Playing for Love

by Mel Curtis

  Evan’s fingers sank into the cloth chair back. “I don’t need anyone’s help.”

  “You were three for thirty today. The crowd hates the sight of you,” Spinks spit out.

  “Everybody goes through a slump,” Evan muttered.

  “Not you. Not until now. I own you, Oliver,” Jack pushed away from the wall. “If I think sending you to the Himalayas will help your game, by God, you’ll pack your fuckin’ parka.”

  “Bringing in a seven foot center who can actually block shots would help my game more than getting me laid.” An image of red-brown hair cascading onto his bare chest teased its way past his barrier of annoyance.

  “Oliver!” Spinks pushed his bulk out of his chair. “I should bench your ass until you learn your place.”

  “I’d only bench him if it would help the team,” Jack said coldly, the statement halting Evan’s ability to breathe. “You can see in his eyes he wants to play. I need him to pull this team together.”

  Evan almost told Gordon he didn’t do teams, but that seemed stupid considering he was on one.

  The Flash owner turned to go, and then paused, his hand on the doorknob. “I’ll arrange for you to meet Amber and you’ll do anything she asks you to, including believe in the Rules. There’s got to be something to what she’s selling. Dooley Rule made millions off it.”

  Minutes later, on his way out to his car, Evan looked for but didn’t see Miss Good Luck Charm. Didn’t that figure? But he did notice someone kicking the crap out of an already flat tire in the shadowy, nearly empty employee parking lot. It was April in L.A., but the temperature was in the fifties and the wind had picked up.

  It’s not your problem.

  Evan unlocked his Ferrari and tossed his sports bag onto the passenger seat. Behind him, the man stopped cussing. Evan could feel the guy’s stare.

  Just get in your car and drive away. He probably belongs to an auto club and they’ll send a tow truck out to change his tire.

  Evan could change the tire long before the auto club ever arrived. He shrugged out of his warm up jacket, spun around and walked quickly to the black Lexus sedan. “Do you have a jack and a spare?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Fuck. Brock Hamilton.

  Evan made a mental note to get his eyesight checked. Hopefully his vision was only temporarily blurry from the black eye he’d received a few days ago. He couldn’t back out of helping now unless Brocky-boy acted like an asshole. “Pop the trunk.”

  Surprisingly, Brock did. The back was loaded with crap – a suitcase, a duffel, a box filled with mangled manila folders, a basketball and a laptop bag.

  “I…uh…my wife kicked me out today.” Brock tugged his tie off, laughing self-consciously. “Damn. If my wife hadn’t already made me feel like a loser, I’d – ”

  Were those…tears in Brock’s eyes?

  “That’s a story you’d best keep to yourself,” Evan said quickly. He wasn’t trying to save Brock’s pride. Evan wasn’t therapist material. He hefted the rest of Brock’s crap to the pavement, found the spare tire compartment and took out the tire iron and jack.

  Tires squealed in the distance. Someone shouted. The Forum may have housed the Central Bible Church every Sunday morning, but it wasn’t the safest part of town.

  Brock rolled the spare out, his dick-wad personality surprisingly absent. “Where’d you learn how to change a tire?”

  “My dad owned a garage.” This was quickly moving toward I need to buy you a beer for the help territory. Then Brock would tell Evan the long version of his crappy marriage. Next thing you know, Brock would want to hang out, dropping by Evan’s house on off nights with a six pack and a bucket of chicken, just like friendly Dr. Jeckyll. And all the while Evan would be waiting for Mr. Hyde to show up.

  “My dad owned a Mercedes dealership.” Brock laughed ruefully. “Now I drive a Lexus. That’s what a mortgage and a stay-at-home wife does for you.”

  Evan had the car jacked up and was loosening the lug nuts.

  “Geez, you’re fast with everything, aren’t you?”

  Without answering, Evan switched out the tire. Brock put the flat in the back and reloaded his trunk. Evan accepted a white workout towel, wiping his hands.

  Brock laughed again. This time there was humor in his voice. “Your game really sucks, man.”

  “Like you could do better.” Evan tossed the towel on the ground. He didn’t need this loser telling him what a loser he was. Evan’s head was wringing with criticism, much of it his own.

  “I could.” Brock was huffing now, like a bull who’d caught sight of red. “If I would’ve had my chance. But you took it away.”

  “I suppose you want to blame me for your marriage going south, too.” Evan started back to his car, silently cursing his impulse to help.

  Hard soled shoes pounding concrete gave away Brock’s charge

  Evan spun to face his attacker and using his longer reach, Evan grabbed Brock by the shoulders and threw him to the pavement. Then Evan backed out of reach, balancing on the balls of his feet, ready for more. He hadn’t gotten to the top of a streetball league by being a pussy. A man had to fight for respect. That’s what his old man used to say. That was probably the only thing the two of them had agreed upon.

  “Go home to your wife,” Evan advised coolly. He didn’t want to hit Brock, but he would if he got in Evan’s face again. Evan clenched his left hand into a fist. No way was Evan going to risk injuring his right shooting hand.

  “Fuck you.” Brock stumbled to his feet, his white dress shirt torn and streaked with dirt. Roaring, he charged again.

  Evan dropped Brock with a left hook, the impact reverberating up his arm to his shoulder, sending him rocking hard back on his heels. Brock swayed to his knees at Evan’s feet, head hanging.

  “You telegraph everything,” Evan said, turning once more toward his car. “I suppose Daddy was too busy selling Mercedes to teach you how to fight.”

  “And the gangs taught you. How’s that bullet wound?” Brock shouted. “You’re going to lose everything Oliver.”

  Instead of the adrenaline receding as he put distance between himself and his former teammate, frustration built in Evan’s veins as he reached the Ferrari. The car he should never have bought. He was going to drive to the mega expensive house high in Beverly Hills he should never have bought. He’d spent exorbitant amounts of cash, because he’d gambled everything on his continued success and now this NBA contract. He was just nine games away from losing it all.

  Maybe he wasn’t cut out for the NBA.

  “Oliver!” Brock howled, still on the ground. “Go to hell, Oliver!”

  “We’re both going to hell,” Evan said, opening the car door, desperate now to escape. “But I’m going in a fucking Ferrari.”

  Chapter 8

  Amber limped her way through the crowd to the end of the bar at Tingle. She should be happy. The club was nearly full. Good news for a Monday. But the music was too loud, the dance floor undulating in shadow and the upper cages were full of inebriated dancers looking like they were having sex with themselves.

  I’m too old for this.

  Then again, no one turned to stare upon her entry or aim a camera her way, which was a blessing considering one of her sandals was missing a heel. Amber should have gone home, but she needed a little TLC and crowd blending after her panic and scene stealing tumble at the Forum. Amber grimaced. She’d chased Evan Oliver like some sex-starved fan.

  “Amber! What a surprise. Can I get you a drink?” Trina was behind the bar, short brown hair swinging to the beat as she leaned forward to hear Amber’s reply, tank top showing a bit too much trim flesh, including the small screaming eagle tattoo she’d gotten over one breast when her twin brother died in Iraq. At Amber’s nod, Trina poured a pink Vitamin Water into a martini glass and garnished it with a sprig of mint.

  “Are you okay?” Trina asked, handing Amber her drink.

  Amber shrugged in her grandmotherly blue sweat
er.

  “I’ll take a break.” But before Trina moved, her attention drifted to a couple a few feet away who groped each other as if they’d forgotten they were in public. Trina pounded the bar. “Hey! Come up for air and drinks or hit the road.”

  Amber’s heart panged with envy. It had been too long since a man had panted in heat over her. Evan Oliver’s kiss didn’t count. He hadn’t been panting because of her.

  Amber carried her martini glass to the other side of a sound blocking wall behind which were several fuchsia leather couches grouped around small black lacquered coffee tables. There was no one in Tingle’s quiet corner.

  “Did you go out in that sweater?” Trina asked, trailing in. “That’s a granny sweater if I ever saw one.”

  “It’s J. Crew. And I did not buy this on clearance.” Amber’s chin jutted as she remembered Mrs. Gordon’s reaction. Her cheeks began to heat.

  “Did somebody say something mean about your sweater?” At Amber’s nod, Trina tugged Amber’s sweater off and pointed fiercely over to a couch. “No more cover ups. Promise me.”

  Before Amber could promise or Trina could notice Amber’s broken sandal, a trio of tan designer mannequins tottered unsteadily into the room on their high heels, squealing over something Amber was sure she didn’t care about and waving what was left of their martinis like conductor’s batons. They plopped onto the next grouping of couches, laughing loud enough to be heard over the music spilling around the sound wall.

  “He’s such an asshole. I mean, he dumped me to go out with you.” One of the Malibu Barbies lamented, using her free hand to tease up her blond hair while simultaneously thrusting her chest forward. “Like you had something better.”

  “I might have,” her friend purred, stirring her drink. Her short blond hair was styled in sophisticated waves that curled around her too perfect features. Her plastic surgeon must be so proud.

  Barbie Number One deposited her martini glass on the table with all the finesse of a judge swinging a gavel. “Don’t you dare pull the Tantric card. If I knew that would keep him, I would have signed up for those yoga sex classes, too.”

  “Too late,” Too Perfect Barbie said, puckering her heavily coated scarlet lips around the olive before drawing out the toothpick. She grinned as she chewed.

  “I bet there’s a man or three looking to be eaten by the likes of them,” Trina said softly, scooting forward. “Danny’s tending bar. Let me ask him to send a couple of men this way.”

  “Don’t hold a grudge. What matters now is how we exact our revenge on him,” said Barbie Number Three, tossing back the last of her drink. Amber recognized her as a former Amazing Race contestant. Her short dark hair was streaked with red and porcupine-spiked in a way that screamed don’t touch me. The crimson of her fingernails matched the red tips of her hair. “Castration? Humiliation? Or…?”

  “Wild get-back-together sex?” suggested Too Perfect Barbie.

  “You bitch,” hissed Barbie Number One.

  “Maneaters. God, I love this place.” Trina sank against Amber’s shoulder, her errand forgotten.

  “We can’t do this alone.” Scary Barbie’s spiky hair quivered with indignation. “Who else has he dumped?”

  “This year?” Too Perfect Barbie brushed some lint off her blouse, unsettling her balance. She nearly slid off the couch. “It’s April. Maybe ten girls? Now last year was huge for him. It was like he ran his own escort service.” She giggled. “Can you imagine calling up Blue’s Escort Service and having him show up on your doorstep?”

  Amber froze. Trina clutched her arm. There was no one else in L.A. on the party circuit named Blue.

  Realizing they had an audience, Scary Barbie glared at Amber and Trina, red barbed hair vibrating defensively. “Who are you?”

  Amber’s mouth opened, but no words came out.

  “We own Tingle,” Trina said, berating Amber with a look that seemed to say grow a backbone when Amber didn’t answer first.

  “Nobody knows I’m part owner,” Amber muttered. It was private information.

  “Maybe that should change too,” Trina snapped back.

  Scary Barbie towered over them in her six inch spikes. “Have you dated Blue Rule?”

  “No,” Amber said, horrified.

  “She really is no one,” laughed Barbie Number One.

  Scary Barbie cackled and strutted back to her Barbie coven.

  The DJ spun a techno pop version of Britney Spears’ latest record. Her baby doll wailing grated on Amber’s nerves.

  “Wait a minute.” Too Perfect Barbie pointed a French manicured finger at Amber. “You look familiar. Have I…” She puckered her forehead, one of the few L.A. women unaware that the expression caused wrinkles. “It’s you!”

  “It certainly is.” Amber gave Trina a sideways glance that she hoped said let’s vamoose. If these three were plotting against Blue and realized Amber was his half-sister, the fur was going to fly. Amber wasn’t good at cat fights. She ran from trouble like a cat ran from water.

  But Too Perfect Barbie was bouncing and pointing excitedly at Amber now. “She had sex at the Forum with whats-his-name.”

  Trina nearly gave herself whiplash in her haste to gape at Amber.

  “That’s an overstatement.” Amber stood so fast she got a head rush, which momentarily delayed her from running out the door.

  “How much of an overstatement?” Trina asked, grabbing a handful of Amber’s hem.

  Amber pried Trina’s fingers off. “It was just a kiss.”

  “She had her legs wrapped around him,” Too Perfect Barbie pulsed her hips as if riding someone. “It was so hot.”

  Flustered, Amber reached for her purse. “He…he fell on top of me.”

  Trina pulled Amber’s Kate Spade bag behind her. “Who was it? Antoine Watson?” With a jock father and brother it was no wonder Trina had inherited the professional jock gene. Amber didn’t have a sporty cell in her body.

  “It wasn’t Watson.” Amber made a grab for her purse, but Trina was good with the body block and Amber was at a disadvantage, balanced precariously on one heel.

  “Darren Bell? Kevin Vickers? Payton Jablone?” Trina gasped. “Not that hot Korean? He’s huge. He was in here last week. What’s his name?” Trina snapped several times, but came up empty.

  “No. None of them.” Amber glared at Trina as she snagged a strap and they began a tug of war.

  “Oh, my God. It’s the Candy Man, isn’t it?” Trina let go, sending Amber wobbling as she clutched her bag. Trina’s wide eyes faded to dreamy. “Tim took me to see him play at UCLA before Evan bailed on the team to go pro somewhere lackluster, like Seattle or Utah. Then he disappeared to the European leagues until he showed up on the AND1 Streetballers team. He’s, like, one of two white guys to ever play on the AND1 team. Girl, you have to kiss and tell.”

  Amber could almost predict tomorrow’s headline: The Candy Man Can.

  Her face burned as hot as the memory of Evan’s kiss. She probably looked like a Valentine’s Day Red Hot candy: her face red, her hair red-orange. With her back to the Barbies, Amber grabbed her sweater and slung her purse over her shoulder.

  “They call him the Candy Man because his game is so sweet,” Trina explained, grinning. “So, how sweet was he?”

  Amber stuck her nose up in the air. “You’ll never know.” And then she tottered out, dragging what little shred of dignity she had left with her.

  Chapter 9

  L.A. Happenings by Lyle Lincoln

  …Another celeb has been spotted attending Senge Tenzing’s Wicked Tantric Sex sessions. Rumor has it this mystery man is attending to improve his control rather than to enhance his partner’s experience. Since attendance at these Wicked sessions continues to grow, the rumors must be true: L.A. ladies are too hot to handle.

  However, that’s no excuse for the 1661 trend (women who dress in the latest young fashion and look 16 from the back but 61 upon a frontal view). You can be sexy at any age, but please, ladie
s, act your age.

  Someone was knocking on Amber’s front door, pounding, really, as if they had the right to come in.

  Amber pried her eyes open and looked at an unfamiliar ceiling, open beamed with large, knotty swirls. She’d been dreaming about long, muscular limbs entangled with hers. The number thirty-five jersey tossed to the floor. Thick, dark hair just long enough to grab onto…

  Had she…?

  Amber jackknifed upright.

  No.

  Her hard, narrow bed was empty. Relief held back the swell of disappointment as she flopped back on the pillows in the room her father had decorated for her and Cora when they were children. Two twin beds. Two blue painted wood dressers, doilies on top. A clock radio with big red numbers proclaimed the time to be six-o-five. Matching worn blocked quilts in blue and brown calico. Wallpaper with brown velvet horses on it. Her open suitcases crowded the floor where she’d left them a few days before until there was no room to do more than island hop around them and the ironing board docked against the wall.

  From the outside, her father’s house was charming, with a curving drive, neatly manicured lawn and blooming pink bougainvillea creeping up white columns. If the main living areas inside were loud, funky 1960s, the guest wing was working man’s 1960s, as if it had been uplifted from one of the flyover states in the Midwest and set down here as a joke.

  Amber wasn’t laughing.

  “Three hundred and sixty more days until I’m paroled.” Amber collapsed back onto the bed.

  There was that banging again, followed by a muted, “Hello?”

  Since her dad’s house didn’t have a garage and Amber’s Mercedes coupe was parked in the driveway, she probably couldn’t get by with pretending she wasn’t home. Paparazzi wouldn’t come knocking, so Amber had to assume this was something important.

  “Coming,” she called, digging her tea green silk bathrobe out of the nearest suitcase, covering up her tank top and boxers. “Coming,” Amber repeated testily when the knocking didn’t stop.