She looked at the articles on her desk for a moment, then put the teddy bear aside to reach for the file. He’d known she would. It was enough that her fingers lingered for a furtive stroke of the soft brown fuzz.
“Darn, that’s not quite right, either,” he said with a sigh.
She schooled her expression to bland inquiry, but he saw that she knew exactly what he meant. “This little fella’s not quite the right color, either. He doesn’t have enough of the golden to his brown. Although,” he added with a critical look at the wistful-looking bear, “I think that ribbon’s a perfect match for that dress you wore at homecoming. What do you think?”
“I think it’s about time you brought me this file.”
“You should have it memorized by six tonight.”
“Six? What’s six?”
“That’s what time I’ll pick you up to go to the game I’m scouting. Edgar Humbert said he’s turning your basketball education over to me. We start tonight.”
He saw the tenuous truce they’d struck over the last twenty-four hours waver as she fought the temptation to tell him he was crazy. At least that was what he figured she wanted to do. Maybe not, because her refusal came out muddled and hesitant.
He’d never felt so good about a refusal.
He shrugged. “Okay. I just thought you’d decided that knowing more about your students, maybe learning a little about what’s important in their lives, would help you as a teacher. Maybe not.”
She drummed her fingers once across the manila folder. “I’ll be ready at six.”
“I’ll pick you up at your place.”
“I'll meet you at the gym.”
He grinned at the teddy bear, then at her. “Yes, Professor.”
* * * *
They came to practice early that day. C.J. saw from their faces that they wanted his praise for the win the night before.
“Okay, guys. You’ve got a choice. You can hear how well you did last night.” He bounced the basketball once, then held it still between his big hands. “Or you can hear how you can do better in the next game.”
He watched disappointment sift through them and tried to stifle a twinge of guilt for withholding the praise they wanted. But dammit, they still had so far to go.
“Couldn’t we have both?” Ellis asked softly. “Couldn’t you tell us what we did right last night, then tell us how we can do better? We want to get better.”
C.J. stared back at the composed, serious face in front of him. “Yes, we can do that.” A grin crept in. “You could make a hell of a coach someday, Manfred.”
“Yeah, he’s already bossy enough,” volunteered Brad.
“The best thing you did last night, Spencer, was keep your mouth shut,” C.J. said.
The laughter quickly gave way to a technical discussion.
Rather to his surprise, C.J. found no difficulty in remembering something good about each player’s performance.
Then he put them to work on the box-and-one defense. They worked better together, and harder, than ever before. By the end, every shirt was soaked through and there were many weary legs, but they all knew they’d perform better the next time they used the box-and-one.
C.J. had already showered and changed in the tiny cubicle he and Dolph shared when Brad passed by the open door of his office to say good-night. C.J. responded and went back to his notes.
Soon it became apparent he wouldn’t get much done. Mostly one by one, a couple of times in pairs, the players passed by the door and called good-night. Ellis came last. He paused before he said the words, then he smiled. It was, C.J. realized, the first time he’d seen Ellis smile.
Well, that was something. And seeing the improvement in the box-and-one was something. Even a single step brought satisfaction. Even when he knew how far they still had to travel.
Yes, there was satisfaction. But he’d dreamed such dreams of grander satisfaction. Sometimes, still, the past whispered the old dreams. He’d be a star. He’d be one of the best who’d ever played. He’d really be somebody and not just caught like a fly in a web.
He stood up so abruptly that his left knee buckled. He caught himself, awkwardly grabbing the edge of the desk with enough pressure to whiten his knuckles. He swore pungently.
I’m going to really be somebody, not just a fly caught in a web. Struggling all day long, being some kind of do-gooder just to get eaten in the end. Those weren’t his words. They were the echo from a voice he wanted to forget. At one time he’d thought it would be better, far better, if he’d never heard his father's voice at all. He was stronger than that now. He’d been stronger than that even when his dream had come crashing down in the instant when his left knee had exploded into shards of agony.
He’d been strong enough to make his own opportunities from what had remained, strong enough to rebuild his left knee. One aching, straining movement at a time he’d rebuilt it from a piece of pudding to a joint that had carried him through two more years around the league and over to Italy. It had carried him to enough respectable paychecks to set his family up in comfort and give him a cushion.
And he wasn’t done yet. He was going to do more than dream and talk about getting somewhere.
He could have stayed in the pros as an assistant, worked his way up gradually. He’d gambled coming to Ashton. He could sink away from the attention of the basketball hierarchy as quickly as he had when his knee had gone. But a splash here, and he could have it made. He could be back headed for the top.
That would be satisfaction.
Chapter Five
Their truce seemed destined to end immediately when Carolyn discovered he’d said six o’clock so they’d have time to stop for dinner before the game. Even when he explained most reasonably that the restaurant was on the way, so it only made sense, she seemed inclined to object.
She said she’d eaten. It didn’t take him long to discover her “dinner” consisted of ice cream and an apple snatched in the half hour between leaving her office and meeting him at the gym.
“How are you going to learn anything about basketball if you faint from malnutrition in the second quarter?” he asked, as he pulled into the restaurant parking lot. He recognized the warning signs when she straightened her shoulders and raised her chin. Hurriedly he added his clincher, “Besides, I’m hungry.”
After he persuaded her to sample some of the restaurant’s specialty prime rib, however, she agreed that the dinner made the stop worthwhile. And she paid close attention when he spent time at dinner straightening out some of her confusion about basketball. Once they got to the court, he stayed too busy tracking the game to answer many questions. In fact, she ended up providing answers.
“Did you see who passed to the shooter?”
“Number twenty-four.”
He grinned, even as his eyes followed the action on the court. “You’re handy to have around.”
From then on she helped spot the numbers. A little tentatively at first and then with growing confidence. He sensed that she was pretty proud of herself, too. What a strange woman, he thought, as he watched her intent profile from the corner of his eye. A fast-track professor preening herself on spotting who’d taken a jump shot.
He could hear his mother saying that sometimes the smallest things give you the most pleasure. He’d never have thought he’d associate anything about Carolyn Trent with his down-to-earth mother.
He explained more about basketball as they drove back through a night howling with the promise of winter storms to come. As her head started to nod, his voice lowered and slowed. Just before she fell asleep he tugged her gently so her head rested on his shoulder. Even in the bulk of her winter coat, she felt fine-boned, almost fragile.
He looked down at the lashes dark against her cheek. The uneasiness between them had lessened. Gradually they were learning to get along in some neutralized common ground between academics and basketball—if they were careful.
They had to remain friendly, but not too friendly. Keep a c
areful distance, he warned himself.
Careful. Distance. The words brought a twisted smile to his mouth. Careful, as in the way he wanted to touch her all the time. Distance, as in the way she slept against his shoulder as he drove through the night. Careful. Distance.
* * * *
Carolyn saw C.J. and Dolph Reems coming toward her through the snow-covered campus before they saw her. She could still duck off to one side. But striking off from the shoveled path would look rather obvious. He’d know she was running away from him.
It was more than a week since she’d awakened with her head on C.J.’s shoulder. She’d quickly wished him good-night and transferred to her own car. There had been no more invitations to scouting trips. Not that she’d expected—or wanted—any.
She’d seen him at the two games she’d attended. They’d said hello a few times, as now, when they’d passed on campus.
“Hello, Carolyn.” Dolph Reems said, catching her in a bear hug. “How are you, my dear?”
His figure appeared even shorter and squatter than usual with the extra padding of his winter coat. The contrast to C.J., long and lean with his bombardier jacket unfastened over jeans and sweater, emphasized the effect.
“It’s great to see you coming to these last few games. We love to see supporters, don’t we, C.J. Especially lovely ones.”
She allowed one quick look at C.J., then she focused on Dolph.
“Her parents used to come to all the games,” he told C.J. “They were great fans. And after they had her they’d bring her along, too! Just a baby, but she’d never cry during the games. Of course you were too young to remember that.” Dolph gave Carolyn’s shoulders another squeeze, then released her. “I used to think it was a sign you’d become a great athlete. And I still think I could’ve been right.” He gestured toward her as he turned to C.J. “This one could’ve been a star swimmer. Olympics, I tell you. She was that good.”
“I was never that good, Dolph,” she said with a nervous laugh. Why did C.J. keep looking at her so solemnly? “And nowhere near that dedicated.”
“Not to swimming, maybe, but to studying.” He turned again to C.J. “Gave up swimming for studying. Can you believe it? Well, I guess that’s how you get to be a professor at such a young age. Your parents sure would be proud of you, my dear.”
No matter how often she heard the words, they always brought satisfaction.
He gave a gusty sigh, then headed off with a quickness surprising in someone of his bulk. “Got to get to the Administration Building with these papers before Marsha Hortler has my hide. See you two later.”
His departure left a wake of awkwardness.
“The... uh… the team looked good the other night,” she offered after a desperate search for a topic. Ashton’s win had given the Aces a 2-2 record.
“They’re doing a little better.” He cleared his throat. She glanced up and saw a faint echo of his grin. “They might improve even more if you didn’t impinge on my time.”
“What do you mean?”
He cleared his throat again. “You’ve got Gordo talking about ‘basketball language’ and Spencer doing formulas for statistics and Manfred—” His voice gathered confidence, the grin seemed surer. “I keep catching Ellis trying to turn my plays into the Battle of Waterloo.” Her laugh slipped across the silent snow, and C.J.’s voice held an added huskiness as he said, “So you owe me. I want equal time.”
“I guess that’s only fair,” she said without pause.
“Good. Dinner tonight. Angelo’s. Seven-thirty. I’ll pick you up.” He started to back away down the path. She opened her mouth, but he forestalled her. “I know—you’ll meet me there. Okay. Seven-thirty.” He swung around and strode down the path.
She stared after him, feeling a little disconcerted by the abruptness of both his invitation and departure. Why did he leave so suddenly? Did he regret his impulsive invitation?
And why had she given him carte blanche? She didn’t think--that was why.
C.J. Draper didn’t give her a chance to think things through. That had to change.
* * * *
They ordered, and the waiter gathered the menus and departed. The bustle of arriving, the standard comments about the checked-tablecloth decor with candles dripping wax down wine bottles, the consultations over their selections—all that was used up.
This was the moment Carolyn always dreaded. This was the moment her escort’s very impressive academic credentials became most obvious. This was the moment she told herself firmly that she admired that sort of conversation. But tonight, in the flickering candlelight of Angelo’s, with the nubby texture of a checked napkin being pleated between her restless fingers, all that changed.
This was the moment she had no idea what to expect from C.J. Draper.
His eyes looked directly into hers. Monet blue, her thoughts whispered. She said the first thing that came into her mind, anything to break that look.
“I’ve gone through Frank Gordon’s file. There are a few things missing.” The information had largely confirmed her impression of Frank’s strength in math and science, but told little about his background in several other areas, particularly English. “I thought you might have gotten them mixed up with some other papers.”
He looked at her for a moment longer as if trying to read something in her face, then turned to flag the waiter as he said over his shoulder to her, “Sorry. I’ll check. Practices have occupied me. I lose track of things sometimes.”
While he spoke Italian with the waiter, she wondered if his comments had been an oblique apology for keeping the players late that day two weeks ago.
“I’d forgotten to order the wine,” he said after the waiter left. She started to protest automatically, but he stilled it. “You can’t have Italian food without wine. It’s like leaving out the pasta.”
“Is that why you chose Angelo’s? It reminds you of the restaurants when you lived in Italy?”
As he handed her the bread basket, he smiled, and grooves cut into his cheeks. “The restaurants they always took me to in Italy were American. They’re nuts for Southern fried chicken and French fries over there.”
She smiled back. “Isn’t that absurd? You go to Paris and eat Chinese, but the Chinese want to eat French.”
“When I played for the Tornadoes, we came up with a whole international route around the league: German in Milwaukee, French in Washington, Italian in Boston, Chinese in New York. But the best Chinese restaurant I ever went to was in Dublin.”
“Ireland?”
He nodded. “It was terrific. At the end of the meal they served Irish coffee and fortune cookies.” She started to laugh as he continued straight-faced, “Every Chinese restaurant should serve Irish coffee—but the fortune cookies were in Gaelic.” His laugh joined hers, then lingered in his voice when he continued, “When I was growing up in East St. Louis, I never would have expected to see the world the way I have.”
“St. Louis?”
“East St. Louis, Illinois, actually. Just over the river. A tough neighborhood, especially for somebody with a name like mine.”
“C.J.,” she pronounced thoughtfully. She hadn’t considered before that the letters meant anything more than him. “What does it stand for?”
He shook his head. “Sorry. I don’t know you well enough to tell you that. I trust my name only to people I’d trust my life to—which came down to about the same thing where I grew up.”
Despite his light tone, she wondered at the sort of childhood he’d had. “Do you go back?”
“Not a lot, but I’ve kept some ties. In fact, that’s how I heard about Ellis Manfred. My old high school coach still goes to games all over the area. When I got this job, he called me up and said he knew this good kid and I’d better give him a scholarship.”
“So you went to see Ellis play.”
He shook his head solemnly as he took a breadstick from the napkin-lined basket. “I said, yes, sir, Coach. And that was that. Coach Gates is
a tough old bird, and you don’t question him. I got passed from him to another tough old bird at State U. Between Coach Gates and Coach Kenner, I was either going to grow up straight or die with the effort.”
“What about your—”
She broke off as her mind caught up with her mouth. It was none of her business why these coaches seemed to stand in for the father he never mentioned. She had no right to ask questions about the things he didn’t volunteer.
Carolyn watched the breadstick in his hands crumble to fragments. When she looked up, he met her eyes steadily.
“Did you always play basketball?” she asked.
“You mean was I born with a ball under my arm? No. But there were always games going on in the neighborhood and I was always tall for my age, so I’d play with the older guys. Pretty soon I was as good as they were. Then I was better.”
He started in on his salad, and Carolyn toyed with a forkful of greens and creamy dressing. “It kept you out of trouble?” She’d heard that about sports.
“Not entirely. More like a couple of basketball coaches got me out of trouble. Coach Gates and Coach Kenner dragged me up when I got too big for Mom to handle. I was a hellion, always in trouble. Mom tried her damnedest, but with working full-time to keep us alive, and with me bigger than her by the time I was twelve, it was tough. If it hadn’t been for basketball, I’d probably be dead or in prison by now.”
No fanfare. To him, just a simple statement of fact. And somehow Carolyn found herself believing him.
“So you decided basketball came before other things, before...” She took a bite of lettuce to cover the unfinished question. What? What did she know about the sort of things that had faced someone like him or Ellis Manfred?
She wondered again about the father so notably absent from his family pictures—the one on his desk and the one he drew now.
Hoops Page 8