It's Only Love

by Mel Curtis

  Gemma thought she might die. She’d been unable to do more than log onto her Twitter account and compose short, dorky replies that she deleted before posting.

  “Coco could use an outing.” Mimi took inventory of Gemma’s appearance and frowned. “You wouldn’t mind a little makeover before we go, would you?”

  “It was fun last time, wasn’t it?” Not until Randy chose her as his #WCW.

  Mimi picked up Coco, then turned down the hall. She wasn’t excited, but she wasn’t dismissing the idea either. “Come on then. I have the coolest Ferragamo’s you can borrow. Our feet are about the same size.”

  “The army boots stay.”

  Mimi glanced over her shoulder at the offending footwear. “I suppose we’ll have to work with that.”

  Gemma almost skipped down the hall after her. Army boots and all.

  ~*~

  “The dog isn’t working.” Portia picked at a vanilla scone, glancing across the street at a small group of photographers casually snapping shots. Her short, blond hair was as artfully draped as her chartreuse blouse. She always looked put-together when inside she was anything but. “Truthfully, my buzz factor has decreased.”

  Cora swallowed back the urge to retort with a sharp, “Boo-hoo.” Best to think of something kind and nurturing, no matter how much she wished she could radicalize the Foundation’s methods. Throwing Portia into the UFC ring with Ronda Rousey was sounding pretty good right now.

  They sat outside the Gilded Bean, a trendy coffee shop off Rodeo Drive. Dottie, the spotted, hairless Chihuahua, sat near Portia’s feet. Brutus was back at the office with his best bud, Mr. Jiggles.

  “Dottie is fabulous,” Cora said in a perky voice that sounded nothing like her bitchy self. She hadn’t slept well since Trent had told her she was too young and provocative for him, even in private.

  “The dog is boring.” The chagrin in Portia’s words didn’t match her serene, photograph-me smile. “I haven’t been in the L.A. Happenings column once since you gave her to me, while you’ve been in there twice.” Her words dropped in heavy chunks, as if she could barely bring herself to force them out. “Mimi Sorbet made the cover of People magazine.”

  Score one for Cora and the Dooley Foundation. If only Luck would smile on Portia. Or maybe Portia needed Luck to give her the finger.

  The thought gave Cora reason to smile. “Portia, your image is as clean as it was when you were a Disney Channel star. If you aren’t going to develop a drug problem, get arrested or sleep with a dangerous man, sweet, boring Dottie will have to do and you’ll have to come to terms with the fact that you aren’t news.”

  As if in agreement, paparazzo shutters fell silent.

  Portia sucked in a breath that sounded like a hiss.

  Cora considered picking up Dottie and leaving Portia to whine alone. Instead, schmuck that she was, she hung in there. “At least consider doing something your mother wouldn’t approve of. Be bold. Take risks off-screen. Rip some dude’s clothes off at a club. Show up at Wicked Tantric for some naked yoga.” There had to be a way to salvage this. Would Portia consider climbing into the UFC ring for charity? “Are you still dating Xavier?” The hottest pro golfer on the circuit.

  “Xavier’s out of the country and hasn’t called me in weeks.” There was hurt and defiance in her tone, hiding beneath that angelic smile. “He probably has a lover at every golf course. In an ideal world, I’d have a different lover for every occasion, too. Attentive hotness for charity events. Exotic hotness for industry events. Dangerous hotness for around town.”

  “I like the way you’re thinking.” Sex would be easier to pull off than a MMA charity bout. And sex with hotness practically guaranteed a photo in People.

  “Excellent.” Portia’s lips curled like a woman up to no good. “Tell me, what was Cal like? Back to basics in bed, right?”

  “I didn’t do him in bed.” Luck stuck a needle in Cora’s eye. She blinked and rubbed her brow, trying to make the pain go away. “Damn it, don’t sleep with Cal. He’s dangerous, but not hot and dangerous.”

  His text at midnight was pathetic: I’m hard. You’re wet. Let’s get together.

  No way was Cora going to report the man for being a creepy stalker. Therein lay career suicide. Besides, she didn’t believe he’d follow through on his sleaze. She had payback of a different sort in mind. The Dooley Foundation treatment for grieving head-cases.

  Portia leaned in, her voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t think you can hoard the best dicks.”

  Cora didn’t dignify that with a comeback, not even one about the disappointing size of Cal’s equipment. “You need to think about three things.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “One, Cal’s your boss. He could fire you. Two, Xavier’s a hunk-and-a-half. Don’t blow it with him. And three, Cal’s not in the frame of mind to give you flowers, wait for an invitation to your bed, and worship your body. He’s impatient and angry and rough.”

  Cal’s father was dying. And instead of dropping everything to be with him, Cal was burning the candle at both ends, working all day and holding vigil all night in a chair next to his father’s bed. And that’s when the sexts arrived. Cal needed someone to make him get some rest. He didn’t need a cheap hook-up and he wouldn’t provide Portia with a photo opp.

  Portia picked up Dottie, then stood, pulling her haughtiest look. “You have Coach Parker. You can’t have Cal, too.”

  The world became a violent swirl of blues, grays, and blondes. Bitchy clients. Horny clients. Clients who considered her bad for their reputations. Bossy sisters. Know-it-all brothers. Siblings ready to be found in the woodwork. Cora was tired of them all.

  She opened her mouth to tell Portia where to shove her retainer fee. But the actress was gone.

  ~*~

  “You can’t fire anyone until Jack is out of the hospital.” The Flash’s offensive coordinator stomped into Trent’s office at the Flash practice facility. He was tall enough to have played professional ball and wide enough to have Baskin Robbins on speed dial.

  “Wrong answer.” Archie bared his teeth in a poor imitation of a smile. “Consider this week your paid vacation. Next.”

  The offensive coordinator glared at the old man with outraged, beady eyes and lips pressed into a thin line.

  “You heard him.” Trent pointed to the door. Half the guys who’d walked in today were belligerent. There was too much to do to put up with attitude. “Out.”

  Jack Gordon had been in the hospital for a week. Other than the frustration that trades and new contracts for players were on hold, things were moving along nicely. Trent and his small staff were officially on the payroll. And Trent had finally found something to pull his father out of the doldrums – evaluating the Flash coaching staff.

  The recently unemployed mountain muttered something about respect, or lack thereof, and marched out.

  “Geez,” Randy muttered, slouching in the corner, a clipboard in his lap.

  “Welcome to the real world, sonny,” Archie said gleefully. Years of smoking made his voice sound like boots dancing on gravel.

  “The real world is brutal.” Randy was learning all kinds of realities, thanks to Trent. Broken dreams. The rotating door of sports employment. His forehead had the worry lines of a man with four kids and a mortgage.

  Trent took pity on his young protégé. “Why don’t you go check on the team?”

  Training camp had begun this morning. While the players were strength training, Trent, Archie, and Randy were giving each of the previous coach’s staff a chance to make a case for staying.

  The next few coaches didn’t present themselves with any more enthusiasm than the offensive coordinator. Archie was in his element – loud and belligerent to anyone with even a hint of disrespect toward Trent. It was oddly heartwarming.

  Trent soon grew tired of the show. “How many are left?”

  “Two,” Randy said.

  The defensive coordinator was nearly seven feet tall and shaped like a Christma
s tree. He didn’t bother sitting. “I came in here as a courtesy to Jack, but I wouldn’t work for you if this was the last job on the planet.”

  “You better hope it isn’t.” Archie turned to Trent after he’d gone with a grim smile. “Who knew people hated you more than they hated me?”

  Trent was done. “We don’t need to see the last guy. He’ll get the message if you close the door.” Trent gestured for Randy to shut it down.

  “Wait.” A hand slapped against the wood. “I’m Berto Martinez and I want to stay.” Despite his Latino looks and Clark Kent glasses, the young man in the doorway spoke with a Boston accent.

  Trent eyed the kid’s wiry frame. Something in his memory clicked. “Didn’t you play at USC?”

  Berto nodded. “Shooting guard. I didn’t make grades. Lost my scholarship and learned my lesson.” He stood tall, met Trent’s gaze squarely, and looked like he could make it through one of Evan’s grueling workouts. “Give me a chance. I won’t let you down.”

  “Let this one go, son.” Archie gave Randy a head nod. “We’ve already got our fill of wet-behind-the-ears.”

  Berto never took his gaze from Trent’s face. “I’ll do anything. Edit film, run off playbooks – ”

  “Wipe his ass?” Archie interjected, fresh out of sympathy for the previous regime.

  Trent and Randy exchanged glances. Randy nodded.

  “No? Really?” Archie tossed his hands. “When are you going to have time to train these rookies?”

  Cora walked by with a sideways glance at Berto and a private smile. Trent had the distinct impression she’d been the reason his latest coaching hire almost missed his chance, bolstering the young man’s courage.

  “I’m not going to train them.” Trent stood. “You’re in charge of player and coach development. Start now. With these two.”

  While Archie sputtered, Trent hurried into the hallway. He’d put an end to Cora’s influence before it spread any further. “Miss Rule.”

  She turned. It was more like one of those runway model pivots. Graceful. Sexy. Mesmerizing.

  “Reverend,” she said. Cool. Arrogant. Distant. Carry-over from the last time they’d talked at the hospital.

  He preferred her angry and in his grill. When he reached her, he didn’t stop walking. He hooked her arm and propelled her farther away from his office. He paused near the juncture of the hallway, debating where to take her for some privacy, someplace he could reaffirm that his team was off limits.

  The squeak of shoes and male laughter on the other side of the gym door indicated the players were moving from the fitness room into the gym. Around the corner was Jack’s office, with his administrative assistants talking in the reception area. He wanted Cora alone.

  “Reverend – ”

  “Give me a minute.” On impulse, he opened a nearby door, hoping it was an empty office. It wasn’t. It was a janitor’s closet. He tugged Cora inside and flicked on the light. There was barely enough room to waltz in place. Cleaning supplies crowded a vacuum that had seen better days and the pre-requisite mops and brooms. The smell of vanilla mixed with disinfectant. “Is Berto a client of the Dooley Foundation?”

  “That’s none of your business.” She crossed her arms over her chest, elevating the cleavage exposed by her green silk blouse.

  If someone in the organization was under the wing of the enemy, Trent wanted to know. “Berto’s the only one who asked for a job.”

  “The rest of them were fools.” Her voice was like warm honey. He wanted to pour her all over him. “They didn’t agree with anything Evan was trying to do.”

  Trent had to count to ten before answering, and even then he said through gritted teeth. “Evan isn’t the coach of this team.”

  “But he makes them go.” Gone was her teasing smile, her knowing grin. She was calm. So calm.

  He wanted to be the one who ruffled her calm. Trent wanted to be the one to make his team go.

  The burning need for control raced through his veins. Frustration clamped the back of his neck. And lust…He glanced at her cleavage once more and couldn’t seem to look away.

  No good.

  She was no good for his career and reputation.

  No good.

  She was no good for his peace of mind.

  No good.

  It was no good. He wanted her.

  It didn’t matter how many times he told himself to stay focused on the team or how often he reminded himself that Archie and Randy needed the wholesome image of the Reverend. He’d made hundreds of sacrifices, chosen the high road when it would have been easier to take the low – all in the name of the good of the program and his team. Just once, he wanted something for himself. And what he wanted was Cora.

  To his credit, he fought the urge to stroke the soft skin at her throat. “I don’t want you to coach anyone on my staff.”

  “Again, it’s none of your business who my clients are.” Her tone remained detached. “We agreed to stay out of each other’s way and not to be seen together. The Reverend’s reputation must be protected.”

  “The Reverend isn’t here.” Truth be told, he’d left the Reverend back in his office. Trent took a step closer. “And no one can see me do this.” He stroked the length of her graceful neck with the back of his hand. “Or this.” He speared his fingers into her thick mass of dark hair. “Or this.” He reeled her to him, holding her gaze until their lips were a breath apart. “Stop me if you don’t want this. Stop me if you’re mad, and you’d kiss anyone who’d been walking down the hallway just now. Stop me – ”

  Her lips stopped him mid-sentence.

  For a moment, everything seemed right – the feel of her in his arms, the building of tension in his groin, the flutter of familiarity and fantasy.

  “Trent,” she murmured against his lips. It was the first time she’d called him anything other than Reverend.

  If only he’d met her at the end of the season. If only she didn’t work for the Dooley Foundation. If only he didn’t want to strip her clothes off and take her in the broom closet.

  “Trent!” His father bellowed. “Time to scrimmage.”

  Trent broke off the kiss, touching his forehead to hers. He was trapped. To answer or come out meant to reveal his interest in Cora. All this was too new. He didn’t know how to handle it except to keep it to himself.

  “Trent! Dag-nabbit. Where did he go?” Footsteps receded.

  Cora tried to remove Trent’s hands from her waist. He held on.

  “You shouldn’t kiss me like that,” she said breathlessly, but her eyes were focused on his mouth.

  Sweet baby Jesus, what was he doing?

  She gave a little head shake, as if trying to clear out the murky fog of desire. “I don’t know who you are, Reverend. And I don’t think you know either.”

  Before he could say another word, she left him in the closet.

  ~*~

  Trent put Randy in charge of the first uptempo string and Berto in charge of the second, more physical string, and started the scrimmage. The two young men showed their competitive streaks early. The joy of competition erased some of the frustration of unsatisfied lust.

  Randy yelled, “Antoine, you crossed court diagonally when you should have kept straight to your lane.” The guard had been stripped of the ball by Darren Bell.

  Berto countered, “Darren, why steal the ball if you can’t make a layup? Don’t worry about the defensive player behind you. Take the hit and draw the foul.”

  Randy tossed his hands. “Ren, take that shot!”

  “I do not shoot the three, Coach Randy.” Ren jogged by.

  “You do when Osato leaves you open,” Randy snapped, sounding like Trent.

  Berto stamped his foot. “LaShawn, you play defense like my sister.”

  In all three ten-minute scrimmages, the first string dominated. Every player was puffing and sweaty, but not worn out. Conditioning at its finest.

  Trent blew his whistle. “Time out. Let’s change it up.”
He spent a few minutes instructing the second string on how to better defend against the Chaos offense man-to-man. “Run it again.”

  This time, Berto and his team beat the starters by two points. A high-fiving, chest-bumping, smack-talking celebration ensued.

  Evan scowled at Trent, at his squad, and at the second unit.

  Trent blew his whistle again. “Bring it in. Hopefully you guys learned something. Basketball is a reactive game. The minute someone puts in a defense to stop you, you need to adjust. Everyone in the league has seen your game film. Everyone knows you rely on Chaos almost exclusively.” Thank God, there were head nods. “Let’s add some tools to the tool box. Tomorrow we start learning my version of the Carolina Break.” Taking advantage of the team’s speed and aggressiveness. And the practice after that –

  “Not the Triangle?” Evan’s scowl was flattened by confusion.

  “Do you want to run the Triangle?” Trent hoped not.

  “Fuck no,” Evan said, ever the word-smith.

  “Then forget the Triangle.” Trent didn’t wait for the laughter to dissolve. “Get your shots in before you leave today.”

  The team switched to working on individual skills – dribbling, shooting, rebounding.

  Cora appeared next to Trent on a waft of vanilla with a gaze that challenged Trent to mention anything about closets or kisses. “Jack is still out of it. No change.” She had to raise her voice to be heard above the noise of balls bouncing. “The doctors say he might turn around tomorrow.”

  “That’s what they said yesterday.” Trent swallowed a handful of four-letter words. He wished Jack well, but he couldn’t implement changes to the team without his owner approving the trades and signing new contracts.

  Was the delay a blessing or a curse? If he made moves too soon, sports writers, other franchises, and fans would speculate on their meaning and steal his thunder. If he made moves too late, the players couldn’t adopt his new system fast enough.