The only reminder I had of my parents, before I was plucked from our home, was a basketball my father had given me one year for my birthday. It was all he could afford since he spent his paycheck on drugs, alcohol, and cigarettes, and my mom had never worked a day in her life. I was lucky the foster parents, who only took me in for the money and not out of the kindness of their heart, allowed me to keep the one piece of home I had left.
I miss the game, the feeling I would get in the pit of my stomach as fans cheered my name. My signature move was dubbed the Coach Crossover by ESPN sports announcers my junior year in college. It’s the same move I have been teaching Rico for the last six months. He’s not tall enough yet to pass the ball properly between his legs, and he hasn’t figured out how to maintain the proper grip, but I’ve been working on his game. A few years from now, the kid will be running circles around me.
When I showed up at Dante Fisher’s mansion in Chicago, I used the same moves on him to keep him as a DMG client. He has a full-sized basketball court on his property, and knowing that I’m a former baller, he challenged me to a game of Horse. I still practice on my own and try to stay in game-ready shape, especially with teaching my boys how to sharpen their skills. They really keep me on my toes.
I never thought Dante wanted to leave and sign with ASG. Dante just wanted Mickey to show him that he still gave a damn after all the money he has paid him. Ever since John Parker’s death, Mickey hasn’t been the same agent.
I move to my right, and Rico pushes out his left hand to deflect the ball.
“C’mon, Coach. Bring it!”
Lifting my right foot, I lean toward Rico where his left side is weak, where he’s expecting me to dribble past him. But I do my perfected crossover dribble between my legs and switch hands, speeding past Rico to my left. He runs up behind me and jumps on my back, throwing his arms around my neck.
“You cheated,” he says into my ear. “I want a rematch.”
I hear the elevator doors close behind us. Spinning around with Rico on my back, I find one of the hottest men I have ever laid eyes on. He’s taller than me by a few inches, putting him around six feet four inches, give or take.
As he scratches the bit of stubble along his angular jaw, I see a tiny smile forming at the corner of his mouth. This man is studying me, as if we know each other, with a curious look in his grayish-blue eyes. And I think I know him.
For a second, I contemplate why his face looks so familiar and why his strong arms and toned body make me think of him slamming me against the wall. That’s because he’s Alex Parker. He looks different in person—hotter even. During games, he always looks so angry, and in the videos I’ve seen online, the ones where he was drunk out of his skull, he looks disheveled.
Alex pushes a hand through his shaggy brown hair, moving it off his forehead, with a grin. “I thought I recognized that move,” he says with a wink.
“Coach has skills that pay the bills,” Rico says, tapping me on the shoulder.
I chuckle and set Rico on the floor. “You’ve got that right, kid.” Then, I look at Alex, confused. “I thought you weren’t moving into the apartment until tomorrow night.”
He slides his big hands into his jean pockets and shrugs. “Mickey said it wouldn’t be a problem if I came early. I had to get out of DC. I didn’t see the point in sticking around any longer than I had to. Is that a problem?”
I shake my head. “No, it’s not a problem. I just wasn’t expecting you, is all.”
Scanning the hall, I notice he has an oversize hockey equipment bag on the floor behind him. Talk about being a minimalist.
“Where’s Kayla? Did you come here by yourself?”
“She said she’d meet me here.”
I slip my cell phone out of my pocket and tap out a text message to Kayla. There’s no reason for my secretary to come all the way over here from the suburbs when I have extra sets of keys to all my apartments.
Rico tugs on my track pants, and I look down at him. “Is that the famous hockey player you told me about?” he whispers, his hand covering the side of his mouth.
I smile and give him a quick nod.
A squeal escapes Rico’s lips. “This is so cool.”
“Do you like ice hockey?” Alex asks Rico, bending down to match his height.
Rico glances in Alex’s direction, wide-eyed. “I’ve watched a few games with Coach before, and I like it, but my mom can’t afford to let me play on a team. She says hockey is too expensive.”
Alex puts his hands on his kneecaps, making it look effortless at his size, dwarfing Rico with his thick body. I didn’t expect the NHL’s biggest playboy to like children, not with the disrespect I’ve heard he shows to women, players, and managers. He might be one of Mickey’s favorite clients, but he’s also the one who is the most hassle. And, now, I’ve been assigned as his babysitter.
“I think we can fix that.”
Alex looks up and into my eyes, and I practically melt under his gaze. Those eyes, that smirk—everything about him makes it hard for me to focus.
“Why don’t you two come to the game on Saturday afternoon? I can leave tickets at the box office for you.”
“Are you serious?” Rico jumps up and down next to me. “Can we go, Coach? Can we? Please!”
I get free tickets to the games all the time. That’s one of the perks of being a sports agent, but this is for Rico, and for once, it’s not a guise to lure me there for a business meeting.
“I have to visit one of my players in New Jersey on Saturday morning, and we have to ask your mom first if it’s okay. But I can have Jamie pick you up, and I’ll meet you there.”
Normally, my best friend since childhood and assistant coach, Jameson O’Connor, would have been at tonight’s game, but he had to work late again.
Rico wraps his arms around my stomach. “Thanks, Coach.”
I shoot Alex a quick smile and mouth, Thank you. This is the last thing I ever expected from him. Maybe he’s not as much of a jerk as the papers portray.
Alex
Less than forty-eight hours ago, I left Georgetown University, my head lowered in shame as I walked out of that girl’s dorm room. I have a serious problem. Ever since my father’s slow battle with cancer, leading to his death at the beginning of the summer, I have not been able to keep my shit together.
The only thing that keeps me grounded is hockey. But I can’t play every second of the day, and when I’m not practicing, traveling, or tearing it up on the ice, I’m either at a bar or balls deep in another puck bunny. I should be training instead of drinking, and resting instead of fucking, but I will do anything to take away the hollowness I feel on the inside.
Since leaving Washington, DC, the first time I felt a sense of happiness was when I looked into Coach’s eyes and saw the joy on her face as she carried a young boy who clearly admired her on her back. He called her Coach, the nickname she’s had since college—though I’d never heard Mickey refer to her as anything other than Charlie. He thinks of her like a daughter, and unlike me, he’s proud of her and everything she’s accomplished.
Now, after all these years of hearing about Mickey’s girl, we are standing inches apart. She’s prettier up close, even with her chestnut hair thrown into a pile on top of her head, mascara streaks on her cheeks, and stains that look like mustard on her basketball jersey.
And she’s tall, only a few inches shorter than my six feet four inches. I like her height. Even though I should be used to it, I hate leaning down and breaking my neck to kiss a chick.
Toned and muscular, Charlotte is clearly in the same shape she was in her basketball prime. Starting with her long legs, I think of how nice they’d look over my shoulders. Her breasts seem to be of average size, but I can’t tell with the long-sleeved white tee she has on under the black-and-gold basketball jersey. I want to find out what she has underneath those layers.
Luckily, Charlotte doesn’t notice me taking inventory of her assets, too focused on the boy
she calls Rico, until she looks over her shoulder at me and catches me staring at her ass. She rolls her eyes, as if she knows I am checking her out, but she seems unaffected. I bet she’s used to athletes hitting on her.
“Can you give me a few minutes to walk Rico to his door and to speak with his mother about the game? Your new home is apartment twenty-five twenty-three, if you wouldn’t mind waiting for me there.” Charlotte stands straight and lifts a ring of keys from her pocket, pulling one silver key from the chain. She hands it to me and starts to walk away with Rico. “Make yourself at home,” she says over her shoulder.
I lift the hockey equipment bag I stuffed my clothes into before leaving my old apartment and walk in the opposite direction as Charlotte, to the left of the elevator. At the end of the hallway, I stick the key into a door marked 2523 on a silver placard and push it open.
Even in the dark, I can see the lights from the Camden Waterfront in New Jersey shining through the panes, casting shadows on the tiled floor.
Table lamps provide just enough light to find the switches on the walls, and I hit one after another until I can see the modern kitchen with tall cabinets and an island that faces the living room. Arranged along the bar are four high-back leather chairs.
Unlike my place in DC, which was a cross between a flophouse and a strip club, the room is clean, open, and light with neutral colors on the walls and a row of windows along the expanse of the living room that overlooks the Delaware River.
Nothing is out of place. The floor sparkles with a shine, the counters are free of clutter, and only a toaster and coffeemaker are in one corner of the kitchen. It’s as if no one has ever lived here.
I set my bag on the floor, about to give myself the tour, when Charlotte walks in behind me and closes the door. Startled, I turn around to face her.
“What do you think?” Charlotte holds her hands out at her sides. “Will this work for you? I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow, but no one has lived here in months. There are fresh sheets on the bed, and the bathrooms and kitchen are clean. I was planning to have my housekeeper come by tomorrow morning to give it a once-over before you moved in.”
“Don’t worry about it. Looks clean enough for me.”
She lets out a deep breath, as if relieved with my response.
I attempt to make small talk as she walks toward the kitchen. “Mickey said an agent he knows owns this apartment.”
She nods, her eyes fixed on the lights shining through the windows. The view of the waterfront is spectacular. “I own several apartments in the building, including the one Rico and his mother sublet. So, that makes me your landlord, Mr. Parker.”
I laugh. “You can drop the formalities, sweetheart. Alex will do just fine.”
She flashes a sexy half-smile and steps in front of me, and with her height, our lips are almost touching. “Let’s get a few things straight, sweetheart,” she says in a condescending tone. “You are Mickey’s client, not mine, and I don’t have to put up with your shit. I know all about you and why you are here. I will not tolerate wild parties and the revolving door of women you plan to parade through your bedroom every night. This is a family building. The board of directors has standards, and so do I.” Pressing her finger into my chest, she says, “Got it, pal?”
I roll my eyes. Did she really call me pal? “Sure thing, boss lady.”
Charlotte takes a few steps back, her hands on her hips. Her beautiful blue eyes meet mine with such intensity that I’m not sure what move to make next. We have hit an impasse. I always know what to say or do around women, but when it comes to Charlotte, she is an enigma. One minute, she’s nice, unlike the psycho who yelled at me on the phone, and I think we’re hitting it off, even contemplating asking her to stay for a drink, and then the next, she looks like she’s ready to kick my ass.
Mickey was not joking when he said Charlotte was not your average girl. What an understatement. But I like her, despite the angry scowl on her face.
“I think you can find your way around the apartment,” Charlotte finally says after a long, awkward pause.
She saunters toward the door, her sneakers squeaking on the tiles, and I follow behind her.
With the wooden door in her hand, she swings it open and turns to face me, placing one foot in the hallway, the other pointed toward me. “Rent is due on the first of the month. The building has a strict noise policy, so, like I said, no wild parties, especially after eleven p.m., or I won’t be the only person you have to deal with.”
“Anything else?” I ask, almost afraid to say something that might piss her off further. I’m so used to women putting up with my shit that I didn’t even think that Charlotte wasn’t the type of girl I could get one over on. And I respect her for it.
Giving me a disapproving look, she shakes her head and reaches into the gym bag on her shoulder. “No, I think that will be all for now. If you have any issues, give me a call,” she says, handing me her business card.
She turns away from me and begins to leave, but I need to stop her.
“Look, Coach, I’m sorry. Can we start over? Maybe stay and have a drink with me or let me take you to dinner.”
“You’re not the first athlete who has talked to me like I am their plaything, and you will not be the last. I’m not your sweetheart or baby. I’m your landlord and one of Mickey’s agents, so things between us need to remain strictly professional. Understand?”
“Yes, of course,” I say, deflated. I can’t even remember the last time a woman turned me down. “I didn’t mean what I said earlier.”
“Oh…you didn’t call me sweetheart because you thought it was what I wanted to hear?”
“Well, yes, but—”
She holds up her left hand to silence me and extends her right to me. “Charlotte Coachman. Most people call me Coach.”
“Nice to meet you, Coach. Alex Parker.”
Releasing her grip on my hand, she grins. “Have a nice night, Parker. I’m sure I’ll see you around.”
After she walks away, I close the door and press my back against the wood, wondering if she will come to my first game with the Flyers. Saturday is only a few days away, but hoping Charlotte will be there makes the wait feel longer. It also makes me a little anxious. I want to impress her, change her mind about me.
Coach
Being around Alex Parker makes me nervous.
It reminds me of how I felt my freshman year at Villanova, the first time my coach pulled me from the bench and said, “Coachman, get your ass out there.”
I was a mess on the inside, my stomach doing somersaults, as I walked onto the court. Although composed on the outside, I thought I would collapse at any moment from the pressure.
I have been around my fair share of gorgeous athletes, some of whom have hit on me in the most shameful ways, but none of them had the same effect on me as Alex. He was calm, unaffected by my defensive attitude.
Alex moved into the apartment on Wednesday night, and from what Mickey told me, he showed up for practice the next day with the Flyers. Mickey was worried the golden boy would flake out, forcing him or even me to pull Alex out of bed or off a barstool to get him to the rink. Agents and assistants from my firm have had to drive to Washington, DC, on more than one occasion to defuse one of the many Parker Puck Problems, as so lovingly named by a fellow agent.
Despite his stellar performance on the ice, Alex has his demons. How he manages to play so well after long nights of drinking is almost impressive. My parents were what you would call functional alcoholics—until they found the real love of their lives, crystal meth. Everything went downhill from there.
At seven a.m. this morning, I left my apartment and drove over the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge and into New Jersey without a bit of traffic. Too bad the ride back is not going as smooth. The bridge is now bumper-to-bumper, car horns blaring and people yelling out their windows.
Tapping my fingers on the steering wheel, I zone out to the classic rock music coming through my speakers
. I turn it up loud enough to drown out the sounds of the people around me. With players around the country on my client list, I spend a lot of time in my car and on trains and airplanes.
When a player lives close by, I like to meet them at their home on occasion just so I can see how the one percent of the population lives.
Growing up in a run-down housing development, it was years before I lived with semi-normal functioning adults. That was, until I moved into my first foster home. But even that house was a complete dump, nothing more than a mill of kids taken in for the paycheck. I shared a bedroom with three other kids around my age. Jamie, my best friend, was one of them. We were lucky to spend a few years together before I went to my second home with the Johnsons, who made the Dursleys from Harry Potter seem like angels.
Since we were in the same grade and went to the same school, we were able to stay in touch. Jamie moved to Pennsylvania with me after high school and went to Drexel University, a thirty-minute drive from Villanova. He’s my one constant, my rock.
After I reach the end of the bridge, I’m in Philadelphia, and I take the exit to get onto I-95 South, on my way to meet Rico and Jamie at the hockey game.
About damn time.
I take the highway to the Broad Street exit where I can see all the stadiums. Other than the view of the Philadelphia Museum of Art from I-676, this is my favorite part of the entire city. From the road, I spot Lincoln Financial Field, the home of the Eagles, and the Wells Fargo Center, where the 76ers and Flyers play basketball and hockey. Behind the event center, I can see Citizens Bank Park, the Phillies baseball stadium.
I played basketball at the Wells Fargo Center a few times while I was at Villanova. The experience was unlike anything I ever could’ve imagined. My dreams of going pro are nothing more than a memory. Now, I live vicariously through my clients. Signing a kid out of high school or college to the majors and brokering deals for endorsements are the closest I will ever come to getting the satisfaction my clients must feel when I tell them the good news.
Parker (Face-Off Series Book 1) Page 4