From that moment she didn’t think about leaving until they headed to the game. She didn’t even waste time wondering why she felt so at home. The food was too good, the company too easy, the view too spectacular, the conversation too interesting.
After they finished the chicken-and-rice casserole that Rake proudly told them he’d cooked himself, they took their coffee to the living room where two walls of windows presented a front-row seat for the setting sun’s reflection on glacial Lake Michigan.
The table conversation had roamed across sports and movies, travels and friends, philosophy and politics. Now, from a story about a former teammate, Rake slipped into a new subject.
“You know, I thought I’d really enjoy just doing nothin’ when I retired. All those years, all that work. At last I’d get a chance to relax.”
Rake included her, but Carolyn knew the words and the laugh were mostly directed at C.J., who leaned against the corner pole where the windows met, staring idly out at the wind-whipped water. He’d eaten little dinner. She sensed a growing, coiling tension in him.
“I didn’t even last the summer before I was dying for something to do,” Rake said. He looked across at his friend and added with dignity, “I’ve found something.”
He told them both of the drug rehabilitation program he’d helped establish. In addition to a link with the pro basketball league, it would help the poor in city neighborhoods. He talked about how frustrated he felt seeing kids give up their lives to drugs, how good any small victory felt. “I feel like I’m really accomplishing something.”
“You’ve already accomplished something,” C. J. said without turning from the window. “You’re Rake Johnson. You’re going to be remembered a long, long time in basketball.”
His voice held no envy, but she couldn’t help remembering what Stewart had told her about these two men. They’d started off together. Rake had gotten rich and famous, C.J. injured. It could have been the other way around. It could have been C.J. who possessed the penthouse and the fame. She looked at him, his long frame as comfortable in the white shirt and tan slacks he wore now as in his jeans or his tailored suits, and she wondered if he’d have been different if he’d had Rake’s success.
Not so very different, she decided. C.J. Draper wouldn’t let circumstances have the last word.
“I’ve been lucky,” Rake said. “I’ve gotten a lot out of basketball, out of life. I want to give something back. Do some good in this world.”
He hesitated a moment, then continued in a carefully light tone. “Let’s just say I’m following your fine example, Coach Draper.”
C.J. gave an inelegant snort of disbelief.
Rake turned to Carolyn sitting next to him on the couch. “You know, C.J.’s the one with experience getting folks off drugs.”
Her eyes flashed to C.J., but he still looked out to where the sky and water swallowed the sun’s last light.
“When he got his knee all busted up, Lord, they gave him pain pills every which way from Tuesday. He wouldn’t take ’em. No pills, no way.” Rake winked slowly at her and pitched his voice at C.J.’s back. “Why was that, C.J.?”
C.J. turned back to face the darkening room. The light behind him made only his silhouetted shrug visible. Illogically she was convinced that if she could see his eyes at that moment, she’d discover some key to the man. “Hell, I didn’t know the damn things were covered by insurance. I thought I’d have to pay for them. If I’d known they were free, I’d have gobbled ’em like candy.”
“No need to,” Rake answered with his booming laugh, “with everybody eager to supply the ‘star’ everything he wanted, I was already doing enough of that for the both of us.” The laugh eased away and left something warmer in his voice. “I tried to stop, but I couldn’t do it alone. He carried me through that off-season. Knee busted all to hell, but he carried me on his back.”
Rake seemed unembarrassed by the tears that glinted in his eyes and thickened the affection in his voice. C.J. turned to look back out the window.
“Why’d you do that, huh, C.J.? What excuse you got for doing that good thing, man?”
“Hell, I thought I’d get back on that damn team, and I didn’t want a junkie for a teammate, much less my roommate. I didn’t know they were going to cut me after all that, or I’d never have bothered.” C.J. got the flippant words out, but his voice betrayed him.
Emotion tightened Carolyn’s throat. If he hadn’t stood across the room, if he’d been closer, she might have given in to the urge to soothe him with a touch.
Rake rose and went to stand next to C.J. “I just want to do for somebody what you did for me, C.J.”
The bear hug between the two men brought a burning to her throat and eyes that in another second would have overflowed if C.J. hadn’t pulled her from the couch.
“C’mon, you two sentimental crybabies. I’ve got a game to coach.”
Chapter Seven
Rake and Carolyn sat behind the Ashton team, three rows up in the gym for the holiday tournament. This wasn’t Carolyn’s customary spot. The angle made seeing the plays and patterns more difficult but made understanding the mistakes easier.
From across the court, C.J.’s face had always seemed calm, unaffected by the vagaries of the action on the court. Seeing him from the back as she did now, she realized how much he kept hidden. He leaned back in his chair, seemingly at ease. But he held his squared shoulders stiff, his back ramrod straight. He relaxed only when a time-out or a conference with a player coming off or going on the court gave him an excuse to move.
After a seesaw first half, the teams left the court with Ashton trailing by three points. Rake clucked his tongue and sighed. “Hardest thing in the world for that man to do is sit still and let someone else do the doing. But when he knows that’s the best way, he’ll do it. No matter what it takes out of him. I think it came from seeing his mom doing so much for him and Jan when they were young. He tried to take as much of that on as he could, but he was just a kid. He’s still trying now.”
“He seems to get along very well with his family,” she offered leadingly.
“They’re great folks, and they adore him. Jan had a tough time after her husband died, but she and the boy seem to have settled in fine near Mrs. D. down in Florida.”
A question about C.J.’s father again stopped just short of her lips. If C.J. wanted her to know, he’d have told her himself. The thought left a tiny hollowness in its wake.
Rake laughed at his own amateur analysis. “Don’t go telling C.J. I played psychologist on him. He’d split a gut laughing.”
Carolyn smiled abstractedly. “But then why isn’t he the kind of coach who runs all the plays from the bench?”
Rake shook his head. “Because he knows better. That may win games, but it doesn’t teach much. And no matter what he says, he’s coaching ’cause he wants to help those kids. Don’t let C.J. fool you. He’s sort of a con man in reverse. That man’s got one blind spot—himself. He doesn’t know how good he is, and he won’t believe anybody else. He puts up a hell of a front with some people.”
Like their first encounters, Carolyn thought. But also, on a deeper level, like this evening, when C.J. had turned aside Rake’s attempt to express appreciation for his friendship and help. To the world, C.J. Draper appeared an open, easygoing sort. Inside there were rooms shut off—what had Rake just called them? Blind spots. Or tender spots. What could leave such emotional scars in someone so outwardly healthy?
“C.J. took some tough knocks as a kid,” Rake said, unaware that his words fed Carolyn’s wondering. “Sometimes I think he’s still fighting that. It’s what drives him, but he needs to steer it better. He’ll drive himself too hard, too fast, unless he’s got someone looking out for him.”
Under Rake’s direct look, Carolyn shifted uneasily on the hard bench. These backless seats really did get uncomfortable after a while.
The roar of the crowd welcoming the teams back for the second half drew a relieved s
igh from Carolyn. Rake seemed wonderful, but he really shouldn’t have told her all those things about C.J. She was curious, certainly, but nothing more.
She felt Rake’s assessing look and was glad the second-half excitement prevented much more discussion. All the conversation focused on Ashton’s last-second surprise victory and preparations for the next game at noon on Saturday.
The team played poorly Saturday afternoon, and Rake explained that after the excitement of the previous night’s victory, a letdown had been predictable. That made it no less frustrating to sit in the stands and watch. And from the rigid line of C.J.’s shoulders and back, Carolyn judged that sitting on the bench and watching was much worse. But Ashton won. Ragged play, blown shots and all, the Aces advanced to the tournament’s championship game.
As soon as they showered and changed, the players, C.J. and Dolph joined Rake and Carolyn in the stands to watch the rest of the game that followed theirs. Ashton would play the winner Sunday night.
As they watched the third-ranked team in the country take apart a respectable opponent, Carolyn felt the Ashton players getting edgy. With twenty-eight hours until they took the court, they had plenty of time to worry how they’d fare against such an impressive team.
Their restlessness peaked during the team dinner at the hotel. Carolyn feared for the glassware and crockery with so much fidgeting going on.
“All right, guys, listen up,” C.J. instructed at the end of the meal. “Ellis has something he wants to say.”
Ellis withstood the gauntlet of raucous kidding with equanimity as he rose from his chair down the table. C.J. stepped behind Carolyn’s chair, leaving Ellis his spot at the head of the table. The noise subsided.
“I’m not making any speech,” he said with enough determination to make it apparent someone had wanted one. “It’s just that the guys wanted me to say thank you for all your help this semester, Professor Trent. And Merry Christmas.”
Automatically Carolyn accepted the gaily wrapped red-and-green package. Surprise robbed her vocabulary of any but the clichés of “For me?” and “You shouldn’t have.” So she kept quiet.
Looking down the table at the double row of expectant faces, she started smiling. She didn’t care what the package held. She treasured the gesture that it represented more than she would have thought possible.
“Go ahead. Open it,” Brad urged.
Meticulously she began prying the tape off one corner.
“Aw, c’mon. Rip it,” Brad pressed. Looking up, she saw the same sentiment on the other faces. She ripped it.
The froth of paper pulled away to reveal a framed eight-by-ten color photograph of the team in uniform, flanked by C.J. and Dolph in their Ashton blazers. An autograph went with each picture.
“We wanted you to remember us in case you decide not to stay on as adviser next semester,” Ellis said.
Oh, it wasn’t fair to capture her that way. But caught she was; she knew it. “It’s a wonderful Christmas gift. Thank you all.”
Under cover of the relieved babble that her thanks let loose, C.J. leaned over and rested his hands on the back of her chair. “How do you like the frame, Carolyn?”
She stroked a finger down the silken finish of the cherry wood frame. “It’s lovely.”
“I thought maybe I had it this time, but it’s not quite right, either.”
She tried to gather a frown as she turned to him. But she imagined it came out more quizzical than fierce. Their gift touched her, and she didn’t quite know how to react.
“A little too dark.”
Her mind comprehended the sense of his words, but the huskiness of his voice and the intensity of his eyes mesmerized her.
She stared at him. She felt his fingers, where they brushed her shoulder, tighten around the chair back. So tight. It must hurt, she thought a little fuzzily.
She sank into the blue of his eyes, diving deeper and deeper. Even when he broke the stare by dropping his eyes to her mouth, she couldn’t escape. She didn’t try.
“Just don’t throw darts at it when you see our exam grades,” Brad begged.
Blinking the room back into focus, Carolyn wrenched her eyes from C.J.’s and turned to the players.
“If she did that, there’d be a big hole where your head was from all the dart points,” Jerry cracked. “Course you’ve got the biggest head, anyway, so it’d make a good target.”
“That’s enough,” C. J. ordered.
She thought she caught a different note in his voice, but no one else seemed to notice. Except perhaps Rake, watching them from the other side of the table.
“Since you guys don’t show any signs of settling down and getting a good night’s sleep, which I can understand,” C.J. went on. “And since you sure didn’t burn off much energy on the court this afternoon—” the gibe drew sheepish groans “—I think the best thing is to devote tonight to wearing you guys out with some supervised exercise.” This time the groans were heartfelt. “So we’re going dancing.”
When they arrived at the spot Rake had recommended, the crowded circular dance floor held people from their teens to their fifties, moving to the pulsing beat of a keyboard, two guitars and a drum. The Ashton players hung back by the entrance lit in purple and green neon and watched.
“C’mon,” Brad urged his teammates. No one moved.
One song ended and another began, and still none of the players moved. Looking over her shoulder, Carolyn saw C.J. and Rake at the back, grinning broadly at the players’ shyness.
She was as astonished as anyone when she heard her voice over the music, saying, “Okay, Brad, let’s dance.”
He needed no second invitation. Before she could reconsider, she was on the dance floor trying to follow his energetic moves. This is fun. That was the only thought that formed as she listened to the music and tried to avoid collisions in the crowded space.
After two songs Thomas Abbott appeared at her side. “Hey, Spencer, my turn to dance with the professor.”
“Thank you for the dance, Professor Trent,” Brad said, and bowed from the waist as if they’d just completed a waltz at an inaugural ball. Then he winked and headed toward a group of young women off to one side.
She danced with each of the players. Frank tried to refuse, but she wouldn’t let him. And she felt a vicarious pleasure when she saw him dancing later with a pretty brown-haired girl who smiled all the way up at him.
She moved to music that shifted from the Beatles and the Rolling Stones to more recent songs she vaguely recognized. She danced with Rake. She even danced with Dolph.
But not with C.J.
She noticed him talking to a woman in a sleek royal blue dress with no more front to it than Carolyn’s teal dress had a back, then spotted them once on the dance floor. She wouldn’t admit to herself that she looked for him or that she wished she’d changed from the soft blue sweater and dark slacks that had seemed so practical for attending a basketball game. But she’d lost track of him until, as the band began the old Beatles’ ballad “And I Love Her,” C.J.’s arm slid around her waist.
They danced without talking. Their movements meshed. Odd, she marveled dreamily. He was so tall that she’d have expected having their arms around each other could prove awkward. Although when they had danced at Homecoming and that night he’d held her in Ripon Hall . . .
Hurriedly she pushed aside the memory, only to have a question of how they might fit together in an even more intimate embrace come whispering into her mind, and be promptly shouted down.
The dance finally quieted the chatter of her thoughts until she felt only the music, movement and C.J. He circled her out of the middle of the floor through a maze of tables and chairs. As the first pulses of the next song’s driving beat overtook the last fading notes, he led them in one last circle that carried them into an alcove not quite shut off from the room.
“Whew, I haven’t been able to get anywhere near you tonight,” he teased.
“Perhaps you were too preoccu
pied to give it much effort.”
He quirked one eyebrow but gave no other indication of recognizing the trace of tartness. She gave a little sigh of relief to have it ignored.
In the shadows she couldn’t be certain if she imagined the intensity in his eyes. He pushed a strand of hair behind her shoulder with a casual touch. Standing so close, she had to tip her head back to meet his eyes. He seemed to take up all the oxygen.
“For somebody who doesn’t like to party, you’re doing pretty well for yourself, Professor. Dancing with all the guys. The belle of the ball.”
She leaned back against the arm still encircling her waist to laugh up into his face. “Perhaps I’m just finding out I do like to party. Perhaps I should thank you for showing me that,” she tossed back.
“Maybe you should.” He challenged her with a grin.
“I will!” She felt giddy with the thrill of the game, her body’s movement to the beat of the music and, yes, the sensation of his arm around her. She stretched up to kiss one lean cheek. “So I thank you, Mr. Draper.” She kissed his other cheek.
For a moment he remained perfectly still. Then he said, “And maybe I should tell you more things about yourself, if that’s the reward I’m going to get.”
“Oh, yeah? Like what?” she asked in challenge.
He slipped his free hand under her chin. “Like you’re afraid if you’re not serious all the time, then everyone’ll find out you’re just like everybody else—still wondering when you’re going to grow up inside.”
He’d changed the rules of the game. She tried to back away, but he held her firmly. “And if they do,” he continued, “you’re afraid nobody would ever treat you seriously again. Right, Professor?” His eyes narrowed and his fingers on her chin tightened. “And you’re afraid that if they knew you felt like a woman sometimes, they wouldn’t respect the professor anymore, so you hide the woman.” She pulled her chin free, but his grip on her waist kept her wedged between his body and the wall. “And you want to know something else?”
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