by Mel Curtis
Evan stopped at his regular Starbucks intent on picking up a coffee before showing up at the Flash’s shoot around. He was feeling good about tonight’s upcoming game with Phoenix. He was loose and his mind was mostly clear.
Evan should have felt on top of the world this morning because Amber was out of his life. There was no way she’d show her face around him again. But sometime between maneuvering Amber into position on the dance floor so Ren could take her picture and bringing her to climax in Tingle’s shadowy alcove, he’d realized he couldn’t hook up with her, tarnish her reputation and never be heard from again. That was too cold even for him.
Amber’s orgasm was his parting gift to her and had succeeded in fulfilling Evan’s curiosity about her sex video, but left his body far from satisfied. It had nothing to do with how she’d ambushed him with her kiss. Evan wasn’t much of a kisser. He was more of a let’s-get-to-it type of guy.
“Too much caffeine on game day isn’t wise,” Brock said, interrupting Evan’s thoughts. The Flash’s radio announcer sat with team stats, the sports page and his laptop hogging up a big table near the condiment stand. He no longer had that I’ve escaped death by hangover pallor, but his face was a mottled yellow where Evan had hit him and his clothes were still wrinkled.
“You look like hell.” A quick perusal of the parking lot revealed Brock’s Lexus, complete with the spare still on and something suspiciously like a blanket hanging over the front seat.
“That about describes how I feel.”
“Why don’t you go back to your hotel? Pablo can do the pre-game interviews.”
Brock glared at him. They both knew Brock wasn’t staying at a hotel.
This was so not Evan’s problem.
Yet, Evan hesitated. He’d spent two years of his college career on the same team as Brock. “Why don’t you stay with Pablo?”
Brock took a deliberate sip of coffee. “Pablo has a studio apartment, a dog and a girlfriend.”
Evan’s feet didn’t seem to get the message that it was time to go. “Why don’t you go home?”
“What? And admit I’m the jackass she says I am? Spend the rest of my life kowtowing to her because I fucked up just by breathing?” Brock’s volume increased. “Aren’t you the one who told me to grow a pair? I’m trying to sack up, buddy. Show some support.”
“Jesus.” His rant was a hell of a lot better than yesterday’s catatonic near-tears. Evan studied his feet, trying to keep from smiling. “See you at the shoot around then?”
“Fuck you.”
“I might have deserved that,” Evan said as he walked out, laughing to himself, Amber temporarily forgotten.
“There’s definitely a difference in Evan Oliver’s warm-up.” Brock Hamilton noted glumly into the microphone. “He’s sinking everything he throws up.”
“Apparently, he’s found a new love interest,” Pablo Alvarez replied. “She was here at the game the other night and there’s a picture floating around on the internet of the lovebirds at a local club.”
“His game hasn’t been up to par for the NBA.” Brock sounded happier than he should have given he was the Flash’s broadcaster. He tried to lighten things up. “If we see results tonight, Evan won’t be the only man sending Amber Rule flowers.”
“Yep, I bet Jack Gordon will be even more grateful.”
“This isn’t a good idea,” Amber leaned against a wall next to the snack bar in the Forum, averting her face as a man with a huge camera bought a bottle of water.
Taking Blue’s advice, she’d adopted a professional appearance. She wore a form fitting Michael Kors suit in policeman’s blue, had pulled her hair up into a bun and donned her dad’s rectangular reading glasses. Looking through the lenses made her a bit queasy, but so did remembering the event with Evan last night.
“You’re not here to date him. If Oliver has a good game it’s the perfect photo opportunity,” Blue said, adjusting Mr. Jiggles’ bag. “And this time you’ll be in control.”
Amber wanted to believe her brother, but just then a thirty-something blonde hunk paying for his beer did a double-take her way. He sauntered over with a wolfish grin. Amber shrank back as she recognized Kent’s agent, Cy Maxwell.
“Jesus, don’t slouch. You look pathetic.” Blue frowned, following her gaze. Then he whispered, “What’s wrong?”
Amber squared her shoulders. “Let’s go. This guy’s not interested in the Rules.”
“Yeah, he wants to break a few,” Blue agreed. “But you never know. He could be the CEO of a major movie studio. Lots of actors need life coaching.”
“He’s an agent. Kent’s agent.” And her ex had been looking for her last night at Tingle. Not that he’d bothered to call or text today. Not that she’d start a conversation with him if he did. Amber tugged Blue’s arm. “Come on.”
“Business is all about networking.” Blue shook Amber off. “I keep telling you, it’s the same thing as dating.”
If that was true, Blue would be the death knell for the Dooley Foundation.
Blue stepped in front of Amber, intercepting Cy and introducing himself.
“I called your office today,” Cy said, giving Amber an appreciative once over that felt dirty. “I’m very interested in the program you’re running.”
Amber froze.
“Really?” Blue sent Amber an I told you so look.
She had to ask. “Interested for Kent?”
“Kent has expressed interest in life coaching again, but it’s Evan Oliver I want to talk to you about.”
“You represent him, too?” What were the odds? Amber tilted her head up and caught a blurry impression of the agent that made her dizzy. She took a quick step back to regain her balance.
“Yeah.” Cy decided to ignore Amber’s weave and spoke directly to Blue. “Oliver’s a popular guy since his success with AND1. It’s rare that a guy can make it as a streetballer at the AND1 level and in the NBA. I just want to make sure your program doesn’t harm his image.”
Harm Evan’s image? Amber’s hands fisted. “He’s worried – ”
“He has nothing to worry about.” Blue cut Amber off without breaking eye contact with Cy. “Now about Kent. Should we call him?”
“One of you should.” Cy smiled at Amber, who was still silently fuming about prima donna sports stars and ruined reputations.
Blue assured Cy one of them would call tomorrow, made their excuses and dragged Amber away.
“You can call Kent. I’m far too busy ruining Evan Oliver’s reputation,” Amber griped.
“Now, now. Think how nice it’ll be to cash that check Kent writes. He’ll pay anything for the publicity, but only if you give him the bang for the buck you’re giving Oliver.”
“I’m not sleeping with Kent either.”
Blue winced. “You’re the hottest thing in L.A. right now and Kent needs some good PR. You don’t need to sleep with him. Just get him to sign a contract and be seen with him once or twice.”
Amber wanted to throw something. “I’ve sold my soul to the devil.”
“No, you haven’t. You’ve sold your soul to the Dooley Foundation for a measly three mil a year.”
“Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about, Oliver.” Coach Spinks thumped Evan solidly on the ass during half time before turning to the white board to diagram their second half strategy. “You’re on it.”
Evan nodded, scrubbing the sweat off his face with a towel. A couple of players echoed Spinks’ sentiments, looking Evan in the eye for the first time since he’d arrived. Evan hadn’t realized what a pariah they considered him. He was in the zone tonight, a true NBA superstar. He’d scored twenty-five points in the first half. The Flash was leading the Phoenix Suns fifty-five to forty-three. Everything on the court felt easy. And it was all Evan – not due to any redheaded siren’s call or his father’s barrage of shouted instructions.
Ren, who had the locker next to him, leaned his long torso closer. “You have me to thank for it.”
“D
o I?”
“They would not let him into Tingle where his lady friend was.” Ren bumped up his black eyebrows. “But everyone lets Ren in.”
“That’s because everybody knows you’re gonna get so drunk you’re gonna buy the house drinks, fool,” Antoine Watson, their point guard, drawled from the locker to Evan’s left, before turning to his friend, Darren Bell, and giving him five.
“I say we all go clubbin’ with Ren, get laid and kick the crap out of the Clippers next week,” Darren grinned, flashing a gold tooth.
The locker room erupted into rowdy cheers.
Evan smiled, letting the team’s enthusiasm wash over him. Darren was right. Evan needed to get laid. Just think what kind of game he could have if he got further than stealing third base. There were other more likely candidates out there than Amber Rule. Tempting as she was, jumping into bed with Amber would only screw up his plans to get out of having a life coach.
Take that actress Cy fixed him up with last week. What was her name?
“Oliver, get your head out of your ass and pay attention,” Spinks barked.
A few minutes later Evan filed out of the tunnel with the rest of the team to a roar of applause. Well, it would have been a roar if there had been more people in the arena. At least there were more people than the last game. Evan fell into line to make some layups before the second half started.
“Bro, there she is.” Antoine elbowed Evan in the gut.
“Who?” Evan asked on a strangled puff of air.
“Your babe. That Rule chick.”
Here? “Where?” She wasn’t supposed to be strong enough to show her face around Evan again, especially here. There were too many cameras, too many reporters.
“I am glad,” Ren said, slapping Evan’s shoulder. “I was not convinced she would like her picture and my Evening Star was upset that I took it.”
As the Archies belted out Sugar Sugar – he was really tired of that Candy Man moniker – Evan stepped out of line and lifted his right foot to his glute in a quadriceps stretch and casually glanced around. Amber stood by the scorer’s table, flanked by her brother and surrounded by television cameras. She wore a conservative dark blue skirt and a matching jacket that hugged her curves. Her fiery red hair was caught in a bun at her neck. Perched on her nose was a pair of small, black rimmed glasses. If she meant to come across as an asexual businesswoman, she’d failed. The effect was more like a school teacher fantasy.
Evan felt the stirrings of desire. Looking away, he dropped his leg, bouncing lightly on his toes to regain command of his body. He still had a game to play. Afterward, he’d call that actress – what the hell was her name? – and squelch this need Amber Rule had created. Sex was sex. It didn’t matter much who Evan had it with.
He glanced over his shoulder once more. Someone thrust a microphone in Amber’s face. Her smile became strained. Blue nudged her.
Those media bastards, including Brock, were eating her alive. Evan needed to jog over to the bench just past where Amber stood and give them a sound bite so they’d leave her alone.
But then Amber laughed, shook her head and pointed at Evan. The cameramen swiveled around and caught him looking. One guy rotated his lens as if coming in for a close-up.
Evan frowned and stepped back in line, cutting in front of Ren, snagging a pass meant for his teammate. All this talk about Amber Rule changing his game was bullshit. He drove stiffly to the basket and dunked.
Or at least it would have been a dunk if the ball had made it in the hoop. Instead, it clunked on the rim and bounced away.
The arena gasped into near silence.
“Oliver!” Spinks yelled, waving a towel. “Get your ass over here.”
As if he owned the court, Evan strolled past Amber without so much as a nod her way. The cameras followed his every move.
Spinks put a hand on Evan’s shoulder and tugged him in close so that no one else could hear. “This team needs a leader, not some God-damn pussy-whipped jackass who’s trying to impress his new girlfriend and loses focus.”
Evan wasn’t a team leader. He was a scorer. And as for trying to impress anyone… “I’m not – ”
“You sure as shit look like it,” Spinks sputtered in his face.
The buzzer intruded.
“Evan!” Amber’s voice.
He ignored her, ignored Spinks and ambled toward center court.
“Evan, remember how it feels when you’re a superstud,” she called, twittering as if she was a high school cheerleader.
Everyone within the immediate vicinity of the score table laughed. Evan wasn’t amused. Nor was he fooled. This was payback for the Twitter photo he’d posted and the gossip column buzz. A woman who’d been publicly crucified like she had would hate any media attention.
Evan angled his head until his gaze connected with Amber’s, burning into her until she shrank back almost imperceptibly. He rolled his head a few times and bodied-up to Ryan Byrne of the Suns.
“Your girlfriend’s hot,” Byrne said, putting a hand on Evan’s back.
Team leader? Girlfriend? Something hot and intense burned under Evan’s skin. He was accountable to no one but himself. At the whistle Evan spun away from Byrne, took Antoine’s pass and dunked. Instead of letting the Suns inbound the ball easily, he bodied up to Byrne again.
“She clapped for you,” Byrne said.
Evan kept his eye on the ball, darting across court for the steal and a quick lay-up. The crowd was on its feet, shouting his name.
O-li-ver! O-li-ver! O-li-ver!
Evan’s name. Not the team’s name. Not Amber Rule’s name. He could practically hear his father’s shouts of encouragement.
Knees bent, one hand on Byrne’s shoulder, Evan blocked out the memory of his father’s voice and went to work.
Chapter 18
Jack was livid.
In the early days of Vivien’s marriage to Jack she’d do almost anything to calm him when he lost his temper. Now she just sat in her front row sky box seat, sipped her water from Riedel crystal and watched the game, speaking only when spoken to or when the opportunity presented itself to annoy Jack, to remind him she was right here waiting for him to come to his senses.
“Look at Oliver.” Jack stalked to the edge of the box.
“I have been. He’s the only one doing anything tonight.” The team was ahead for once. If the Flash would just win some games maybe Jack wouldn’t be so distracted.
“Exactly.” Jack paced back to the bar for his drink. “Exactly.”
“You’re winning. What are you complaining about?” It was hard to believe this angry frenetic man was the same one she’d married four years ago.
They’d met at one of her father’s Hollywood parties where he trolled for money to back his films. Jack was new money, having made millions first in the dot com boom and then in the financial markets before their collapse. He’d ignored the young starlet Vivien’s father had tossed in his path, snubbed the Oscar nominated beauty who tried to ply him with drink and made a beeline for Vivien.
Jack made Viv laugh. He took her to late night dinners where he listened to what she had to say about life and politics and her dreams. He made love to Vivien as if he couldn’t resist her a moment longer.
They’d married that same year. But once he’d had her, Jack didn’t seem to know what to do with her. After their marriage he’d thrown himself into this NBA deal. The nights of worshipful marathon sex disappeared and soon the only way Vivien knew he’d shared their bed was by the indentation in his pillow. She packed up her things when he forgot their one year anniversary and moved back in with her parents.
Jack showed up a few weeks later without a clue that she’d left him. She may not have been anyone important in Hollywood, but she wasn’t invisible. Vivien filed for divorce the next day. But since all Jack’s money was tied up in the NBA deal and it was unclear if it was going to be a success or not, her lawyer was stalling the proceedings in the hopes he’d get a share of the mill
ions Vivien might stand to collect.
“What the hell is that?” Jack captured Vivien’s hand and examined the ten thousand dollar emerald cocktail ring on her finger, his touch igniting memories she hadn’t been able to erase.
“Do you like it? I bought it yesterday.” Because she’d needed to get out of the house, because it was what her mother used to do to get her father’s attention when he was alive. She’d charged the ring on Jack’s credit card because she knew he’d notice and have to admit she was still his responsibility.
“Please tell me this is an engagement ring from some studio fuck who’s going to pay your bills from now on.”
Vivien yanked her hand back.
“That’s it. I’m calling my lawyer in the morning and canceling your credit cards.”
The crowd rumbled excitedly below them and began chanting: O-li-ver!
“Shit. Oliver scored again.” Jack slumped into a chair at her side. It rolled closer to hers.
She could smell Jack’s aftershave and remember how his scent clung to her body after they made love. “They’re winning. Attendance is up. Isn’t that what you wanted?” Isn’t that why their marriage had imploded? Because he wanted an NBA franchise more than he wanted Vivien?
“I want them to win as a team. What happens if Oliver continues to carry them?” Jack brought the whiskey glass to his lips, then put it down, untouched. “I’ll tell you what’ll happen. Somebody’ll offer me a shitload of money for him that I can’t turn down – which I’ll have to use to pay off your credit card debt – ”
God, he was such a jerk.
“And then I’ll be left with those idiots. A former drug dealer, a guy whose father has a gambling addiction, a recovering alcoholic, a sex addict and a wannabe movie star. And that’s just my starting line up.”
Vivien lost the urge to be sympathetic. “Why is this my problem?”
Jack drew back. “Why?” he thundered, shooting to his feet. He grabbed the back of her chair and spun it across the room with Vivien still in it.
She’d been a bitch to him countless times before, but he’d never gotten physical like this. If she didn’t know him, she might be scared that he’d hit her.