Fast Courting

by Barbara Delinsky

  Nia eyed him through her thick dark lashes. “Will I do—for brunch and practice?” Much thought had gone into her selection of plum-hued gabardine slacks, a pink blouse and matching sweater.

  “You’re still up for going?” he asked, giving her a final out.

  “Sure! I’m looking forward to it!” And, oddly, she was.

  “You know…” his voice was lower, “…I almost believe you.”

  “Daniel,” she sighed, “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.”

  “I’m counting on that, babe. I’m counting on that.” With a deep breath, he recovered the initiative. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  Brunch was, as she had expected and could appreciate, with the day before’s lunch experience under her belt, at a small, very private, quaintly elegant spot in North Cambridge, an easy drive from her house. Daniel managed to go unnoticed by everyone except Nia, whose body simply wouldn’t let her forget the lingering sweetness of his touch.

  Things were not much better at the practice—but, to her utter astonishment, she loved every minute of it. Every word that Daniel had spoken to her about basketball in the course of their conversations came back to add to her appreciation. The names of the players now had a familiar ring to them—Flagg, Rockowski, Fitzgerald, Jones, Watts, Barnes, Washington. Walker was still out, standing restlessly by the bench, obviously tormented at not being able to play. Other players—backups— were unidentifiable to her; she made a mental note to ask Daniel about them later.

  Daniel himself was wearing the team warm-ups, looking handsome as all get-out as he tried to ignore the fact that his very private audience was slouched in her seat, trying her best to look invisible in the fourteenth row up, third seat over, center left.

  Nia watched as he directed the practice, calling the plays in that deep timbre she’d come to know so well. She watched as he rounded the players in, demonstrated one point or another, even lashed out with vehemence at the continued mishandling of a particular play. She watched as he turned and conferred with his assistants, then took several minutes out to talk with a gentleman who sat in the shadows several rows up in the stands opposite Nia. Harlan McKay? Again she made a note to ask.

  Almost against her will, she found something breathtaking about the demonstration of physical magic on the court. It was at the odd moments—in between practiced plays—that the best occurred, those moments when an individual player would seem to tune out the rest of the world and take off for an intimate rendezvous with the ball.

  There was an exquisite rhythm to it, a sense of oneness. Hand and ball were kin, in utter understanding, almost as if connected by a transparent tendon that stretched and retracted in loving communion. At times it seemed that the ball never quite settled down, never quite left the hand, yet wove in and out of endless legs that walked, jogged and ran in succession. It was a dance, a choreographed display of starting, stopping, spinning, darting, slicing fluidly around an imaginary obstacle until, at last, in a soaring thrust, the ball was up and in.

  Climactic was the word for it. Nia was grateful for the few minutes it took Dan to shower and dress, for they enabled her to let her appreciation gel.

  “What did you think?” he asked, his arm around her shoulders as he walked her toward the car.

  “I thought it was…impressive,” she admitted, downplaying her enthusiasm as a point of pride. Then she grew more sheepish. “Actually, I feel a little guilty. I guess I’ve unfairly maligned your game just because of what happened between …David and me.”

  “Did it upset you…watching?”

  “No, doctor,” she drawled.

  “Not sorry you came?”

  “No, doctor.” She hesitated then, thinking of David. “Did …did my presence disturb you?”

  “Of course not!” he exclaimed, as though she were deranged for even suggesting as much. “It was nice to know you were there…waiting.” The catch in his voice and the corresponding sadness in his eyes seemed to fade as he seated her in the Datsun. She waited for him to slide behind the wheel in that remarkable way he had of tucking his long legs and body into the bucket seat in one smooth, seductive coil.

  “Now where?” she asked, taking a deep breath to steady the sudden acceleration of her pulse.

  “Shopping.”

  “Oh? Anything special we’re looking for?” Whatever it was, she was game. Having just survived a remarkably pleasant two hours in none other than the arena watching the Breakers in practice, she was up for anything! Perhaps he needed new sneakers….

  With a slow purr, the Datsun came to life. Beneath Daniel’s sure hand, it glided across the hardtop toward the exit. “I don’t know. What do you feel like? Better still,” he scowled in an expression of endearing bewilderment, “what do you feel like making? It’s your choice. You’re the cook.”

  “Ahhhh—we’re going to the supermarket!”

  He grinned. “And where else did you think we might go?”

  “Who knows?” she teased him with a pert shrug. “You jock types always seem to need some little doohickey or another. You know, shoe laces, sweat bands—”

  “Where do you pick up your information, Mrs. Phillips?” he cut in, taking mock offense. “I’ll have you know that in our league the team supplies everything. Do you know that one player’s contract even provides him with a Rolls Royce?”

  “You’re kidding …!”

  “If only I were! It’s getting absurd. Modern players have high-priced sports attorneys who negotiate their contracts. At the end of the negotiations, more often than not, the attorney turns to his client and asks him if there isn’t anything, some little something, that he’s always wanted but never had. Sometimes it’s a lifetime membership in an exclusive golf club, sometimes a house by the lake, sometimes—”

  “—a Rolls Royce?”

  “Right.”

  “And what about you, Daniel? Did you ask for any of those things?”

  “They weren’t offering things like that way back then.”

  Nia chuckled. “It was only sixteen or seventeen years ago. And your last contracts had to have been negotiated more recently than that….”

  “No, Nia. I wasn’t interested in that kind of frill. I took as much money as they thought I was worth, lived the modest existence that pleased me, gave my parents whatever I could and invested the rest.”

  “And …?”

  They reached a stop light and he turned to her. His features were calm, solemn. “And, as a result of those investments, I don’t have to work another day of my life. That kind of security pleases me, particularly since I’ve been able to have whatever material pleasures I’ve wanted as well.”

  “Could you ever retire?” she asked, wondering how that fine mind could ever stagnate.

  “From basketball? Yes. From work of any sort? No.”

  “What will you do…when you leave basketball?” She recalled those courses he’d spoken of taking. “Something with your psychology?”

  “Perhaps,” he stated soberly, then flicked the wheel and turned in at the market. But Nia had felt the stab of the future and it bothered her. No more was said on a personal note until they were back in the car headed in a direction far removed from Cambridge.

  Nia put two and two together. “We’re going to your place?”

  “You sound surprised. If you’d rather not…?”

  “No, I’d love that, Dan! It’s just that your place is…the private you. I wasn’t sure you’d ever let me see it.”

  Reading between the lines, he began to understand her surprise—almost. “I told you yesterday that I won’t question you on that again, Nia.” He spoke softly and very seriously. “I meant it. I do trust you.” Pausing, he grinned. “Besides, I believe you’ve already penetrated that private world. My house is its least important part.”

  If the house was “its least important part,” it was a very beautiful one nonetheless. As she had guessed, he did live in Weston, about a ten-minute drive from the arena. His n
eighborhood was a new one, wooded, with an array of homes ranging in style from colonial and split-level ranch to contemporary. Daniel’s was of the latter type, set far back from the road and surrounded by a protective shield of pines and maples. Its huge glass panes reflected the verdure, blending the house into the landscape with remarkable success.

  “What do you think?” he asked as they stepped from the car.

  “I hate contemporary houses, but this isn’t bad!” she exclaimed with such sincerity that the first part of her statement was quickly forgotten.

  Not only was the interior of the house equally impressive, with its heavy reliance on natural wood and living greenery, but the entire afternoon and evening were more enjoyable than Nia could have imagined.

  For a while, in the dimming light of day, they walked through the forest of his seemingly endless backyard, talking quietly of small things, personal things, tidbits from their daily lives. Daniel learned that Nia loved cross-country skiing, eating artichokes, and reading travel magazines. Nia, in turn, discovered that Daniel loved canoeing along the Charles River, concerts on the Esplanade and imported ice cream.

  Dinner was a collaborative effort that resulted in tender broiled lamb chops, fork-soft baked potatoes and fresh-buttered green beans, complemented from start to finish by the rich bouquet of a fine red wine. The only interruption was a call from Harlan McKay, which Dan quickly terminated. It was after dinner, however, that the real treat came. For it was then that Daniel showed her his den.

  It was the most revealing of all the rooms. And it was the last thing she would have expected to find in the home of a professional athlete. But then, Daniel Strahan was no ordinary athlete. She had long since reached that conclusion. Indeed, he was no ordinary man.

  The room in question was a masterpiece of rich and sturdy oak, lined with built-in floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with books, journals, research summaries, reprints and magazines—not a one dealing with the game of basketball.

  “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?” she asked, eyeing the large stacks of material on the huge oak desk. Amazement gave her features a bright glow as she perused the room once more. “This isn’t exactly the study of a man taking a course in psychology here or there. My God, you’ve got the psych bulletins for the last ten years, every text I think I’ve ever seen and then some. Just what is the depth of your interest in all this?” she asked, turning to eye him with deepening suspicion. “Exactly what degree are you working toward?”

  He seemed even taller than usual as he gazed down at her. His voice held its typical modesty. “I’m one course plus half a dissertation short of my Ph.D. in Clinical Psychology.”

  Stunned, Nia could only shake her head in overwhelming admiration. “You’re incredible!”

  “No, Nia. Not incredible. I’m simply working my way into a profession as millions of postgraduates do every year.”

  “But you’ve got a profession—”

  “A fleeting one, babe, and one that depends far too much on the body, which ages, and luck. When the body rebels from that daily battering, one coaches. When the luck runs out and the crowd starts to ‘boo,’ one retires. This,” he gestured broadly around the room, “is my retirement. It’s my future.”

  She had a lot to think about that night after Daniel followed every rule of propriety and drove her home, saw her safely into her house and left. There was a depth to the man that commanded her respect. And each reference to the future brought a jitter to her stomach. If only she could pass him off as a simple acquaintance…but that was getting harder to do. She’d begun more and more to look forward to seeing him.

  He had given her two tickets to Sunday’s game after she had confessed to Christopher Daly’s loyalty. “Why don’t you get him to drive you to the arena. Then you can come with me after the game.”

  It worked out perfectly. Chris was overjoyed; not only were the seats precious for this, the Breakers’ fifty-sixth consecutive home sell-out, but they were four rows behind the Breaker bench. From Nia’s standpoint Chris was exactly the friendly face she needed to get her past that final barrier and into attendance at an actual Breakers game. While he cheered his heart out for the home team, Nia was free to watch Daniel, which she did to the exclusion of almost everything else. He was a study in concentration, pacing the sidelines at times, crouching courtside at others, his eye following everything, his expression sober. Wearing a white shirt and muted paisley tie, a navy blazer and light gray slacks, he was a dignified stand-out. Yet he spoke up when inspired, shouting at his men or a referee in that deep, commanding roar of his, pointing emphatically with a minibaton of rolled play diagrams. At regular intervals he would huddle with his team, instructing them in a particular tactic that his observation of the opposition had indicated. When he sent a player back onto the court, it was always with a reassuring pat on the back.

  Unfortunately, despite his insightful efforts, the Breakers lost. Later, as Nia waited for him in his office, she prepared herself to console him. What she had expected was depression. What she found was a blend of physical and mental exhaustion. He didn’t say much, simply smiled, took her in his arms, and held her for a minute.

  “Thanks for being here,” he murmured ambiguously, then said no more as they silently drove back to his house. Nia respected his feelings too much to intrude on them until he felt ready to share them. She found pleasure in fixing him steak and eggs while he relaxed on the living room sofa, gazing out at the woodlands beyond. After all, he did so much for her….

  “Is it always this way—the losing?” she asked when he finally showed signs of revival.

  His smile was sad but resigned. “It’s always this way. Period.”

  “Even the wins?”

  “Even the wins.”

  “That gruelling emotionally?”

  “Every bit,” he sighed, shifting on the sofa to take her hand in his. His thumb gently caressed her wrist, pressing lightly against the life that filled her veins. “As the game goes on I can feel my body grow more and more tense. Everything on the outside has to be so controlled. Within, there’s always that emotion. I suppose it’s part of the excitement, the intensity. Without it I’d feel let down. But it is draining.” He shot her a crooked grin. “Just give me a minute. I’ll be my old self in no time.”

  Nia knew only the warmth she felt. “I kind of like you this way once in a while,” she said, yielding to a spontaneous expression of her thoughts. “It’s nice to know that you’re human, too.”

  “Oh, I’m human, all right.” His smile grew positively lascivious, leaving no doubt as to his meaning. His actual intent, however, was pure.

  They spent the evening in quiet companionship, talking, playing chess, relaxing after the week’s stress. The last thing on Nia’s mind was the unpleasantness of the pending libel suit against her. She felt delightfully removed from the worries of the world. The phone rang only once—the customary interruption by Harlan McKay—and was fast forgotten.

  Daniel’s tension, too, disappeared with the passing of the hours. He was loose and easy, a responsive companion. By evening’s end he had done nothing more than hold her, occasionally brushing his lips against her hair or cheek. Though her body betrayed her better judgment in its cry for fulfillment, she was grateful for the time he seemed willing to grant her. Things had happened quickly. She had barely known Daniel for a week.

  In actuality she would have plenty of time to think. The Breakers were leaving on Monday night for the three-game road trip Daniel had already mentioned. Nia had expected it. She knew it was his life—and it was for the best. She’d already been involved in one disastrous sports-oriented relationship. Yet she couldn’t help but regret having to say good-bye.

  “Here,” Daniel said, reaching into his breast pocket to extract a small piece of paper. “I want you to take this. It’s our itinerary. Hotel listings where we’ll be. Phone numbers. Flight information. If there are any problems here—if anything’s troubling you, I want you
to call.”

  Deeply touched by the gesture, Nia didn’t know what to say. He was just a friend and she certainly couldn’t burden him with her every problem. But he was good for her, getting her to talk things out. Even the Mahoney business, which lingered uncomfortably in the back of her mind, seemed less dreadful when shared with Daniel.

  Moved by his thoughtfulness, she swallowed the lump in her throat. “I’m sure…everything will be all right. There shouldn’t be any—”

  He stilled her with a finger on her lips. “Just take it,” he whispered. “For my peace of mind?”

  As she closed her hand around the paper she knew that he wasn’t the only one whose peace of mind would be assured.

  Eight

  To Nia’s amazement, the week flew by. The rush at work, with her own trip to the Amish country set for the end of the week, was helpful in keeping her mind from the issue of the Mahoney hearing set for the Monday after. Daniel’s near nightly calls helped as well. Their talks occurred late, well after the game had ended, Daniel had grabbed something to eat, and returned to his room. He lay in bed as did she, and they shared the day’s happenings with an openness that would have startled her if she’d stopped to ponder it. But she didn’t. Her future with Daniel was too fragile for analysis, too elusive for comfort. One day at a time. That was all. Daniel never promised to call again. There was never any promise of a day or an hour. But Nia grew excited every time the phone rang, knowing that at that hour it would be him.

  Having studied his travel schedule carefully, she made her own plans accordingly. Flying into Philadelphia early Thursday morning, she spent that day and Friday driving over the countryside west of the city, particularly the region of Lancaster County where the largest Amish colonies existed. By Friday night she was back in Philadelphia and checked into her motel to watch the game between the Breakers and the ’76ers in the privacy of her room.