Fast Baller

by Lulu Pratt

  “That’s interesting.”

  “It is?”

  “I mean, well, sure. This heir to a billion dollars is plugging away in the Minors. Seems odd to me. What does he look like?”

  “I’ll send you a photo,” I said, clicking on iMessage, and sending her a jpeg of Harrison from the team’s website. I deliberately chose one of the more attractive ones. I heard a ping on the other end of the line, and Mom’s voice got distant, as though she had moved the phone away from her ear.

  “He’s quite a looker. Looks like his mother when she was young,” Mom said.

  I scowled. Something was weird in that sentence, and I had a feeling she wanted me to ask her about it. So I didn’t.

  “I don’t know his mother.”

  My phone pinged. An old black and white photograph of a young woman who looked startlingly like Harrison. “Who’s that?”

  “Harrison Brett’s mother and Roger Brett’s former wife.”

  “Why do you have that photo?” I was getting nosey, and I knew it.

  “No reason. I had a thing for him back in the day.”

  “Hm.” A pause. Like she wanted me to ask her more, but I wasn’t in the mood. “I got to go, Mom. Got an early appointment.”

  “Okay sweetie, you keep in touch. I don’t want to lose you too.”

  “Will do. Love ya.”

  “I love you too.”

  Well. That was a lot to think about. Now, back to business. Wasn’t there another game tomorrow?

  Chapter 11

  HARRISON

  AFTER THE game, I hung around the dressing room, hoping someone would ask me to join them for a drink. I didn’t know the watering holes in this town and needed a guide. Nobody did, and I gave up trying to be friendly. I sort of dragged my ass to my car and made my way to the Good Times Sports Bar, a hole in the wall.

  Inside, I ordered my usual, a Bud with an Old Grand-Dad chaser. I picked up this habit when I started my Minor League career with the Louisiana Crawdads. I was new to this world and stressed out of my mind. I found a beer did nothing, and an old timer told me a chaser was what I needed to take the edge off.

  And it worked for a time. Now, though, I found when I drank my joints started aching before I got a good buzz on. Tonight, I needed this badly.

  The waitress was cute, in a way. “Hey handsome,” she said, smiling sweetly. She was one of those blonde, petite women who seem to grow like mushrooms in Ohio. That was one of the few benefits of sitting in Toledo — there were pretty girls and this was a baseball town. And I was a baseball player. “You look familiar.” I had a Spark Plugs jacket on, so it wasn’t like she was Sherlock Holmes.

  “I play a little ball,” I said.

  “I had a feeling. You got the body for it.”

  “What do you mean?” Even though I knew exactly what she meant.

  “I mean, you’re fit. Not what we usually get in here. This is the domain of the armchair athlete, not the actual athlete.”

  “Tell me more,” I said, smiling. “What’s your name?”

  “Brandy,” she said. “What’s yours?”

  “Harrison,” I said.

  “You’re Harrison Brett?” she said, her eyes almost popping out of her head. I wasn’t going to lie, this was good for my ego.

  “What have you heard?”

  “I used to follow you when you played for the Detroit Diamonds. I heard you got sent to the Minors because you were injured.”

  “All true,” I said. “I had rotator cuff surgery, and it’s taking its sweet time for me to recover.”

  “Nice,” she said. “Listen, I get off at midnight. What do you think about hangin’ out after?”

  “Sounds like a good idea,” I said. “But I can’t.” What was I doing? Usually I would have gone home with her and never seen her again, but something was holding me back. Or rather, someone was holding me. The weirder part was that all the time I was talking at Brandy, I was picturing a black-haired beauty, the physical therapist, Scarlet Ravenwood. She was almost haunting me, and making me feel guilty for something I had the right to do.

  Brandy departed with a wistful smile, leaving me feeling better about myself. ‘See?’ I told myself. ‘People still remember you. People still think you are something. People want to hang out with you.’

  I sat and watched some wrestling on the big screen TV until eleven. Afterwards, I went to the nearest Dunkin’ Donuts, got a black coffee, sucked it right back, found my car, and headed home.

  That morning, I jumped in the shower, grabbed some clothes I thought might be right for yoga — never having done it before, I really and truly had no idea what to wear — and I drove to the stadium where the yoga class was supposed to start in a few minutes.

  Chapter 12

  SCARLET

  TO SAY I hoped Harrison would be there would be an exaggeration. To be honest, I had every reason to think he would bail on me again, given the resistance I felt coming from our conversations. Still, I did want to look good and offer him something that was actually helpful. For his injury, I mean.

  “Good morning,” I said. “I want to thank you for sharing your time with me, and I hope to inspire you, or at least offer you something to ponder for the rest of the day. To that end, I will be conducting — instructing — this class, and offering you a thought at the end as a gift, an offering. This is how we do yoga classes. They are not exercise, at least not in the traditional way.”

  “What kind of thought are you gonna cram in our cauliflower ears today, miss?” said the smart-aleck Clay.

  “I won’t cram anything in your ears. I will give you something to think about. It is entirely up to you if you decide to learn from it, to consider it or to dismiss it. It is a gift, and a gift carries no obligation.”

  Nevertheless, I should point out I did dress to the nines — my usual business attire swapped for yoga gear — a gorgeous tank top and tights. That was it, and it gave me maximum flexibility. It also gave me the sense that I was hot. Which was important. I had already begun the class, and everyone was lying there on their mats, in Shivasana, silently breathing. It was disturbed by the door banging open and Harrison coming in like a bull in a china shop, and everyone seemed jangled.

  He was dressed in a ragged T-shirt and sweatpants — not the worst outfit I’d seen, but definitely in the bottom fifteen. He shambled in, reeking of alcohol, and looking like ten miles of rough road. Although I did my best to remain professional for the benefit of those players and the other employees who actually took this seriously, I rolled my inner eyes. Or my Third Eye. In any case, I disapproved, even though it was a step in the right direction. And I had empathy for a guy going through as much as he was. He was clearly acting out, and that was his business. My business was getting him back in playing shape, not reforming him as an individual.

  I looked at him, and he met my gaze. “Good morning,” I said quietly.

  To his credit, he looked me in the eye, nodded, and said, “Good morning.”

  “Please place your mat on the floor, and join us in Shivasana Pose,” I said.

  “Just lie on my back?” he whispered.

  “Yes. In Shivasana — Corpse Pose.”

  He laughed — as I knew he would. “That will be easy,” he said. “I feel like death warmed over this morning.”

  “Indeed,” I said, trying to maintain my composure. The truth was, I was pretty excited to see him, and pretty impressed. I knew how tough it was for a guy to bring his sense of pride down to the level of being able to do something he had never done before. Harrison was used to being the best, or at least very good at everything he did, and this was brand new to him. I absolutely knew for sure that he would not have done any research into yoga. He was literally putting himself in my hands. And I was grateful.

  I got up to walk around the room. The temperature in this room was ninety-two degrees Fahrenheit. For most people it was a little shock to their system, but I had a feeling Harrison would deal with it fine. I notice
d he did not have a water bottle. I took one from my stash and put it by his head. He had his eyes closed, and so I leaned down and whispered to him — “I think you’ll need this.”

  He stirred, his beautiful eyes fluttering open, and I felt my heart skip a beat. “Thanks,” he said, smiling.

  I tried hard to keep my composure, and moved to the others. The class was about even with men and women. All employees were entitled to this class, and women from the head office, box office, and every other arm of the organization took the class religiously. While the players — the people it was intended to help — showed up in very small numbers, but because there were more men in the organization, it worked out even in my class.

  I caught Harrison’s eye, and I saw the apology, the shame on his face. He was clearly upset with himself, and so it was not up to me to upset him more. He would do what he wanted to do. I could tell he was recovering from a drunken evening. I smiled at him, and he returned my gaze with a half-hearted smile.

  There was a lot of stigma still about yoga among men. They think it was for women because of the sexual factor. It was a sexy practice, and men tend to balk at that. To be honest, this shocked me, because men seek out sexy things in almost every other area of life. Bars, clubs, restaurants, movies, and online. But for some reason, yoga was considered effeminate, and especially in the Midwest.

  “Now, I want you to slowly get up and just stand with your arms by your side. I want you to be conscious of your whole body, and in particular your spine, holding you up,” I said.

  Slowly, most of the people rose. Clay bounded to his feet with a look like he was a puppy pleasing its master. He smiled at me so broadly, it exposed the chipped tooth in the front. Charming. Something about how he was trying so hard to please me was turning my stomach. I had watched his stance at the plate, and this guy needed alignment badly.

  “This is called Tadasana, or Mountain Pose. If you concentrate on this pose, you will find your inner strength there, in your root chakra, which is at the base of your spine, by your tailbone.”

  Predictably, Clay started making animal noises. Some wag always did that. They think the mention of the tailbone implied that I was saying we were animals. “Thank you, Clay. Please try to focus on your breathing.”

  “Gotcha, boss,” he said, breathing loudly. There was some sort of whistling in his nose, and it annoyed me. I sighed and kept going.

  “The next thing I want you to try is to move slowly to Chair Pose. In order to do this, slowly raise your arms and begin to bend your knees. Notice the strength in your body required to achieve this pose. This pose increases endurance.”

  “I’d like to try my endurance on her,” I heard Clay whisper. I saw Harrison dart his eyes to and away from Clay. I supposed he could have been jealous, but it looked more like he was actually concentrating. And through the whole class, I noticed Harrison working extremely hard and focusing. I took this as a victory, and as the class ended, I offered a thought. “Robert Frost, the American poet, once said ‘the best way out is through.’ Continue your journey, whatever it may be, and I will be with you. I thank you for joining me in this class. Namaste.”

  “You have a nice day too,” said Clay, as he beamed and picked up his sweat-soaked mat.

  “It’s namaste, numb nuts,” said Harrison under his breath.

  “What the hell is that? Mexican?” Clay asked without really caring what the answer might be.

  “Hindi,” said Harrison. He was trying to walk as far away from me as possible. I moved to him as he was walking away.

  “Harrison!” I said.

  He turned. “What’s up?”

  “Thank you for making the effort. I noticed.”

  “My pleasure,” he said. Then he added, “Excuse me.”

  Well, so much for making progress. I guess it was back to the drawing board.

  Chapter 13

  SCARLET

  HARRISON LEFT for the showers, and I did not see him afterwards. I wished I could have at least said something to encourage him, but he was inscrutable, and I knew it was necessary for me to separate my personal feelings from my professional feelings for him. He was a client, and that was actually my priority. But it was hard not to feel something when I saw him making an effort and trying what I had asked. But it was also true that good things come to those who wait, and diving into this case was not the best idea, and I knew it. Alone in the very hot room, I sipped from my water bottle and turned to leave.

  This was a day when I had very little to do. There was a game again today, and while I had the option of going to it, I just didn’t feel like it, and paperwork was starting to pile up in my office. And, more importantly, my mother had said things about Harrison Brett that piqued my interest. I wanted to learn more about him, so I decided to call her.

  “Hello?” a weak and wobbly voice came over the phone.

  “Mom?”

  “Who’s this?”

  I am her only child. “Um, it’s me, Scarlet.”

  “Scarlet? Oh yes, yes, of course. I’m sorry. I was distracted. Watching Ellen. Well, nobody asks me my opinion, so I guess I best clam up. Why are you calling me in the middle of the day?”

  “Because you said something about Roger Brett recently that I wanted to ask you about.”

  “About who?”

  “Roger Brett, the billionaire?”

  “Roger Brett? Oh yes. I’m sorry, dear, I’m still a little confused. It happens more and more each day in the mornings. Roger Brett owns the Spark Plugs and the Detroit Diamonds, you know.”

  “Of course I know that. I work for him, indirectly.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “Mom, how did you know Roger Brett?”

  “Oh, it was a long time ago. Not worth bringing up.”

  “It is to me.” I sensed a lot of resistance in her voice. “Please?”

  “Well, the truth is, around about the time you were born, I had a job as a sort of housekeeper for him. Your father and I were not making a lot of money — well, he never did, as you know — and so I took this position. It was just temporary, mind, so I didn’t last long there. Just long enough to get to know him.”

  “Wait a minute! You worked for him? That’s amazing! How come I never knew that?”

  “Well, I guess I never thought it was important enough to mention.”

  “Uh, really? Even after I told you I was hired by him? He also owns this team, you know?”

  “No, I didn’t know that. I mean, how was I supposed to know that?” She was sounding desperate. And she was clearly lying as she was contradicting herself from just earlier in the conversation.

  “Well, I guess it’s not important. I was just curious. Did you keep in touch with him?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, did you still see him after you stopped working there?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe once or twice.”

  Something was not adding up. “So, Mom, this was about the time Dad left, correct? Do those two things have anything to do with each other?”

  “What exactly are you insinuating?”

  “Oh my gosh, nothing like that. I just wonder why he left so abruptly.”

  “That was a very painful time in my life, dear, and I really… don’t want to relive it, if that’s okay.”

  I was starting to feel guilty for riding her so hard. And for trusting her so little. “Mom, I’m sorry.” I could hear her sniffing on the other end of the phone.

  “No, it’s all right, dear. I know you didn’t know.”

  Know what? Oh my God! I was almost bursting to find out what she had done with Roger Brett. I mean, he was handsome back in the day, and Dad was… well, he was difficult. He’d left my mom when she was pregnant with me and only saw us a few times a year. He was not a nice man, as I remembered, and to be honest, I was pretty happy when he stopped coming around. If a three-year-old child remembered their own father as a bit of a jerk, he was quite a lot of a jerk. I tried to imagine
my mother as a struggling young woman in Detroit, a city she was not from, where she had no friends to speak of, and a husband who was probably abusive. I knew he drank too much. That much I knew for sure.

  “Mom, I’m transferring a thousand dollars into your bank account right now. So, please go out and get something nice.”

  “Oh, you don’t need to do that, dear.” Mom was living on her pension, and it just wasn’t enough for her, and I knew it. But she had her pride, so we went through this charade once or twice a month, where I acted like I was just doing something nice, when in fact I knew she would be living in poverty without it. I operated on this premise that I was giving her money voluntarily, and what she did with it was none of my business. It was entirely up to her. I had a feeling she gave a lot of it to the church. She was involved in a church, which was fine, but not exactly what I had hoped she would spend it on. I mean, she had a life, and a lot of it was through the church, so I guess it was fine.

  “Mom, I just want you to have a little extra. Treat yourself to a new jacket or coat or whatever,” I said.

  “Well, that is very kind of you, my dear,” she said. There was a pause. As usual, we ran out of things to talk about.

  “I guess I better get back to work,” I said.

  “Okay, then. Don’t be a stranger,” said my mom.

  Chapter 14

  HARRISON

  I GOT OUT of that class in one piece, I guess you could say. The thing was, Scarlet never even looked at me. Not once for the entire class, and then when it was over, she spewed some bullshit about trying and moved on. I suppose it was obvious now that she didn’t think of me that way. The nice way.

  Clay was in the shower, and God knew there was nothing on God’s green acres that I wanted to see less than that. On the other hand, I didn’t shower before I came here, and the idea of reeking of booze in the place I work was not an option. I decided to go in anyway.