks around to see who’s watching then back at me as she stops a good five feet away.
“Great game, Rhodes!” she yells.
“Was it?”
“Phenomenal.” Her smile is so bright I can’t help ignoring the distance.
“I get it.” I smile back.
Her eyes light up before she looks down then turns to head toward the rest of the team.
I get it. I don’t fucking like it, but I get it.
“Get your asses showered; we have a press conference,” Coach D snaps.
“And then we have drinks,” Courtney says, and the team cheers. Well, most of them, anyway.
***
BACK IN THE LOCKER ROOM, Coach D is pacing, pissed. I have seen it before. Never after a win, though. And I’m pretty fucking sure it has a whole lot to do with me.
I look at Parker, who shakes his head.
“What?” I ask.
“You touched the golden boy,” he explains.
“I’m not thinking about the golden boy. I’m thinking about what comes next.”
“I see how it is, but she’s not yours,” he tosses me back my bullshit.
“She’s about to be.”
With that, I shower quickly but thoroughly. Then I shave my skin smooth for after drink activities, still buzzing from the win.
Grabbing my phone, I send a text home, avoiding Coach D and any other motherfucker who will bring me down.
- The win was for you, my girls.
- Your girls are so proud of you, is my reply.
I follow the team down the corridor to the press room, and when I walk in, cameras flash in my direction. I nod in acknowledgment, looking around and finding Courtney standing in the back of the room, beaming next to her folks, Christa, and the guy who walked on the court with them.
“What can I say?” Coach D begins. “We won a game.”
“First game since the team was formed,” one of the reporters notes.
“Damn good-looking team, but what the hell made you choose that starting line-up?” another interjects.
“All my men are part of this team. All good players. It was an exhibition game. We didn’t want to risk injury, so the coaching staff made some choices.”
I want to cough, bullshit.
“Speaking of injury; how’s the knee, Boeheim? You came down on it pretty hard.”
&nb
sp; Boeheim steps up to the mic. “Had worse falls, and I always come out on top.”
“Playing like the 1980’s Detroit Pistons, but against your own team?”
That voice. That face.
Oh, fuck. It’s James Toretto, the guy who ran The Dirt.
“Been a few years since Trae and I have been on the same court.” Boeheim smirks. “Gonna take some getting used to.”
“Hope to see you play together like you did in 2009. You two were the next Pippen and Jordan, Shaq and Kobe, Bird and McHale, Magic and Kareem.”
“That’s a little bit of an exaggeration.” Boeheim sniffs indignantly.
“Didn’t have to be,” James comments as he sits down.
“These two men are back on the same team now, and you better bet they’ll be playing as good, if not better than those mentioned,” Coach D boasts.
“You have a new owner,” Laura says, smiling. “A female.”
“When Charlie passed, he left his team to his kids. Courtney, his youngest, stepped up to take care of business.” Coach D nods toward her.
All cameras turn toward Courtney and, for a moment, she looks like a deer in the headlights. Then she looks down, nods mostly to herself, then looks back up.
“My father and I spent much of our time together watching the Knicks play. He made me love the experience of being at a live game. I hope to help bring that same feeling to other sports fans and families in Seattle. What these men did today have nothing to do with me.”
“How did it feel to take over a team that hadn’t won a game?” Joey asks.
She smiles and shakes her head. “After tonight, I really don’t remember. They showed me what the Stallions are capable of. When the season starts, I expect no different.”
“Ball buster,” Anthony says with a nod. “Don’t let that sweet, little face fool you. Our new owner is fierce.”
“She’s also thirsty.” Courtney smiles at him. “Please point your cameras to those deserving. See you all soon.” She points toward the team, and then politely waves good-bye before glancing at me as she leaves the room.
“Rhodes, how does it feel to have the lead in points?”
I shake my head and smile. “Feels good to be back.”
***
I STAND IN FRONT OF the mirror in the suite and look myself over. Black button-up shirt, tailored gray slacks, and black leather loafers on my feet. I look good, and she will look damn good on my arm.
