Without Chase

by Jo Frances

  “Shit.” Now it was his turn to curse.

  Matty looked over his shoulder. “You don’t have to answer, you know.”

  Chase sighed. “No, no, I want to do this when you’re here. It will save me some drama,” he said, buzzing Amy in. He hugged Matty dramatically. “Promise me you won’t leave me.”

  Matty laughed. “Funny. But that’s what she’s about to tell you, Chase.”

  Minutes later, Amy walked in, and was clearly disappointed to find Matty there. “Oh hi, Matty, how are you?”

  “Doing great, Amy, how are you?” Matty was looking over Chase’s closet, picking out what he should bring in his duffel.

  “Umm, what are you guys doing?”

  Chase gave her an isn’t-it-obvious look and went back to his shoes.

  Amy took in the suitcases and clothes strewn all over. “So, I guess it’s true---you’re going to Europe?” she said struggling to sound indifferent.

  “You got it.” Chase walked into his room, and Amy followed him. “When were you going to tell me, Chase?”

  Her demanding, entitled tone reminded him of his mother. Chase fought back an impulse to put her in her place: “don’t think you’ve got any claim on me.” But Amy wasn’t his mother, and she wasn’t motivated by his money. She had feelings for him, so he said as nicely as he could, “Everything was just finalized yesterday.”

  Amy sat down heavily on his bed, looking sad and lost. “I… I thought you were going to stay,” she said vaguely. Chase continued to go through his things, and Amy watched him in silence. After a few minutes, she gathered herself together to say, “can we not break up?” As Chase raised an eyebrow, she continued. “I mean, can you not make any kind of statement for a while? “

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Well, it won’t look so bad… for me. The rumor is that I can’t keep a guy longer than six months.” She began to get agitated again.

  “Maybe you should start by not thinking guys are things for you to keep. Maybe you should start seeing them as people that stay or go depending on how they feel about you.”

  Amy’s eyes flashed. “Says the guy who uses women like they were Kleenex.”

  As he opened his mouth to protest, she continued. “Oh, please. OK, you’ve had one relationship in your entire life. Before, during and after that relationship you were a complete asshole to women.”

  “During? I never cheated when I was with Jamie.” He began throwing out clothes he no longer wanted; some with the promo tags from the companies still on them, in a trash bag.

  “Isn’t that why she left you?” Amy challenged. “Why she started going out with Sean Foley?”

  Chase didn’t want to be reminded of the time when he almost lost Jamie to some big-time rock star. “Never cheated on her,” he said with finality. “And if it makes you feel better, I never cheated on you either. At least,” he said with a cocky grin thrown her way, “not without you in the bed with us.”

  This statement had the desired soothing effect. Amy’s face softened and she seemed genuinely moved. Chase almost felt guilty at throwing her such a bone. He didn’t cheat on Jamie because he loved her. On the other hand, he didn’t cheat on Amy because the sex was so good it kept him from looking elsewhere. But if she wanted to believe he was faithful out of some loyalty to her, then that was fine, too. It would certainly make the time until she left go by easier.

  Amy took a deep breath. “Chase, I don’t want you to go.”

  He nodded, understanding more than she knew. “Do you not want me to go, or do you just not want to tell anyone I’ve left?”

  In the end, he agreed that he wouldn’t make any statements about their relationship. Amy could pretend whatever she wanted. She offered to fly out to Spain to visit him, a suggestion Matty agreed with. Perfect press opportunity, she encouraged. But as tempting as it was to have a trans-continental booty call, he knew he had to make a clean start.

  Chase’s new coach, Luis Velasquez, was waiting for him at the airport. Luis was joined by one of the American players, Chris Watters, someone Chase had played in the same college league in. He knew they were going to be there; what he wasn’t prepared for was the cameras that surrounded them. It wasn’t until a reported stepped in front of him with a microphone that he realized the cameras were for him.

  “Welcome to Spain, Chase,” the reporter, a bleached blond with black eyebrows said.

  “Thank you,” he said hesitantly, trying to get past the crush of people clustered where he was standing. In addition to the reporters, there were the people who had just gotten out of customs themselves and were just trying to reach their relatives screaming for them on the other side of the crowd. It was chaotic, yet no one seemed to care.

  Luis pushed his way over to stand next to him just as another reporter asked another question. “How do you think the European League will compare to the NBA, Chase?” He was prepared for this question; he and Steve had practiced the response many times. In Spanish, Chase replied, “I expect the European League will be very competitive. Basketball is an international sport now, and is played at the highest levels everywhere, especially in this country.” There was a split second of surprised silence as the crowd processed that Chase had answered in Spanish, not English. Then a burst of applause and laughter followed. “Very nice, Chase,” the reporter said graciously. Before another question could be asked, Luis put a hand on Chase and spoke. “Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Reston has had a very long flight. I’m sure you can understand he probably just wants to get to his hotel room and relax. Thank you.”

  They began to walk through the crowd, but despite the coach’s plea, the reporters continued to walk with them, cameras trained on Chase. To his right, a reporter who was struggling to juggle a tape recorder and a giant computer bag slung across his shoulder panted after him, “Chase, do you see yourself making an immediate impact on the team?”

  “I’m here to do whatever is asked of me,” he responded carefully. “If that means trying to be a game changer, I’ll do that, but if it means taking a back seat to the veterans on the team, then I’ll do that too.”

  And on it went, one question after another, through the airport concourse, until at last Chase, Luis and Chris were ensconced in the back of a large black Suburban. Chase shook his head. “I wasn’t expecting that,” he said in disbelief. “Is that typical? Do all American players get the same treatment?”

  Chris chuckled. “Not by a long shot, buddy. I got off the plane all by myself two years ago. Except for Luis.” The two of them shared a laugh at the memory.

  “Then---?”

  “You’re big time, dude. You’ve also got scandal,” he continued as Chase winced at the word. “You’ve got a movie star girlfriend, and you’re an actual NBA player, not some wanna-be like me, or an old horse that’s sent here to earn some money after they’ve gone broke.” Chris reached over and playfully slapped him on the knee. “You’re a walking soap opera, and they love that shit here.”

  Chase tried to smile back but it was forced. “Didn’t you know I was running away from the drama back home?”

  “Don’t worry, Chase.” Luis cut in. “You’ll find the Spanish are a lot more forgiving. Now,” he rubbed his hands together. “Let’s show you to your new home. It’s a one bedroom apartment, probably small by your standards---”

  “By anyone who isn’t a midget’s standards---” interrupted Chris.

  “but it overlooks the Plaza Madrid, and I think you’ll like it. It is a…” Luis stumbled over a phrase he heard often but clearly wasn’t used to using “… party scene.”

  Chase glanced over at Chris who was nodding in agreement. “Me and Sergei Vulovic share an apartment in the same building,” he said. Chase knew the roster---Sergei was a shooting guard from Russia---so he exhaled with some relief. At least he wasn’t going to be stuck outside in a depressing suburban apartment
like players in other countries he had heard about.

  They pulled up in front of a small door in the middle of the block. At Chase’s puzzled look, Chris simply said, “you’ll see. Come on.” He opened the door, which led to an enclosed alley but beyond that Chase could see the open courtyard, replete with a small fountain in the middle. Luis, following closely behind explained, “it’s a surprise, yes? In the U.S., once you walk through a door you are inside. A box. But many buildings in Spain, France, even Italy---have courtyards that serve as the center of a building. So the building’s simple door leads to this. One gets more sun that way.” They walked through another door and to the staircase. Chris gestured to a tiny, but ornate, elevator. “We can all try to squeeze in but with your bags---” he shook his head and didn’t finish. On the third floor landing, Chris stopped. “I’m down the hall here. Three-oh-three. We’ll come get you around 9:00 for dinner, OK?”

  On the fourth floor, Luis opened the door to an apartment and they stepped inside. Chase looked around. His new home. Directly in front of him was a balcony, to the right was a small kitchenette and to his left was a door that led to his bedroom. He covered the distance to the balcony in four strides and looked down to the streets below. Locals and tourists gathered in the square, creating a friendly, lively buzz of activity below.

  “Plaza Mayor,” Luis said. “A very fashionable address, and one that you young Americans seem to like.”

  Chase nodded approvingly. “Yeah,” he said taking it all in. He definitely wouldn’t feel alone, or bored, around here. “This is cool. Thanks.”

  Luis turned towards the door. “I’ll leave you now. I guess Chris and Sergei will show you around tonight, but you must try to return at a reasonable hour, yes? You have a meeting with the owners tomorrow morning at 9, then we have practice at 11.” As Luis left, Chase turned back towards the square. Dusk was just starting to fall, bathing everything in a soft Mediterranean glow. The voices that wafted up to him were of those of families, friends and lovers enjoying the start of their evening. Taking it all in, Chase unwittingly heaved a sigh of release. He thought that here, far away from everything he had ever known, would be a good place to get over Jamie.

  He took a quick shower and afterwards, began unpacking his suitcases, putting everything away neatly. Perhaps because he had been raised in a chaotic household, Chase hated disorganization and clutter. It had been a joke among his teammates that his locker always stood out because of how neat it was. In college, someone had moved his deodorant from the front of his shelf to the back, but left everything else untouched. Bets were taken on whether he would notice. Chase did, and when he loudly complained, the whole locker room including the coaches burst out laughing, and an oft-repeated story was born.

  By the time Chris and Sergei tapped on his door at 9:10, Chase already felt at home in his apartment. Sergei walked in, and immediately walked over to the balcony. “Aww man, this is bullshit,” he said to no one in particular.

  “What’s up?” asked Chase.

  “Our apartment is on the other side,” explained Chris. “So we don’t have this view---our balcony looks out over the courtyard.”

  “And you’ve got a single, but I have to share my apartment---” added Sergei.

  “Your apartment?” asked Chris indignantly. “Yeah, you have to share a two bedroom, and besides, I was there first.”

  Sergei finally turned his attention back to Chase. “Hey man, how are you. I’m Sergei.” Sergei was in his mid-twenties; a little older than Chase, but the same age as Chris. He had the Cossack looks that fit his name: he was large and broad shouldered, with short reddish-blonde hair and almond shaped eyes of the palest blue.

  “Chase.” They shook hands.

  “Yeah, I don’t know why we have to double up either,” Chris said, looking around. “Guess we don’t have your agent.”

  “I guess not,” Chase said. He knew this was their way of testing whether or not he was going to be a jerk about being a higher profile player, and he didn’t want to put them off. For one thing, he was long past putting other players down to make himself feel good, and for another, he could tell that they were guys he’d probably get along with.

  Before he could say anything else, Chase saw the difference between the way they were dressed: he was wearing jeans, a tee shirt and sneakers; they were wearing sport coats and slacks. He looked down at his clothes. “Hold up, I think I need to change. I thought we were just getting something to eat, I didn’t know we were going out.”

  Chris nodded. “Yeah, you’re looking very, um, collegiate in that combo.”

  Sergei made a dismissive sound. “You mean he looks like an American.”

  “Fuck you,” Chase and Chris said together, then laughed at the coincidence. The tension broken, Chase ducked into his room and within minutes came out wearing the black sport coat Matty wisely told him to take and a pair of pants from his shopping spree with Helene.

  “Keep those kicks on, man.” Chris yelled after him. “They’re cool.”

  “Yeah, I haven’t seen those before,” Sergei added.

  “One of the last things the shoe company sent to my house---before I got cut,” Chase said. First thing that stays the same no matter where you are, he thought to himself. Basketball players were passionate shoe collectors.

  When he came out, Chris gave him an apologetic look. “People dress up here a little more. I should have said something before.”

  “Is that a Varvatos?” Sergei demanded.

  Chase shrugged, but checked the label anyway. “Yeah---how’d you know?”

  Sergei held the door open for them. “Not too many things come in our size. That’s a jacket I liked but I don’t have an NBA paycheck.”

  “I guess the first round’s on me, then” Chase answered as they headed out into the balmy Spanish night.

  The first difference Chase noticed between New York, or L.A. and Madrid was how convenient everything was. In L.A., you had to drive everywhere and traffic added an extra layer of hassle to any night out. Of course, when he and Jamie lived in Manhattan Beach, it was easy to just walk down to the Strand. But that was more of a local, casual place to grab a beer or Mexican food. In New York, he took a cab or hired a car to get anywhere. Which eliminated the need for parking, but not the weather issues or congestion.

  Walking around Madrid was different. For one thing, the weather was nicer and the lack of cars in the Plaza Mayor gave the area a more tranquil feeling, despite the large crowds. Chris led them to a side street with stairs, and they walked into a smaller restaurant packed with people.

  “You said the first rounds on you, right?” he asked, as he waved one of the bartenders over and spoke to them in rapid-fire Spanish. Chase reached into his wallet and realized all his money was still in dollars, so he handed a credit card over to Chris who passed it to the bartender just as he brought out three wine glasses covered with a small plate of food.

  There was barely room to move, yet somehow, the people made room at a standing table for them. He wasn’t sure if it was because the people were just naturally friendly or if it was because Chris was obviously a regular.

  Chase knew about tapas; one of Jamie’s favorite restaurants was a tapas bar in West Hollywood that was a celebrity hangout. But Chase was a big eater, and the food on the plate was gone before he even had a sip of wine. “I hope we don’t have to keep going back to the bar for food, man,” he said worriedly.

  Sergei slapped him on the back. “Don’t worry, they’re sending us a bunch of plates.” Just as he said that, a waiter appeared with a serving tray filled with plates of cured ham, olives, chesses and tortas.

  “See?” said Chris and turned to the waiter to slip him some pesos. It didn’t take long before the group of women next to them began a conversation in charmingly accented but fluent English. Their conversation was laid back and without purpose---at the bars in
New York, interactions with beautiful women were an elaborate Kabuki dance of assessing and being assessed---the key was to figure out what the other person wanted as quickly as possible. Were they fame seekers hoping to make a quick buck from TMZ with a hookup? Were they looking for a way to leverage his fame into an introduction to someone or into business deal? Whatever it was, he learned that it was in his best interest to identify the goal, then see if he wanted to spend the next five, ten, or fifteen minutes being pitched on that goal. Because the other person would have nothing to say until they could get started on their goal and he may as well let them get to their point.

  But that night, people didn’t seem to have a goal. The women were just as beautiful, but he got the sense that the conversation was the point. They wanted to know about him, the United States, or about basketball, but they seemed just as happy to talk about their studies at the University of Madrid, or their parents, or the cities where they grew up. Chase found it reminiscent of hanging out with the girls in his college; the simplicity of passing a warm night in a pleasant beer buzz with friends.

  Like Cinderella, the men decided to return home at midnight. Sergei complained that even though they played in Europe, the coaches and managers acted like “the American military”, requiring early morning workouts where players were expected to be on time.

  When Chase broke the news that a practice that started at nine in the morning would be considered an easy one even by college teams, Sergei nodded vigorously as if he had just proved his point. “Exactly! I mean---why? The coaches can keep you as long as they want. So, you come in a little later, you stay a little later. This is Europe, this is basketball in the 21st century. No one has to get up to feed the chickens!”

  This reduced Chris and Chase into what would become a familiar pattern of good-naturedly defending their country against Sergei’s somewhat outdated impression of what Americans were like. “Who the fuck has ever fed a chicken?” Chris asked him. “Why the fuck do you have to use farmer stories all the time? There’s no fucking farms where you’re from?” and on and on, their voices carrying down the hall.