by Diane Nelson
It was such a gentle expression of friendship that I nearly burst into tears. I excused myself and headed for the ladies room, mostly just to grab a handful of toilet paper in case my hormones suffered a case of the weepies.
There was no logical order to the tables and chairs. I wound my way through the maze and had almost reached the entrance to the bathrooms when I caught a familiar figure out of the corner of my eye.
Jack. Jack Ryan. In an eye lock with an attractive blonde, late-forties, maybe less. Dressed in business casual that doubled for date night. He leaned in, intent on whatever she was saying with blood red lips, the full bottom lip so luscious even I wanted to kiss her.
He had her hand. Stroking it. With his thumb. Slowly.
My heart stopped and all the air vacated my lungs leaving me in the throes of a panic attack. Stumbling backwards, I managed to find the ladies room and dove in. Three stalls, all empty. I had my choice for incarceration. I picked the last one, the one furthest from the man I thought I might have fallen in love with.
The man who said he’d come for me.
The man who said he wouldn’t wait…
When I finally got the courage to face … him, I dabbed at eyes swollen with tears and prayed I could slip past without being noticed. The last thing I needed was a confrontation. The last thing I needed was to be ignored.
As luck would have it, he and the blonde were gone.
In my absence more tables had gone into lockstep, forming two long lines down the center of the restaurant. Grant and Moses had scored with a couple of cheerleaders who I recognized from them using our courts for their practices. Tray had one of the Lady Lion forwards expressing intense interest in whatever he was drawing on a napkin. I slipped him a wad of cash and made my excuses.
Before I got out the door, Moses intercepted me.
“We’re getting up some games tomorrow afternoon. Wanna join us?” He cast a thumb back in the direction of the tables. “Couple of the ladies challenged us to a smackdown.”
“What time?” This I had to see.
“Two.”
“You’re on.”
“Be there or be square.” Moses strutted off, missile-seeking the pompoms.
Light snow fell as I shuffled my way up the hill toward Beaver Avenue. The cell vibrated on my hip. Obviously it wouldn’t be Jack Ryan so I flipped it open and read the text message.
This was the weekend. Chazz had taken my only child, my darling daughter, to Coach Bryant’s cabin in Poe National Forest. Coach hunted deer so it was decked out and ready to go for the season.
That was nice of Coach. He was good people as the locals liked to say.
They had the privacy they needed and I had the solitude I’d give up in a heartbeat.
Chapter Fourteen: Two Wrongs
Coach’s playbook notes lay scattered on the counter in controlled chaos. Strengths. Weaknesses. Size. Wingspan. Free throw percentage. Foul trouble. Zone. Man-on-man.
My teeth hurt. And not in a good way.
The schedule had to have been devised by the Marquis de Sade. The heavy-hitters lined up front-to-back with little respite in between. There were a few gimmes in the bunch but the problem was, if the really Big Boys wore you down, then the little guys playing for experience only had a chance to do serious mop-up.
It wasn’t the play book giving me fits, it was the nagging question about our lack of depth. And beyond that, I needed to have confidence in our endurance. Could Tray go out and play the full forty without fouling out or succumbing to injury because his muscles turned to jelly and his joints bent in ways God hadn’t intended?
The other problem was a little less clear-cut. Demoralization was the slippery slope every coach tried to avoid. It wasn’t about winning, not at all. It was about playing the best you could on any given day. It was about self-respect. Self-image. Team work.
Tray and Moses had that thing, that indefinable awareness of where each one was on the court, moving in synch, anticipating. Their passing was a joy to behold. The big man, Roddie, was an island onto himself. He parked his bulk in the paint and dared anyone with the balls to get past him.
I sniggered at ‘…with the balls.’ Oh, I cracked myself up sometimes.
Grant was the wild card, prone to showboating and excess celebration when he delivered, which wasn’t often enough to justify the ego he wore like a tattoo on his forehead. Liking the kid and wanting to smack him upside the head made for interesting challenges in coaching him. I was glad Bryant had that responsibility, not me.
All I had to do was whisper in Coach’s ear. My foray into den mother/sex therapist placed me into an exalted position I’d never have anticipated a month ago.
I had … insight.
I had my finger on the pulse.
I was an asset.
The fact that the staff wasn’t surprised hadn’t escaped my attention. I’d been shoehorned in at the last minute. They had every reason to dislike me, dismiss me, ignore me, or just put up with me. Instead I tread the hallowed waters of respect. In the shallow end of the pool, but still…
That little word trumped heartbreak any day.
The apartment was empty and claustrophobic at the same time. Hormones, an attack of the munchies, low self-esteem and loneliness wreaked havoc with my nervous system. An evil genie had transformed my nerve endings into mirrors, then stomped on them, leaving jagged, upright edges jabbing at the underside of my flesh.
I’d had a near-death case of poison ivy once. The torment, the constant unrelenting itching. Scratching until blood flowed. It was like that, but worse, far worse.
No matter which way I moved I couldn’t get out of my own skin. If there had been an antihistamine for love sick I’d have overdosed with my morning coffee.
If only she’d been ugly…
Yeah, that would have worked a treat. Then I could spazz on his poor taste in women.
Oh wait…
The door wobbled under a solid thud. I glanced at the clock on the stove. Behind as usual.
I yelled, “Come in,” and smiled when Tray coughed, asking, “You decent?”
“No, that’s why I said ‘come in’.”
“Smart ass. You ready. It’s starting to snow. Wear boots.”
“Yes, mother.”
He loomed over the diagrams, shoving me away with his hip. I paraded to the bathroom to change.
“It’s cold out.”
Geez, it’s almost November. Of course it’s cold.
Pulling sweats over the gym shorts would keep me warm enough for the trek to the Jordan Center. I threw extra wool socks and a change of underwear in the duffel bag, took a deep breath and reached for the doorknob, all the while avoiding the mirror. Validation of my mental state was not a good option at that point.
Tray held my coat but before handing it over he stared at my face, at first curious, then with concern. Tracing a forefinger down my cheek he asked, “Are you all right, girl?”
Stuttering, “I-I’m good,” without conviction had me bordering on a dam burst.
“You want to talk about it?”
Another man willing to talk.
“No, not really.”
Yes, really. Not going to happen though. This one I kept to myself.
The big man did a ‘hmm’ in his throat while dressing me like a Barbie doll, snugging the scarf around my neck.
In the foyer we both stopped and did a double-take. The snow came down in fat flakes, with that serious vibe only lake effect brought to nature’s table. When wind direction and temperatures aligned central PA got buried.
Tray muttered, “Little early for this shit, ain’t it?”
“Good thing we’re walking.” Not. “Look on the bright side. This will keep the dilettantes out of our hair.” Tray looked confused. “Um, the lazy ass bums won’t be hogging the courts.”
I moved to cover my cords with the scarf, half glad I’d hung onto the look. Seimone had rectified the damage done by…
Crap. L
alalalala.
“What?”
“Um, nothing.”
“Roots are showing.”
Blinking, I turned and gaped at the skyscraper walking next to me. When had Traylon Parker become my girlfriend?
The corners of his mouth twitched so I hammered his bicep with a gloved fist. Wrong move. The man was the rock and the hard place.
“Ow. And just for that I changed my mind.”
“About what?”
“Chez Tray.” That came out huff Chez puff Tray gasp as we beat feet on the steep rise behind the dorms, with him setting a punishing pace. My worries about their endurance faded as I considered the effects of strenuous exercise on over-the-hill women.
Topping the slope, we set a slow jog through the slush in the street. Despite the pavement being relatively warm, the stuff was laying, then melting. We splotted along, keeping to our own thoughts. Me, listing all the markers for cardiac arrest. Him … whatever.
Finally I called no joy and backed off to a walk.
He was barely breathing.
“Well?”
“My lungs froze. I’m sure of it.” The wheezing was a dead giveaway. “Well, what?”
“You changed your mind…”
“Oh,” gulp air, “…that…” cough, “…thinking beauty school instead.”
He called me something I’d have to look up in the urban slang dictionary and ushered me into the steamy warmth of the center, punctuated with a swat on my rear.
“Just for that I’m not going to tell you…”
“Yo, Tray, wait…” but he’d already stalked to the men’s locker room, leaving me to wonder ‘tell me what?’
Changing quickly, I stashed my stuff and headed out. That meant passing Jack the shithead Ryan’s office. The light was on. Nobody home.
He was probably soaking in his hot tub with the blonde bombshell, watching the snow drift down in lazy spirals, the steam sending swirls of passion into the frigid air, running his thumbs up and down her…
“Hey.”
It was Darlene, the forward from last night, the one draped over Tray. Artfully draped. Was this what he wasn’t going to tell me? My female intuition sprang to attention.
“Hey yourself.”
“Who ya talking to?”
Oy vey.
“Nobody, just myself.”
We paced together down the hall, the noise from the courts growing exponentially.
“Hear you got some chops. You want to play with us?”
Like a schoolyard first round choice, she’d picked me. Me! Play with the Lady Lions? Switch sides, go up against my boys?
Oh, hell yeah.
Darlene and I assumed the swagger and entered to catcalls, whistles and taunts. The guard, Dodie, lobbed a basketball in my direction; I dribbled left-right-left, and gave a feral grin at the five men gunning for a piece of ass.
We lined up in a zone and mouthed bring it on.
Tray pointed to Moses and waggled a finger. They had that loosey-goosey movement, the one that said this is in the bag, y’all can go home now, bitches.
Roddie pressed a turkey platter-sized hand into the space that might have been my shoulder blades at some point. Now it was concrete, every muscle tensed, as I shoved back to hold position. We needed a lane and the only way for Darlene to score the layup was for me to clear the path.
Move Everest? Snap.
Move Roddie? Not without major ordnance.
The man crooned sweet nothings in my ear, nothings I spit back with added creative spin, nothings that would have had my mother dragging me to confession.
The bounce was low and inside. I ducked down to scoop it off the floor, then spun left, planted and feinted the hook shot that had the big man twisting his torso to block me. Darlene came like a freight train, the squeal of her high tops loud in my ears. I handed off and spun to watch the damn ball doing wheelies along the rim.
D-girl’s momentum had thrust her out of bounds, leaving me with two steps and not nearly enough reach to tip it in.
In slo-mo the ball tottered on the rim, then flipped off. My side. It was falling into my space. The mountain moved, his arm extended across my chest, blocking.
I. Don’t. Think. So.
I planted, ducked and came up on the other side of the tree trunk. Tipped the ball off the glass.
Score!
The boys finally put on their game faces. Ten minutes in and we had a real fire fight going on. The other courts cleared, the occupants swarming to find a spot on the perimeter, safely out of the way of flailing limbs and bodies hurtling out of control.
Coach Bryant paced the near side. His counterpart for the ladies, Angie Rice, crouched low opposite him, her brow furrowed, assessing.
Ryan was at the far end, back against the wall, arms crossed.
The guys had height and reach, taking up too much landscape. We had speed and flexibility and ’tude.
Two of the staff stepped up to referee and keep it from turning ugly. Any chance that the guys might have some concerns for feminine sensibilities disappeared when two of the ladies got hot hands and found the sweet spots for the threes. That pulled the zone out, leaving an occasional hole. As the smallest lady out there that left me for the sneak attack.
From the damn post position.
Roddie had a foot on me. I wasn’t going over. And I wasn’t going under. That left around.
The trouble with going to the well once too often was you sometimes got cold-cocked when immovable object encountered determination and grit.
Somebody propped me against the wall and shoved a towel with ice against my left eye which was swelling nicely. I shoved bits of toilet paper up my nostrils to stem the tide. It wasn’t broken, just severely pissed off.
I’d live.
One of the intramural freshman stepped up and joined the ladies to intense ribbing from his buds. The ladies promised him a custom kilt and most favored status.
When my guys heard that, it looked like they might consider switching sides.
I filed ‘kilts’ away for future reference. Hell, all was fair in love and war.
And then I wished I hadn’t thought that as I felt Ryan’s hot stare lasering me from the length of the court.
The ladies lost but not by much. Rice and Bryant exchanged satisfied looks across the court.
Tray yanked me off the floor and peeled the ice pack off the eye.
“Gonna be a nice one.”
“They always are.”
Moses joined us and asked, “You want to join us?”
I moaned, “Not pizza.”
“Nah, burgers, our treat.” He assessed me with admiring eyes. “You done good.”
For an old lady…
And yeah, I held my own.
Grant took an elbow with a “You need help?”
I shook my head yes. No sense in trying to prove a point I’d already made.
Tray and Roddie, already changed into sweats, were in the hall waiting for us. The big man looked like death warmed over. He’d clocked a TA. And a woman to boot.
Smiling, I held out a hand. “Good game, Fitzgerald. Next time you won’t be so lucky.”
We shook on it. My gut told me I had a hug brewing and I wasn’t so sure my body could take any more contact at that point. Tray saved me by steering me and the posse down the hall.
Grant whistled to get Tray’s attention. “Did you tell her?”
Tray cringed.
“Tell me what?”
Come on, man. Tell her. It’s like a big deal, WOOT!
Tray hung his head, clearly embarrassed. Grant, then Moses pressed him. It went back and forth until Moses threatened to spill the beans, at which point Tray spurted, “I had a date.”
Roddie bent down and whispered in my ear. I stood stock still, jaw on the floor.
Moses piped up, “Show her. Go on, show ’er.”
Show me what exactly?
Tray backed against the wall, fumbling in his jacket pocket. Nothing, absolu
tely nothing prepared me for what happened next. I clapped a hand over my mouth to keep from either screaming or bursting into laughter.
“See, Jes, I remembered what you said to do.” He waved the condom, neatly tied off with a bit of string, in my direction. It most definitely was not fresh out of the wrapper.
Please God, don’t let me lose it.
I think I managed an I’m proud of you; maybe there was a congratulations thrown in. There really weren’t too many ways to express my feelings other than finding a way to beat a hasty retreat before I hurt myself.
I said, “Um, why don’t you go on ahead. I need a quick shower.” I fielded the usual ‘are you sure’ and sent them on their way, thankful to be alone once more. The locker room beckoned. Not because I needed to rinse off the sweat and blood. It was nothing that simple.
I wasn’t sure I could make the trip back to the apartment with my heart beating triple time in my chest. Seeing Jack, even from a distance, had set my head into a tailspin and my gut fighting off nausea.
The team physician would attribute the symptoms to the hit I took from Roddie but I knew better.
I sank onto the first bench I came to and propped my elbows on my knees, my head nestled in the palms of my sweaty hands. I stayed like that for a long time. The locker door swished open and closed. I thought Darlene and the other ladies had already taken off and I could be alone in my misery.
I was wrong.
Chapter Fifteen: Make It Right
He still smelled the same. But with a little something extra that I couldn’t pin down immediately.
Then I got it…
The bouquet was sexy, musky and spicy with an undertone of possessiveness and a lingering finish of … regret.
“No, I don’t.” His voice was deep, modulated. Serious.
Jack knelt in front of me, close but not touching. If I’d had the courage to lift my face from my palms, I’d have stared straight into his gorgeous smoky blue eyes.
