Her expression turned skeptical. “Even Fruity Pebbles? And banana crème pie? What about apple cider?”
“Yes,” I answered, opening the lid. “I bought all of your unbelievably weirdly-flavored doughnuts to make you go nuts.”
And the temper tantrum was over. We all loved each other again. Hallelujah.
After each of us imbibed in too many fattening, artery-clogging hunks of dough, we fell onto our living room furniture to succumb to the sugar comas.
“Best dinner ever,” Syd’s muffled voice said from under a throw pillow.
Gemma whined from across the room. “Tonight’s yoga session is going to be a little delayed, ladies.”
“Fine with me,” I said. “I couldn’t fit into my yoga pants now, anyway.”
“I’m surprised you’re not out with Caleb the Cryer, Syd,” Gemma quipped.
Syd threw a pillow at her face. “Would you stop calling him that?” she snapped. “You saw him cry once.”
“Yeah, but it was at the end of Toy Story 3,” I interjected. “The dude cried at an animated movie.”
“You cried at the movie Up,” she pointed out. “That’s animated.”
“I also have a vagina.”
Gemma snorted. “So does Caleb.”
Syd tossed glares back and forth between us. “He’s a sensitive guy. There’s nothing wrong with that. We’ve been together for two years. You think maybe it’s time you back off him?”
I leveled her with a look. “I would if you were dating him because you actually loved him and not because your parents think he’d be a good husband for you.”
Syd came from an über wealthy, aristocratic-type family. We’re talking summer houses on both the beach and the lake—complete with mini yachts—type of rich. She grew up taking riding and piano lessons from the age of four. Having a formal brunch every Sunday. Attending the most upstanding private schools in the state.
And unfortunately, doing everything her controlling parents told her to do. Including dating a guy she didn’t even really like.
They hated the fact that she’d busted her ass in school, graduated early, and now worked for an accounting firm. They’d much rather her live at home and mold her into becoming a Stepford wife. They also hated the fact that she’d somehow gained a little freedom and now lived with two girls. Not that Gemma or I took offense to that. We couldn’t stand the Strattons, either. Nor Caleb the Cryer.
Syd averted her gaze. “Just because I’m not ready to marry him doesn’t mean I don’t love him.”
“Doesn’t mean you do, either,” I added.
Gemma and I had been hoping against hope that she would see the light and break up with the panty-waste. Most days, though, our prodding didn’t do any good.
Sensing the tension in the air, Gemma changed the subject. “I have an audition on Thursday for a play at the Downtown Theatre.”
“Really?” I asked, smiling. “That’s great.”
Gemma was an aspiring stage actress. And by that, I meant she took any—literally any—acting job she could find, whether there was a stage or not. She said she was working her way up to moving to New York and taking on Broadway, but she needed to “pad her portfolio” first.
She was a laidback free spirit, who couldn’t function without a clean aura and did Tai Chi in the park. She feng shui-ed our apartment at least once a month, and insisted we do yoga with her three times a week, at minimum. “Free Bird” by Lynyrd Skynyrd was basically the theme song to her life.
She nodded enthusiastically. “It’s for a part playing a lesbian stoner who discovers time travel.”
Jesus.
“I suggest you don’t quit your day job,” Syd said, clearly trying not to laugh.
Gemma tucked her legs underneath her, her eyes widening in excitement. “See, that’s just it. My day job is perfect for this role. I work at a freaking head shop, so I know all about stoner life—er, excuse me.” She lifted a finger. “Cannabis culture. They get all touchy when you don’t get it right.”
Ah, yes. Gemma’s jobs.
She preferred to have day jobs that would provide her with a certain set of skills and knowledge base that could be helpful with her acting career. Over the years she’d been a ski instructor, herbalist, pizza delivery girl, barista, office administrator, and most recently, before she’d taken the job at the head shop, a bartender.
Basically, she’d treated each of those as acting jobs, and the irony was that she was actually pretty good at acting. She just sucked at working.
I raised my imaginary drink to her in salute. “Well, we wish you the best of luck. May you grow from a cute little head case into a beautiful lesbian stoner.”
Syd raised her arm. “Solidarity.”
Gemma wiped at her eye where an actual tear may have fallen. “That was beautiful.”
I shook my head. Actors.
“Oh, my God,” Syd blurted out, turning to me. “How have we not talked about how your first day with the team went?”
“That’s right,” Gemma said, grinning. “You get to touch hot, sweaty guys all day long. Talk about a dream job.”
I snorted sarcastically. “Um, sweaty guys equals smelly guys. You forget that part?”
Syd shuddered beside me. “I agree. Your job sounds disgusting. I don’t care how attractive a man might be. I get one whiff of his B.O. and I’m done. I’ve got, like, ten extra bottles of hand sanitizer under the sink if you need more to take with you.”
Words of a germaphobe.
“It actually wasn’t too bad,” I mused, thinking back over the events of the day. “I enjoyed the work. And the guys were all nice.” Some had been a little too nice. Cam’s face flashed in my mind. “Not as obnoxious as I’d expected them to be. Not yet, anyway.”
“Did you meet that one guy?” Gemma asked, squinting her eyes. “What’s his name? The one everyone talks about.”
For someone who didn’t give a rat’s ass about sports, she just had to mention the one player I didn’t want to talk about.
“Cam Donovan.”
“That’s him. Is he as gorgeous in person as he is on TV?”
Even more so. Especially when he was naked.
I kept that part to myself.
“I guess.” I shrugged. “He knows it, too.”
He’d certainly shoved his cockiness in my face.
I drew shapes and patterns into the suede material of the couch to distract myself from my inappropriate thoughts. A flower. A heart. A…mushroom? Hell, that looked like a dick.
I frantically wiped it away.
There was a moment of silence before Syd asked softly, “What about your dad?”
Neither of them had ever met my father, but they knew my mother well, so they understood the awkward position I was in. My mom still held some resentment toward her ex-husband and intentional or not, I was often caught in the middle. They’d divorced when I was in junior high, and since then, her lingering bitterness had admittedly engrained itself into my own subconscious. To the point that my relationship with Dad had become strained. Not that it was Mom’s fault. Not at all. I just hadn’t made the attempt at repairing that relationship over the years. Nor had he.
“It was cordial,” I said, cringing at the emotionless words. “We’re supposed to have dinner tomorrow night.”
“It sounds like he’s making an effort, then,” Gemma commented. “That’s good, right?”
“I think so,” I answered solemnly. “We’ll see. I mean, it’s not like we have a lot in common. I have no idea what we’re going to talk about.”
“You never know,” Syd said. “He might surprise you. You guys both love basketball. That’s one thing.”
My laugh was mirthless. “Ironically, it was also what drove us apart. His coaching job.”
“And now’s his chance to make up for all those years he missed,” she replied. “If he’s trying to do that, you have to let him, Reese.”
“I’ll do my best,” was all I said. I was rea
dy to talk about anything else.
“I have an idea,” Gemma announced, clapping her hands as she stood up. “How about some drunken yoga?”
Which was exactly what it sounded like.
We’d all had too much wine one night, and we thought it’d be fun to try doing yoga while hammered. And it was. It was like playing Twister while drunk, only better. Because there were about a million words in yoga that were even funnier with alcohol, especially when used in a sexual context. Downward dog. Balancing stick. Sleeping hero. Half tortoise. Cobra.
But I didn’t feel like doing that much moving at the moment.
“Counter idea,” I said. “How about we get drunk and help you practice for your lesbian stoner audition?” I shot both of them panicked looks. “Minus the lesbian part.”
Syd pointed at me. “I vote that one.”
Gemma ran down the hall. “I’ll get my script!”
“Wait for it.” Syd held her hand up as she peered down the hall.
A few seconds passed and then—
An air horn blasted through the apartment. Followed by a sharp, feminine scream. Then a loud thud.
“Dammit, Syd!” Gemma shouted.
Syd burst into laughter, clutching her stomach. “Classic air horn behind her bedroom door.”
I gave her a fist bump. “Not bad.”
As long as my roommates continued to keep me distracted like this so I wouldn’t dwell on thoughts of Cam and how he seemed able to get under my skin, I’d be able to get up, go to classes, and make it through work every day. In theory.
One thing was for certain, though. There could be no more Close Encounters of the Cam Kind. My lady parts would eventually short circuit if these half naked conversations kept up.
But I had a feeling that with him, it would be one daily struggle after another.
It was going to be a long season.
6
Cam
I practically sprinted out the door of my Sports Law and Ethics class.
It was a core class, a requirement for my sports management degree, but I’d put it off until my senior year because I knew it would be the most boring. I’d been right about that. Worst two hours ever. Thank God the semester was almost over.
I threw my bag on the front seat of my ten-year-old Jeep Wrangler and fell back against the seat. I took one quick breather but knew that was all I had time for. I needed to get to practice, and I prayed the Jeep would actually start. It didn’t every time.
Being a college basketball darling didn’t come with a paycheck. Which meant I didn’t have a major cash flow available to buy myself a new ride. And I was not about to take any money on the side like other athletes had done—and been caught for—in the past. All I had was the money my mom and I had saved up over the years in preparation for college. And it wasn’t like I had time for a job.
My phone rang and I pulled it out of my pocket, immediately smiling when I saw the screen.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Hi, Cameron,” her cheery, beautiful voice said over the line. “How are you today?”
It didn’t matter how many hours the woman worked at her insurance agency firm—which was always a lot—she’d done her best over the years to maintain a sunny disposition around me. Even when she’d worked herself to the bone after a long week.
Even after my father died when I was thirteen.
Even then, she’d put on a brave face. And I’d vowed from that moment on to always take care of her. Which was why ever since that doctor’s visit a month ago, my head had been all sorts of screwed up. Conflicted wasn’t a strong enough word for what I’d been feeling lately.
“I’m good,” I answered. “How you doing? You been taking your multivitamins?”
She chuckled. “I think that’s supposed to be my line. You’re the athlete. And despite your age, you’re still the kid here.”
I put the call on speakerphone and pulled out of the student parking lot. “And you’re the one whose mother was diagnosed with osteoporosis at fifty. I have to make sure you’re getting your calcium.”
She sighed, but I knew she was smiling. “Yes, I’ve been taking my multivitamins and calcium pills every day. But I was calling to see how your life was going, Cameron.”
She was the only person who called me Cameron anymore. The rest of the country knew me as Cam. Which I think was the exact reason why she insisted on still calling me by my full name. Because she knew me better than anyone, no matter how many people out there thought they knew me at all.
“How’s practice going?” she asked.
And here came the guilt.
The reason she worked as hard as she did, and always had, was all because of me. Because she’d wanted to fulfill my father’s dream for me. To become a star college player, and eventually go on to the NBA, where I would become one of the greatest basketball players in history.
That was what he’d wanted for me before he died. Bruce Donovan had been a stand-out college player once upon a time. He’d set records for NCU back in his day, some of which were still held today. He’d played two seasons in the NBA before he started having problems with his knees. Ironic. He’d had a respectable basketball career, no question. But he’d wanted even more for his son.
From the day I was born, I’d been in an NCU Thunder jersey. I’d had tiny toy basketballs in the bathtub with me. Hell, I went to my first NBA game at age three. He’d been breeding me for this life. I’d been famous as Bruce Donovan’s son before I’d become famous as the King of the Court. And I’d loved every second. Because basketball had been our thing. Our bond.
Then came the prostate cancer.
Then just like that, in the blink of an eye…he was gone.
And suddenly, the entire country started calling me the son of the late Bruce Donovan. I’d attended so many memorial dinners in his name, I couldn’t stand to even hear that word anymore. Memorial.
After that, all my mom had wanted to do was honor his memory and fulfill what he had set out to do. To get their son into the NBA Hall of Fame. And because my dad’s hospital bills had depleted pretty much all of their savings, she’d had to work her butt off to make it happen. I was beyond grateful for all the sacrifices she’d made for me, more than I could ever say. But I’d be lying if I said I saw myself playing in the NBA for the next twenty years. I’d realized that even before my knee had become a problem. Not because I couldn’t hack it. But because it didn’t mean the same thing to me as it used to.
Not since he died.
Now, I wanted to operate in a different area of the game, hence my sports management degree. But I couldn’t tell my mom that. Any of it. I was afraid it would break her heart, and I couldn’t bear that. Hell, I hadn’t even been able to tell her about the re-tear in my patella tendon. Nobody knew about that except the doctor.
And nobody would.
So, I would go on acting like everything was hunky fucking dory because that’s what my mom needed to hear. And that’s what she deserved.
“Practice is good,” I said to the phone in my lap. “The team’s been clicking well. I think everyone’s ready for the games to start.”
“That’s great,” she replied. “And all the guys are healthy, injury-wise?”
Mostly. “Yep. We’ve got a new team trainer who’s been keeping on top of all of us.”
Shit. Now I was imagining Reese on top of me.
“A new trainer, huh? Did Gus finally retire?”
I waited for the stop light in front of me to turn green as I contemplated how I was going to handle Reese today at practice.
“No, he’s still there. She’s an intern from the physical therapy program.” I ran my hand through my hair. “She’s actually, uh, Coach Bradley’s daughter.”
“Really,” she mused. “I’ve never seen her at any of the games before.”
“I don’t think they’re very close.”
And truth be told, I was dying to know why.
“That’s a shame.” I heard
clicking in the background and figured she was typing on her computer keyboard in her office. “I look forward to meeting her, though.”
The entire team knew my mom, including Coach. She’d sort of become a den mom over the years, especially since she never missed a game. Of course, she would meet Reese at some point. And I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.
“Are we still having lunch on Sunday?” I asked, desperate for a subject change.
“Would I ever cancel on you? I might even be nice and make banana pudding.”
I smiled as I parked in the players’ parking lot next to the stadium. “You can’t be trying to fatten me up while I’m in season.”
She scoffed. “Please. You might be twenty-three, but you’ve still got the metabolism of a seventeen-year-old. Must be nice.”
I laughed, unconsciously stretching out my right knee. “Some days I feel a hell of a lot older than twenty-three.”
“Well, don’t grow up too fast,” she said, a hint of sadness creeping into her tone. “You’ll be my age before you know it, and then you’ll be wishing you could turn back time.”
I sighed. We both wanted to turn back time, but not so that we could be younger. But so that we could have him back.
I had to clear my throat before speaking again. “I’m at practice now. I’ll see you Sunday, though, okay?”
“Okay.” She paused. I suspected she was fighting the same memories I was. “I love you, Cameron.”
I swallowed, closing my eyes. “I love you, too, Mom.”
It was days like today I knew I was going to push myself even harder at practice, until my muscles screamed and my limbs ached. I needed to concentrate on something other than the painful pounding in my chest. I needed another part of my body to hurt, so my heart could have a reprieve.
Suddenly, I couldn’t get to the locker room fast enough.
Which was why the shrill call of my name from behind me grated on my nerves. I slowly turned around and found Rachel Fallow—or as I liked to call her, Shallow Fallow—stalking down the hall toward me, a flirtatious grin widening her heavily painted lips. Her fake lips.
King of the Court Page 5
