Twisting in her seat, she looked at the large hands curled competently around the steering wheel and the profile resolutely faced forward, and came to a conclusion—she wasn’t truly surprised he’d taken the course. Or that he’d passed. “Mr. Draper, you’re a fraud.”
He turned to her, and she saw a trace of uncertainty in his eyes. Then the grin slid into place. “I guess I am a bit of a fraud. Aren’t we all?”
She ignored that. “Why don’t you tell people?”
“Tell them what? That I’m not stupid? The ones that want to see that, see it. Stewart saw it. He asked about my academic background, and I told him. Most of the people here at Ashton, like Edgar Humbert, got to know me before forming any conclusions. The rest of them? Well, you notice I’m not always asked for my opinions on art or literature or politics. It can make people real uncomfortable if you don’t meet their expectations.”
She deserved that. She’d jumped to her conclusions and she was wrong. No wonder Edgar had looked so puzzled by C.J.’s behavior. Still . . . “But to let people think you only know basketball—”
“Look, Professor—” his mouth held a grim line, his eyes narrowed and the title never sounded so like an insult “—basketball is what I do. And do damn well. There’s nothing ‘only’ about it. It gave me the chance for that education you value so highly. It gave me enough money to buy my family a decent life. And now it’s given me a job—a challenging job.”
Carolyn turned away. He’d misled her, apparently on purpose. But she’d fully cooperated. He’d only made sure to meet her expectations.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Draper.”
C.J. stretched his fingers until he steered only with his palms. “I liked it better when you said it the other way.”
“Said what what other way?”
“When you’d say, ‘I beg your pardon?’ as if you were Queen Victoria and I were a chimney sweep.”
Queen Victoria? He saw her as that strait-laced, sad-faced monarch? Carolyn bristled at the notion. Then she contemplated his half of the image. Vividly and ludicrously she envisioned C.J. Draper trying to get his long limbs and wide shoulders up a chimney. She tried to stifle the laugh, but the effort only added a gurgle to it.
She saw the undiluted blue of his eyes open wide on her for a second, then narrow with the now-familiar grin. “Anyone less like a chimney sweep I find it hard to imagine,” she said, laughter still filtering through her voice.
* * * *
Anyone less like a marble statue, he silently replied some time later, I find it hard to imagine.
Holding her in his arms on the dance floor at the Ashton Club, he could feel her body move to the slow rhythm of the music. No marble there.
For the first two dances he’d carefully kept his hand at her waist. But this was the third dance, one past the terms of their agreement.
He slid his hand along the smooth material of her dress to where nothing covered the bare flesh at the small of her back. Cool and soft, the contact of her skin with his warm palm lit a fuse of dynamite that ran up his arm, tightening every muscle along the way.
She felt it, too. He knew she did, because for an instant she arched toward him, as if her body craved more of the contact, as if she would meet his body all along their lengths. He imagined her thighs moving against his, her hips touching his, her breasts pressing against his chest. With more self-control than he knew he possessed, C.J. resisted the urge to accomplish that union.
What had possessed him to spout off like that to her in the car? When had he ever expected people to treat him like a rocket scientist? For that matter, what had possessed him to play the dumb jock as much as he had from their first meeting?
Why hadn’t he just told her he’d worked like a dog in George Eggers’s class, spurred by his own pride and the old man’s rigid standards. And, amazingly, he’d found he’d liked it. Found he remembered it. Even found himself, every now and again over the years, picking up that tattered paperback volume of poetry for the pleasure of it.
So what if two days ago this woman had smiled at him the way someone dressed in white smiles at a muddy dog? So what if she wore masks piled one on top of the other a foot thick? So what if her marble-smooth skin pulsed with a life no statue knew? So what if her eyes glowed with an ember he longed to bring to a blaze? He thought he’d outgrown this sort of thing a long time ago.
And look where it had gotten him now. What was he supposed to do with a contrite Carolyn Trent?
His body knew just what it wanted to do.
If he said something to her, anything, she’d raise her face to look up at him and, as close as they were now, her mouth would be right there, just below his. That wide mouth with the full lower lip.
The song ended and they stepped apart as the final chord swallowed his sigh. C.J. wasn’t sure if he was sighing from frustration or relief at a temptation withstood. Maybe both.
Chapter Four
Ten minutes. Then fifteen. At twenty minutes past the time Brad, Frank, Ellis and the other players should have checked in, Carolyn pulled on coat and gloves and marched up the cinder-strewn path through melting evidence of the season’s first snow to the Physical Education Center.
Just because C.J. Draper wasn’t the buffoon he’d chosen to pretend to be didn’t mean she could be charmed out of doing her job.
She’d been friendly—maybe too friendly—at the Homecoming dinner-dance. Lulled by his easygoing manner and perhaps a little embarrassed by her unfair assumptions about him, she’d remained in his company most of the evening.
They’d danced five times. He’d held her closer after the first few dances, but not so close that she’d felt obligated to protest. She’d wondered if he might try to tighten his hold, or perhaps even kiss her, say, at the door when they returned to the apartment. Not that she would have permitted it. Still, she’d felt a trace of surprise when he had simply pressed her hand and said good-night, not even asking to come in. She was not disappointed. She’d simply felt a moment of surprise that he’d seemed so willing to cut short what had turned out to be, after all, quite an enjoyable evening.
Then some slyly teasing comments at the alumni brunch the next morning had brought her up short. She’d never been teased about her other escorts. She’d liked dancing with C.J., and he did make her laugh. But it had all been misunderstood.
On Sunday night she had eaten the entire quart of mocha chip ice cream and come to a few conclusions. She’d determined a long time ago to live by her mind, and the decision had worked well for her. She thought things out, assessed them rationally. Then, and only then, did she act.
Rational assessment had told her that her colleagues had seen her being cordial to C.J. and interpreted it as much more than it was. Which, of course, was ridiculous. Even if he did make her laugh, even if he wasn’t the dumb jock she’d presumed, even if she was aware how his crooked grin and blue eyes could charm some women, he was still the leading proponent of top-level basketball at Ashton. As long as she dealt with him on that basis, there would be no misunderstanding, she’d decided that Sunday night.
Nearly three weeks of peace had passed under that regimen. Three weeks when her only communication with him dealt with the ten players and their academic progress. Three weeks when her only contacts with him were brief, businesslike phone calls and even more businesslike memos.
But no phone call or memo would serve this time. Those players were twenty minutes late for the mandatory study period.
In the otherwise quiet PE Center she heard the muffled squeak of sneakers and the sharp tones of one voice coming from the gym. Her fast-clicking heels snapped across the foyer with echoing emphasis, but didn’t drown out the noises from inside. She swung the door open wide, and the momentum of her anger carried her a third of the way down the length of the gym.
The players were all gathered in a tableau under the basket at the other end of the court, moving to C.J.’s directions, or trying to. He had his back to her, but she c
ould see—all too clearly—the taut cords running down his neck to the broad, squared shoulders and disappearing into the ragged opening of an armless sweatshirt cropped just above his waist. His practice shorts revealed every inch of his long, muscular thighs. Sweat darkened the hair at the nape of his neck and glinted on his arms and legs. The moisture helped mold the thin material to his narrow hips when no help was needed at all.
She felt heat sweep over her, tingling her nerves and turning her own muscles to marshmallow. A strange sensation coiled in her abdomen, pulling tighter and tighter . . . All the result of going from the cold outside to the steamy warmth of the gym, she told herself. It must be.
C.J. stood, hands on hips, his muscles tensed. No one could mistake his frustration, even without the voice. “Do it again, Gordo. On three. One. Two. Three.”
Ellis Manfred stood beyond the end line, holding the ball. On the count of three the other players simultaneously moved, each spinning in a different direction, taking three quick steps one way before reversing just as rapidly. Twice Ellis started to throw the ball, and twice pulled back. It appeared as random, unmotivated movement to Carolyn.
“No. No! No! You’re supposed to fake the defender, not invite him to the prom, Gordo. Watch.” C.J., moving easily despite the brace on his left knee that she noticed for the first time, took Frank Gordon’s spot and, with a wave of his hand, ordered the tableau to reform around him as she’d first seen it.
Again the count of three produced a flurry of movement, but this time, C.J. emerged alone, unshadowed, for just the moment it took for Ellis to send him the ball. He jumped to meet it and continued his leap, carrying the ball with him and gently dropping it into the basket.
The movement channeled power and grace to achieve a single objective. It was beautiful, Carolyn thought with bemusement.
“All right!”
“Way to go, Coach.”
“Yeah!”
C.J. ignored the accolades. He focused on Frank Gordon. “Do you see, Gordo? You’ve got to give him the fake. Even when his mind knows it’s coming, there aren’t many guys who can stop from reacting for that split second. And that’s all you need. You create your own opportunity, and then, by God, you’d better take it or it’ll be gone. Now try again. On three.”
Ellis Manfred spotted Carolyn moving toward the bench along the side of the court and nodded in her direction. She knew he’d pointed her out to his teammates when several heads turned. She stopped.
“One. Two. Three.” Frank Gordon and two or three others started their moves, but the rest held stock-still. “What the—” C.J. broke off the oath and spun around to find the source of the interruption.
Carolyn saw the intense concentration on his face, and felt a pang of regret for disrupting them.
“Oh. It’s you.” Ichabod Crane showed more enthusiasm at seeing the Headless Horseman. “What do you want?”
Carolyn lifted her chin. “I want these students. You’re in my time, Mr. Draper. We had an agreement.”
She saw his irritation. She could practically hear him telling her what she could do with that agreement when it impinged on a practice where he was finally—finally— starting to get his point across.
He turned away. Over his shoulder she could see the players watching him. They were waiting for him to tell her to get lost. She could see it in their faces—some looking forward to it, some dreading it, some just curious. But all of them waiting for it. Knowing it was coming. They’d seen it before.
She straightened her shoulders, ready to do battle, her momentary regret at interrupting forgotten. Slowly he turned back to face her. He drew in air and held it, apparently unaware that the movement drew up the cropped sweatshirt to expose a strip of hard-muscled waist above the low-slung waistband of his shorts.
But she was aware of it. Vitally and basically aware. She tried to keep her eyes on his face, but they wouldn’t cooperate. Her breathing had somehow gotten out of kilter, and her pulse sprinted toward something she couldn’t identify. She fervently wished he would hurry up and expel that breath.
When he did, the sound got lost in the intake of air behind him. “You’re right, Professor Trent. I apologize. We all apologize. They’ll be right there.”
Silence.
He twisted to look over his shoulder at the statue-like players. “You heard me. Showers. Hustle it up. You’ve got books to crack.”
That broke the spell. In two minutes the team manager wheeled a rack filled with basketballs out of the gym and the only two people left on the court were C.J. and Carolyn.
“So, was that satisfactory, Professor?” Neither had moved, ten feet of polished wooden floor separated them, but she could clearly see his crooked grin.
“Will you please stop calling me Professor when it’s not appropriate?”
“Will you please start calling me C.J. when it is appropriate?”
Showcased by the sleeveless sweatshirt, muscles cupped his shoulders, indenting before the swell of his biceps. She swallowed the mental and conversational digressions. “It would have been more satisfactory if you’d ended practice on time, Mr. Draper.” She spun on her heel and walked away.
Almost to the door, she could hear the grin in his mock servility when his voice reached her. “Yes, Professor.”
* * * *
The conference room’s large tables and chairs suited long bodies and legs, and the couches and armchairs around the room provided a spot for the sprawlers. After that first meeting she’d brought the players here for three-hour study sessions six days a week for the five weeks since she’d become academic adviser.
She decided that after the first of the year she’d make the daily sessions optional for the established students. Perhaps she’d make some changes in the schedule, too. But the structured schedule helped the freshmen and Frank Gordon.
Carolyn frowned as she looked at Frank hunched over a copy of the Canterbury Tales. He was in a lower level English class than she’d have expected for a junior, although that happened sometimes when a student lagged behind in one area. But this was mid-November. Shouldn’t he be farther than that by now? And the boy looked miserable.
In fact, she thought as she looked around, they all looked miserable.
One of the upperclassmen kept flipping back through the pages he’d just read as if trying to reassure himself he’d actually seen the words. Ellis Manfred doodled over sheets meant for a midterm paper’s outline. Thomas Abbott made no pretense of studying as he moodily stared out the window. Even Brad Spencer’s usual cocky good humor seemed to have vanished as he started an algebra problem time after time, wadding each failed effort into a ball and lofting it toward the wastepaper basket. His latest effort spun on the edge with a thin, metallic sound, then dropped to the outside, landing on top of three others.
“Will you stop that? It’s bad enough to have your misses all over the basketball court. Can’t you spare us in here?” inquired a usually even-tempered upperclassman named Jerry.
“Yeah? How about your less than brilliant performance last night, huh?”
“Stop it. Both of you,” Carolyn ordered, cutting across the rising tension. “Will someone please tell me what’s the matter with all of you today?”
Ellis, she’d learned from Edgar Humbert, played a position called point guard. That was a position of leadership, he said. She could believe it. Every one of the other players looked at Ellis now, waiting for him to explain.
“We got beat last night, Professor Trent. In our first game of the season. By a team we should’ve beat.”
“They were dog meat,” muttered Brad.
“What does that make us?” asked Jerry with heavy sarcasm. “They beat us by twenty-two points.”
“It’s a good thing you didn’t go last night, Professor Trent,” said Frank.
Carolyn knew he meant that, but she felt a sudden shaft of guilt for not going. She’d considered it, but she hadn’t wanted her position on the new basketball program misunders
tood.
“We stunk.” Thomas Abbott’s forcefully delivered opinion drew some nods, but also a few smiles. The mood eased.
“Coach chewed our—” Brad swallowed the accustomed word and found a substitute “—fannies after the game.”
“And this morning,” added Jerry. “We had 6:00 a.m. practice,” he explained to Carolyn. “He started off by holding up the ball and saying, ‘This is a basketball, gentlemen. Just so everyone knows what we’re talking about.’ ”
Together they winced at the memory.
She looked around at the faces, still glum, but not quite as miserable as before. “I can see you’re not thinking about anything but basketball, so you might as well get out of here.” They noisily welcomed the thirty-five-minute break.
Except Frank, she noted. He was in earnest conversation with Ellis and Brad when she left for her office. She wasn’t too surprised when the three of them arrived there a few minutes later.
“Professor Trent,” began Ellis, not quite meeting her eyes. “We were wondering if you might have ideas to help us. See, we—” he waved to take in the three of them “—are having some difficulty adjusting to college classes and . . .”
Brad picked up his flagging teammate. “But it’s different for all three of us. I’ve got this math cr—” again Carolyn saw him push back one word and select another “—crud that just doesn’t connect in my head. Ellis here is being driven to distraction by some history wacko.” She hid her smile at the description of Professor Wemler. “The guy’s demanding he know all the ins and outs of the Battle of Waterloo. And Frank’s got this old English book to read, only it turns out it’s not English at all.”
She studied the three faces in front of her. The players had accepted her to varying degrees and according to their individual personalities. They groaned over her supervision of their work, but mostly they complied. Only Brad caused real concern with missed assignments or meetings.
But Frank still seemed shy of her for some reason. On a shrewd guess she’d say that Frank really wanted the help now. But he didn’t want to approach her or Edgar Humbert directly, so his teammates agreed, or volunteered, to serve as camouflage. If that was the way they wanted it, okay. But how could she best help Frank without exposing their ploy?
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