by Tracy Wolff
“That’s nothing to brag about, young lady,” she says with a sniff. “With your eyes, purple should be your signature color. But I suppose it’s acceptable since this is a lunch date. Now, tell me. How are you wearing your hair?”
“I need to go, Mom.”
“You better not be wearing it in that awful topknot you love so much. You have gorgeous hair, Elara. You should show it off more. Men like that.”
I don’t even try not to roll my eyes. “You’re breaking up. I can’t hear you.”
“That’s so strange. I can hear you just fine.”
“What was that?”
“I said, not to wear—”
“Sorry, I really can’t hear you, Mom. Gotta go.”
“Elara, don’t you dare—”
“Hello? Hello? I’m hanging up now. Love you. Bye.”
I swipe the call off before she can say anything else, then collapse into my desk chair and spin around a few times to clear my head. It doesn’t work. Then again, there’s nothing quite like talking to my mother to get me all twisted up inside. Unless, of course, it’s bearding a huge, nearly naked football player in his locker room.
No. I shut that train of thought down. It’s been three days since I charged into the Lightning’s dressing room and screamed at Tanner Green. And while I still feel I was justified to be upset, the more days that pass, the more embarrassed I become about what happened. The whole team must have thought I was an absolute crazy woman.
But what was I supposed to do? Just take this latest setback lying down? Just let him go on thinking that simply because he and his foundation lead a charmed existence under the football umbrella, no one else gets hurt?
I couldn’t do that. Not when my kids are the ones who will be hurting, and sacrificing. Again.
Can’t change the past, I tell myself as I take a few deep, steadying breaths. And I wouldn’t even if I could. The reminder is what lets me finally stop spinning and just sit here for a few seconds, getting my head in the game. And dating while Lorraine Vance’s daughter is very definitely a game…one that often makes the Hunger Games look like afternoon tea.
Knowing my mother’s taste in men for me—basically, if they have a high-paying job, the only other requirements are that they can breathe and walk at the same time—I can’t help fearing what he’ll be like. Because really. What kind of young, normal doctor actually needs help getting a date anyway?
Hopefully the kind who has a mother like mine. Nothing else bears thinking about.
Why the hell did I agree to this again? I have so much I need to be doing here. The last thing I have time for is a lunch date. I tilt my head back and stare at the ceiling for long seconds.
Admittedly, my mom got me in a weak moment. When she called, I was still freaking out about losing the Reilly money, so when she mentioned that Mark would be a good resource for the center, I started to cave. And then she followed that up with the suggestion that his medical group has a very large charitable budget.
Which are the four magic words that will get me to do just about anything, even when I’m not freaking out about money. Something my mom knows and exploits pretty much every chance she gets. But what other choice do I have? Running a community center in a neighborhood where kids desperately need a safe place to hang is a risky proposition at the best of times, let alone now, when government money is at an all-time low.
Determined to put this mess out of my mind until I absolutely have to deal with it, I glance at the clock. It looks like I’ve got about an hour before Mark—or should I say Dr. Mark—arrives. That should give me more than enough time to take a spin around the commons room and check in with the kids.
It’s only eleven so we’re not too crowded yet, but by the time I get back from lunch it’ll be a madhouse with all the afternoon programs and classes going on. Checking in now gives me a chance to connect with the kids who are here early because they need someone to connect with or because they have no place else to go.
After checking the schedule to see who’s on today—well, triple-checking since I’ve done it twice already—I head down the hall to the room that takes up most of the downstairs.
A wolf whistle greets me before I make it three steps into the room, however. Eyebrows arched, I turn around and find Mateo giving me a fake lascivious wiggle of his eyebrows. “Looking good, Elara,” he calls.
I roll my eyes at him this time, and say, “Thanks, Mateo,” hoping it’ll be the end of it. But before I know it, Josie, Marlow and Aneesha are crowded around me.
“You look amazing,” Marlow gushes.
“Yeah.” Josie reaches out and flicks one of my hoop earrings just to watch it jangle. “Where you going?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Mateo asks as he walks by on his way to the Ping-Pong table in the back corner of the room. “Elara’s got a date.”
“OOOOOOOOOOOH,” the girls say, pretty much as one.
“Who is he?” Aneesha demands.
“Is he that hot guy you were talking to the other day?” Josie asks.
“What hot guy?” I keep walking, hoping they’ll let this go. No such luck, though. It’s a slow morning and there’s no one else around to distract them.
“You know, the one who came to fix stuff last week,” she continues.
“Fix stuff?” I’m drawing a blank. Admittedly, I tend to not pay much attention to men, hot or otherwise, unless there’s a reason. But fixing stuff at my center is a reason for me to know who they are and—“Wait a minute. Are you talking about the carpenter who came to build shelves in the library?”
“Yeah, that guy,” Aneesha says with a snap of her fingers. “He’s hot.”
I laugh. “Yeah, he is. He’s also my best friend’s fiancé, so I’m pretty sure he’s off-limits.”
Josie just shakes her head. “You gotta get more game, Elara. You’re not going to be young forever, you know.”
What is this? Convince-Elara-she-needs-a-man day? I’m about to make a comment about it when Aneesha chimes in. “Plus you’re a freaking giant. Which means you’ve already got a huge strike against you. If you want a man, you’d better get him before the rest of the merchandise starts to go.”
“Merchandise?” I repeat, both brows raised to my hairline. I know they’re just fooling around, just fifteen-year-old girls trying to sound older and more sophisticated than they are. But I hate hearing them refer to me—or any woman—as something to be bought and paid for. Just because that happens on the streets outside the doors of this center more than I like to admit doesn’t mean it needs to be that way for these girls. For my girls.
I work every day to make sure that it doesn’t have to be that way for them.
But it’s Josie’s turn to roll her eyes as she shakes her head at me. “It’s just an expression, Elara. None of us are planning on selling ourselves on the corner this afternoon.”
“Or anywhere else,” I tell her.
“Or anywhere else,” they all mimic, heads wobbling back and forth at me in the mocking way of teenage girls everywhere.
“Let’s keep it that way.” I reach out and sling an arm over Marlow’s shoulders as we start walking. “You can do or be anything you want to be. Don’t ever lose sight of that.”
The other two girls roll their eyes yet again—they’re so used to my lectures at this point that they could probably recite them in their sleep—but Marlow just nods. Which gets me concerned.
She’s normally the quiet one of this trio, but there’s quiet and then there’s how she’s being this morning. She hasn’t said a word to me so far and that’s not usual. “You doing okay?” I ask.
She shrugs. Again, not normal. Not for her.
“Her mom’s moving her new boyfriend in with them,” Josie tells me, sounding serious for the first time this morning. “He’s a real asshole.”
Shit. “What kind of asshole are we talking about here?” I keep my voice deliberately soft, but it’s hard when I want nothing more than to shake the hell out of Marlow’s mom. This is the third guy she’s moved in with them in the time I’ve known Marlow. The last one ended up being pulled out of the apartment in handcuffs after I called Child Protective Services on him for knocking Marlow around.
“It’s no big deal.” Marlow shrugs. “Just a regular asshole. Nothing gross.”
I don’t take much comfort from that, considering Marlow’s mother has abysmal taste in men. But as the law has taught me over and over again, I can’t do anything preemptively to protect Marlow. I just have to wait and hope nothing happens, even as I take the steps to get ready to help her if something does.
I pull her in a little closer for a one-armed hug and the brush of a cheek against the top of her head. As I do, she lets out a deep breath and kind of shudders before sinking into me. Knowing Marlow’s one of my kids who actually craves affection since she gets so little from her mother, I hold her a little longer—just until she clears her throat and says, “It’s okay.”
That’s the signal for me to step back, so I do, with one more comforting squeeze of her shoulders.
“Hey, Elara,” Sahil calls from the back door. “Wanna play some ball?”
“Does she look like she wants to play ball, dummy?” Aneesha sneers at him. “She’s wearing a skirt and heels.”
She says the last like I’m wearing a two-thousand-dollar pair of Louboutins or something and Sahil looks stricken, his cheeks going red as he stares down at the ground. “Sorry,” he mumbles.
He’s one of my new ones, shy and skittish. The first time he showed up here he was sporting a black eye and a swollen lip. He didn’t volunteer where they came from, even when I asked, and though it killed me not to push, I let it go. Giving him a space he felt safe and wanted to come back to was more important than anything else.
It must have worked, because he’s been here every day since then, pretty much all day every day. Which is fine with me—especially since he hasn’t shown up with any more bruises.
I’ve been watching, just to be certain.
“Actually,” I say, shooting Aneesha a look designed to get her to watch her mouth, “I’d love to play a little three on three. You girls up for it?”
“Who’s the sixth?” Josie demands.
I glance around the commons room, see Miguel sitting by himself, sketchbook open on his lap. He’s pulled one of the beanbags to the front corner of the room—basically as far as he can get from anyone and still be in the center.
He’s been coming for about six weeks now, off and on. At first I was tempted to leave him alone—he’s only fourteen but he’s already got the tortured artist/loner vibe down cold and the last thing I want to do is make any kid who comes here feel uncomfortable. Rebound is supposed to be their safe space, a place where they can be themselves and not have to worry about all the shit that exists outside these walls.
But lately I’ve seen him watching the other kids, looking like he wants to join in some of the activities but doesn’t know how. And I’ve seen him on the courts when everyone else is busy elsewhere—the kid has lousy form but a hell of a free throw.
Figuring it can’t hurt to ask, I tell the others, “I’ve got an idea about that. Why don’t you head outside, get a ball? I’ll be out as soon as I’ve rounded up one more player.”
They head outside, Josie teasing Sahil in a way that makes him blush all over again—for very different reasons. I keep an eye on them as I walk toward Miguel, but Sahil seems to be holding his own. Good. I love it when one of the new kids starts to settle in.
Now to see if I can get Miguel on that same path.
“Hey, Miguel,” I call out when I’m still several feet away from him. I’ve learned through painful experience just how skittish he is, especially if you “sneak up” on him when he’s lost in a drawing.
He looks up, startled, eyes still a little dreamy from whatever far-off land he’s sketching. “Hey, Elara.”
As I move closer, that dreaminess changes to wariness and I hate it so freaking much. Baby steps, I remind myself. He keeps coming back and that’s a good sign. Everything else is baby steps.
I think about asking him what he’s drawing, but he’s already slamming the sketchbook cover closed, huge NO TRESPASSING signs going up all over him and his work.
“I was hoping you could help me out. We’re about to get a game of three on three going outside and we need one more player. You interested?”
For a second he looks torn, and I get it. He wants to join in, wants to be a part of what’s going on here, but experience has taught him that it won’t work. That he’ll just get hurt.
I hate that, but I know it’s valid. Just like I know I can’t rush it.
“I’m not very good at basketball,” he tells me, moving to open his sketchbook open again.
“That’s okay. Josie and Aneesha aren’t either.” I shoot him a conspiratorial grin. “But, please, don’t tell them I said that or we’ll be in for a world of—”
“Drama,” he finishes for me with a grin. “Aneesha really likes the drama.”
God, does she ever. “It’s part of her charm,” I tell him with a grin. “So, do you want to join? We’d really appreciate it.”
He glances around the room, notes the emptiness of the place except the guys battling it out over Ping-Pong in the back and the two girls on the couch playing video games. Then he shrugs like it doesn’t matter at all. “I guess I can do this later.”
“Cool, thanks. I appreciate it.” I reach a hand out to help him up and he hesitates.
We stare at each other for a couple of long seconds, with me doing my best to look unconcerned while he looks all kinds of wary. Eventually, though, he reaches up and slides his palm against mine. Our hands lock and I pull him to his feet with one quick tug.
His eyes go wide. “You’re really strong.”
I nod, because yeah, I am. I worked hard my whole life for that strength and I’m not about to downplay it now, even if it does make some people uncomfortable…like my mother.
“Is it true you used to play pro ball?” he asks as we make our way outside, to the left side of the building where the basketball court is.
“Yep. For the San Diego Phantoms.”
“That’s so cool.” His eyes are superwide now. “Why did you quit?”
“Bum knee. It’s fine for shooting hoops a couple of times a week, but after I hurt it, it was never going to be strong enough to hold up to all the pro training I had to do.” I say it flippantly, like it doesn’t still hurt sometimes that I had to give basketball up before I was ready to.
Then again, I’m not sure I would ever have been ready, so…
“That sucks. I’m sorry.”
“It is what it is.” I shrug. “Besides, now I get to be here, running Rebound. I wouldn’t change that even if I could.” And it’s true. I may not have been ready to retire when I was injured, but I love what I do now. Love that I could take the money and experience I gained playing ball here and in Asia during the off-season and turn it into a place that helps kids.
There’s nothing better than that.
“You’d rather be on the court, though, right?” he says knowingly.
I push the door open and take a few big steps, until I’m standing right below one of the baskets? “I am on the court,” I tell him with a grin. “Where that court is doesn’t matter, as long as I get to play.”
“I’m on your team!” Marlow says, speaking up for the first time all day.
“Sounds good to me,” I tell her, reaching out for a knuckle bump.
“Me, too.” Miguel doesn’t sound nearly as confident as she does, like he thinks I’m going to reject him or something. That just makes me want to encou
rage him more.
“Yeah, you are,” I tell him. Then I look between my two teammates. “Which one of you is going in for tip-off?”
Miguel eyes me up and down, like it’s nuts that I even had to ask. “You are,” he tells me.
“I don’t do tip-offs unless there’s someone on the other team who’s close to my size,” I answer with a laugh.
“That doesn’t seem fair.”
“Yeah, it does,” Marlow tells him. “You just don’t like it because we lose one of our advantages.”
He looks at her like she’s an idiot. “Obviously.”
“Who’s going in?” I ask as I catch the basketball Aneesha fires straight at my face.
“I will,” Marlow volunteers, looking to me for approval.
I lift a brow at Miguel, who nods his approval.
I kick off my heels and join Marlow and Sahil at center court as they square off against each other. I do a quick count back from three, then throw the ball up in the air. Sahil gets it, swatting it straight at Josie, who grabs it and makes a run for the basket.
Miguel and Marlow try to stop her, but she’s lightning fast. A few seconds after the tip-off, the ball goes sailing straight into the basket, no backboard, no rim, nothing but net.
Aneesha whoops and hollers, at least until I grab the rebound and fire it all the way down the court to Marlow, who’s standing about three feet from the basket.
She snatches it out of the air and makes a valiant effort at scoring, but it bounces off the backboard. Miguel’s there to take it out again, though, and seconds later he makes a three-pointer like it’s nothing.
This time, I’m the one cheering as Sahil goes in for the rebound. He starts hauling ass up the court and—since I want a piece of that action—I hike up my skirt and run straight at him. A quick feint to the left and slap to the right gets me the ball…and a three-pointer of my own.
That’s when things get serious, everyone digging in, aiming for the win. Time slips away from me as I haul ass up and down the court, joy at the game—and the fact that I get to share it with my kids—coursing through me with each pass and attempted basket.